Page 104 of Delicious (Delicious #1)
Chapter One
Ste
I tug open the door before Kiefer has finished his usual two sharp raps. His brows shoot high when he takes me in, but I barely give him the once-over I usually can’t resist doing. Instead, I opt for a relieved “Thank fuck you’re here” before I race into the kitchen.
His grumbled “Hey, Kiefer. … Oh, hi, Ste. … Thanks for being so epic and rushing to save my arse” drifts through my small flat.
“You are,” I holler back, pausing in front of the shitshow of a meal I’ve prepared for my parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary. “I’m so grateful that I owe you….” I grasp for what exactly I could owe him, pretty sure the “on-demand blow jobs” I want to offer are words he won’t appreciate hearing.
“A lifetime supply of massages?” he says.
My gaze snaps to his as he enters my tiny kitchen. Now, wouldn’t that be something incredibly delicious and beyond dangerous. Me getting my hands anywhere near Kiefer is a heartache waiting to happen.
But still… “Deal,” I rush to say, hoping he thinks my breathy response has more to do with the disaster of the failed meal attempt rather than me panting after him.
A smirk is sent my way, right before his gaze rakes over the kitchen surfaces. They’re covered with every available utensil in my cupboards, along with a shocking amount of flour and sugar. And, honestly, it includes every pretty jar filled with food staples that I’ve never actually used before.
When his eyes land on the abysmal attempt at the machboos, I see the exact moment he realises what he’s walked into. “Mate,” he says slowly, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement, “did you blow up a spice factory in here, or were you just trying to summon the ghost of Julia Child?”
I’m too frazzled to defend myself. “It’s not funny,” I say, flapping my arms at the charred pan on the stovetop, the half-cooked rice congealed into a glue-like mass, and the chicken that looks… well, frankly, I’m not sure it’s still chicken.
Kiefer moves to the stove, prodding the pan with the edge of a wooden spoon. “What exactly was this supposed to be?”
“Machboos,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “It’s the dish my parents had at their wedding. They’ve always talked about how incredible it was, so I thought, you know, I’d try to recreate it for their anniversary.”
He turns to me, his expression softening. “That’s… really sweet, actually.”
“Yeah, well, it would’ve been sweeter if I’d managed not to incinerate it.” I gesture to the stove. “I tried to find a restaurant to make it. I looked everywhere—even places up to two hours outside Gympie. Nobody does this particular version.”
Or any version really. Not that I was surprised our country town didn’t make anything close to an Arabian dish. But I thought at least Brisbane may have done.
“So, you decided to go full MasterChef without even knowing how to boil rice?”
“I can boil rice!” I snap before adding reluctantly, “It just… might take me a few tries.”
Kiefer snorts. “Okay, first things first. Where are your parents?”
“At the hotel. They’ll be here in….” I glance at the clock and groan. “An hour. Maybe less.”
“Plenty of time,” he says, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “Let’s see what we can salvage.”
“Wait,” I say, panicking. “You don’t have to do this. I know you hate cooking outside work.”
He pauses, his hands stilling on a dish towel. For a second, I think he’s going to bail, but then he shakes his head. “It’s fine. I’ll keep it simple. Besides, I’m not letting you serve your parents whatever this is.” He gestures to the pan. “And you did reach out to me to rescue you, right?”
“You’re sure?” I ask, guilt swirling in my gut. Thankfully, he nods, and relief washes over me. “God, you’re a lifesaver.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says, already rifling through my spice rack. “Just keep the massages on standby.”
I’m about to make a cheeky remark when my eyes catch on the way his forearms flex as he grinds spices in my mortar and pestle. Which, come to think of it, was a Christmas gift from him a couple of years back. I’ve used it once, which was to squash a cockroach. The weight really comes in handy.
But back to his forearms.
He’s so focussed, so in his element, that it’s almost unbearable to watch. Kiefer in the kitchen is pure poetry, and I’d be lying if I said the sight didn’t hit me square in the chest.
I’ve been carrying a torch for him for most of the five years we’ve been friends. It’s embarrassing, really, how little it’s faded, even after he made it clear we weren’t going to happen. The one time I’d worked up the courage—well, okay, the one time I’d gotten drunk enough—to tell him how I felt, he’d turned me down so gently it made it hurt worse.
“You’re amazing, but it’s just not like that for me,” he’d said. And then, as if to twist the knife, he’d added, “But I’d really like to stay friends.”
Somehow, we’d made it work. We’d stayed close, navigating the awkwardness until it faded. These days, it’s almost easy to forget how much I wanted him—still want him. Almost.
“You’re staring,” Kiefer says without looking up, his voice snapping me out of my thoughts.
“What? No, I’m not.”
“Uh-huh.” He shoots me a knowing look over his shoulder, and my face heats.
“Just… appreciating the magic,” I mumble, gesturing vaguely to the spices.
“Right,” he says, smirking again before turning back to the task at hand. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and start chopping those onions? Small dice, yeah?”
I grab a knife and try to focus, but it’s hard when he’s so close, his scent—clean and warm, with just a hint of something spicy—filling the small kitchen. I’m not proud of my obsession, but I’ve replayed that scent in my head more times than I care to admit. It’s ridiculous how much space he takes up in my brain.
We work side by side in a surprisingly smooth rhythm, Kiefer guiding me through the steps with patience I didn’t know he had. “You’ve got a decent chopping technique,” he says, watching me dice onions. “For someone who’s usually better at running his mouth.”
I glare at him, but a smile tugs at my lips. “Running my mouth is a talent, I’ll have you know.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, leaning a little closer as he checks the onions. “Not sure it’d win any culinary awards, though.”
“Careful,” I warn, brandishing my knife. “I’m armed.”
He chuckles, a low, warm sound that sends a shiver down my spine. “Relax, Gordon Ramsay. You’re doing fine.”
We chat as we cook, falling into an easy rhythm. When the topic drifts to weekend plans, he surprises me. “I’ve got Sunday off for a change,” he says casually. “Fancy doing something?”
I blink at him, caught off-guard. “Uh, yeah, sure. What did you have in mind?”
“Dunno,” he says, glancing at me. “We could figure it out. Something low-key.”
Something is in his gaze that makes my stomach flip. It’s probably just my imagination, but for a moment, it feels like he’s looking at me differently. More softly, maybe.
Then he reaches out, his fingers brushing my cheek. “You’ve got something here,” he murmurs, swiping at what turns out to be a streak of flour.
The touch is tender, lingering just long enough to make my heart skip a beat. “Nothing in the recipe calls for whatever that is,” he teases, his voice low.
I laugh nervously, trying to ignore the way my skin tingles where he touched me. “Well, it’s my signature ingredient. Chaos.”
His eyes drop to my mouth, and for a split second, I swear we’ve entered an alternate dimension. The air between us feels charged, like something unspoken is hovering on the tip of his tongue.
Just then, there’s a knock on my door. The spell breaks, and I practically leap away from him. “That’ll be my folks,” I say, my voice higher than I’d like.
Kiefer steps back, giving me space. “Right. This is almost ready to serve.”
I nod, trying to calm the frantic beat of my heart as I head to the door. Whatever just happened… I’ll have to figure it out later.