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“Sorry, I didn’t—” I begin as I start backing out of the room.

“It’s fine, I was just about to get started,” he replies, pulling on a chef’s jacket, and I pause halfway through the doorway, watching as he buttons it all the way to the top.

“Do you want coffee?” he asks, and I nod.

“That would be great. Milk, two sugars, please.”

As much as I hate to see him cover up any part of that gorgeous body, Rémy somehow looks even hotter in his chef’s jacket. His hair is a mess of blond curls, just like I remember them being as a child. Not like the perfectly tamed ones I saw last night. He’s mumbling something under his breath as he pours the coffee that I can’t make out.

“Sorry, what?” I ask, and he spills some coffee over his hand. He puts down the pot and blurts something in French as he moves to run his hand under cold water.

I jump up from the stool and meet him at the sink.

“Is it bad?” I ask, leaning in and reaching for his hand. His skin is warm and soft, and as the cold water slips through our fingers, his hand rests heavy in my palm. “I’m sorry.”

He turns to look at me, piercing blue eyes shining bright in the morning light. “Why are you sorry? I was the fool with the pot.”

“I distracted you. I…”

“You are a distraction, oui, but it was not your words.” He looks away. “Do you truly not remember me?”

My memories of Rémy were in a part of my mind that I pushed way down, and only after coming back here, seeing this place, seeing him, have they started to somewhat surface. I remember running with him through the grounds, tormenting his aunt, and swimming in the river that cut through the Peterson’s place down the road. My stomach stirs at the thought of them, in the same way it flipped seeing him half-naked in the kitchen. Did I have a thing for Rémy back then? I thought I only figured out I was gay in high school, but maybe it was sooner. Maybe Rémy was where it all started.

I study his profile, sharp jaw, clean-shaven, he must have done that this morning, and big pink lips, slightly parted, like he’s trying to control his breathing. I know I am. I know that my heart doubled its pace when I took his hand and that the warmth that started where we touched has now spread through my whole arm and settled like a balloon around my heart.

“I’m starting to remember bits and pieces, but it was a long time ago. Maybe you can help me remember?”

He meets my gaze again, his stare moves to my mouth for a moment, and fuck me, but I lick my lips. Don’t Nate. You can’t flirt with the sexy chef, no matter how good he smells or looks or sounds. Just no.

“Maybe it’s me who’s forgetting. Maybe I made up the memories in my mind,” he continues, looking back at his hand still under the running water.

“Why would you do that?”

“Back then, I might have had a little crush, small. Hardly worth mentioning. But maybe my memories can’t be trusted.”

“I’d still like to know what you remember, even if they’re… what do you call a memory that isn’t a real memory?”

“A fantasy.”

My cock twitches, and I let go of his hand.

“Right, yeah. Umm. I guess you could call them that. So, your hand, is it okay now?”

He shrugs. “Probably. I’ve been burnt plenty of times in the kitchen. It’s no big deal,” he says, shutting off the tap and grabbing a towel from a stack beside it to dry his hand. “Let’s try this coffee thing again.”

Watching Rémy in the kitchen reminds me of what I used to be like when I was training with the team. The baseball field was my happy place, and this is very clearly his. I sit on a stool he’s pulled over for me and eat the omelet he’s made me while we talk, and he prepares the orders coming in hard and fast from the dining room.

“So you handle the breakfast and the desserts?” I ask as he cracks another two eggs into the frying pan.

“I love the idea that my food is the first thing a guest will eat when they wake and the last thing they do before they sleep. It has a nice completeness to it. They start and end their days with me.”

“That’s cool. This,” I say, pointing down to my mostly eaten breakfast. “Is the best omelet I’ve ever had. How did you know I like mushrooms?”

“We used to pick them, remember?”

I shake my head.

“Where?”