Page 7

7

COMPLIMENTS TO THE CHEF

FULTON

W e’re alone. Shiloh and I…are alone. On a date. With each other. In the same room.

Oh. My. God.

This isn’t really happening. I must be dreaming. And not only are we sharing the same nine hundred square feet of the fanciest suite in Cabo, but she’s cooking me dinner.

Me.

Fulton.

The guy who once lived off Top Ramen and Gatorade for an entire semester his sophomore year of college.

If you think simply living life is anxiety-inducing, try going on a date with the person you’ve been obsessed with for four years. Honestly, I never thought I would even manage to bypass the friend zone. But here I am, unscathed, sitting at the table while the most perfect girl in existence places a gargantuan bowl of noodles in front of me.

“I hope you’re hungry. My mom always taught me to make multiple servings, even if you’re only entertaining one guest.”

When her russet eyes flit to me with an inextinguishable sparkle, her nose crinkles slightly from the tug of a smile .

The truth is, the last thing I want right now is food, but I’d eat fucking dirt if she asked me to. I swallow down a tangled clump of nerves, hooking my finger in my shirt’s collar and yanking it from my neck. It’s hot in here. Like, someone-turned-the-heater-up-to-eighty-five-degrees hot. A disgusting layer of sweat is sticking my clothes to my skin.

My first instinct is to dart for the glass of water sitting next to me, but I quickly come to regret that decision when half of it goes down the wrong pipe and results in a horrid myriad of choking sounds.

Shiloh immediately gets up to help me, but I strain to wave her off with a dismissive hand. “I’m…good,” I wheeze, praying that I’ve maintained at least some of my dignity.

She nods, yet I don’t think she’s fully convinced. She serves herself the same portion, a picture of enigmatic beauty with her naturally pink cheeks and ever-present eye crinkles. I could ramble on about how her wispy lashes resemble gossamer-spun webs clinging to dewy blades of grass, or how that invigorating perfume of hers coddles every one of my senses in a sweetened caress. She even went above and beyond to switch from her casual wear into a pastel-blue dress with a sweetheart neckline.

“In my family, food’s a love language. It’s a way to show gratitude,” she explains in that airy cadence of hers that washes over my anxiety, disintegrating its fearmongering form into nothing but forgettable particles of dust.

“Gratitude?” I croak.

“Yeah. I just wanted to thank you for inviting me on this trip. And for covering all the expenses…which I will pay you back for.”

“I told you that you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do. I don’t take free rides. I pay my own way.”

“No, Shiloh. I meant that you don’t have to do that because I wanted to treat you,” I reassure her, the cry of my heart and the second-guessing and the worry in the back of my head all quieting to a near-silent hum.

When I force myself to tear my eyes away from her (which isn’t easy), I glance down at the Michelin-worthy meal she made for me, and appreciation warms my cheeks. “This looks incredible. Thank you. You didn’t have to cook dinner.”

She winks at me. “I wanted to.”

Fuck, this girl is everything. She makes me feel alive . She makes me feel like I’m experiencing the first simple joys of life all over again—sun rays through a car window on a sleepy afternoon, the first breath of cold air after a long, hot shower, the sound of rain playing percussion on a fogged-up window.

The presentation is stunning. I don’t recognize these types of noodles, but they’re thin and white, soaking in a semi-opaque broth that’s topped with herbs, slabs of beef, bean sprouts, and green onions. I start with a sizable spoonful, my eyes widening as I taste the spiciness of the ginger. The freshness of the cilantro and the saltiness from the broth pair into a delectable amalgamation, and the garlic sauce isn’t so overwhelming that it blots out the other flavors. Everything is perfectly balanced, and my table manners momentarily slip to the back burner.

“This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” I mumble around my food.

Shiloh begins to pick daintily at her own serving. “I’m glad you enjoy it. Pho is a delicacy in Vietnam. My mom always used to cook it for me when I was a kid, but she made it differently than how it’s commonly prepared. She swears by the secret ingredient.”

This time, I think before I speak, making sure to swallow my food first. “Are you and your mom close?”

“She’s my best friend. She means everything to me. I wouldn’t be here without her.”

The corners of my mouth hike into a beaming smile, and I’m not sure how observant she is (or how good the lighting is), but I wouldn’t be surprised if I was blushing like a lovesick idiot right now. “That’s really great to hear.”

Shiloh chews on a strip of beef. “What about you? Are you close with your family?”

That’s…a tough question. I’d rather not dampen the mood, but my father isn’t a good, well, father . He’s a good man and a good husband, but he was never cut out to look after a child.

“I’m, uh, not as close with my dad as I wish I was. He always prioritized his work over his family. He’s the CEO of a big tech firm in Silicon Valley. He never came to any of my hockey games because he always had some kind of work event conveniently scheduled during them. And he missed so many of my birthdays that my mother just advised me not to expect him,” I divulge, not wanting to elaborate so the night doesn’t turn into an unsolicited therapy session. I already regret bringing it up, but I know Shiloh would’ve been hurt if I didn’t tell her.

I don’t resent my father. I’ve concluded that I don’t have the energy in my heart to hate him. He doesn’t deserve to occupy my thoughts. He made his bed, and my life is better without him in it.

“I’m so sorry, Fulton. No kid should have to grow up with an absentee father. You deserved better. And he’s missing out on the wonderful person you turned out to be.”

As depressing—and so not first-date worthy—of a topic as this is, I love how much Shiloh cares. I never knew someone could have such a big heart, and it’s evident through her interactions with complete strangers that she’s just an inherently good person.

Something my dad will never be.

“It’s alright. It’s in the past now. All that matters is that you’re here with me.”

“I’ll always be here for you,” she promises. “Regardless of if you need me or not. ”

My heart believes you, so why doesn’t my head?

Thanks to my father, I’ve learned to always assume the worst about people. But Shiloh has single-handedly rewritten everything I thought I knew, and that terrifies me. How is it possible that one girl has the power to change my entire outlook on life? I need to switch the subject. I’m not ready for this kind of wake-up call yet.

“On the bright side, I visit my mom and younger sister often. They live a few hours away, but we talk daily. My mom and I have always been close. She’s my biggest supporter. But she always was, even when I was little. Even when I had to go to speech therapy because I was too shy to speak in class and my teacher was convinced I was mute. Even when I was horrible at minor league hockey but still wanted to pursue a career in it one day. I could barely hold my hockey stick because it was so big in comparison to me.”

She makes an aww sound, and those brown beauties of hers practically hit me like a car speeding through a red light. “I bet you were the cutest kid,” she comments nonchalantly, swirling her fork around in her noodles.

I choke for the second time this sitting, hesitant to ameliorate the flustered state of my body with water in case it, in fact, makes things worse.

“Shit! Sorry!”

She scrambles to hand me a napkin, all while a rictus grin refuses to unlatch from my face.

I’m not sure if God is watching over me or I’m somehow outsmarting death, but I manage to get everything under control without hucking a piece of food out of my mouth and ruining the evening.

I slam down a good half of my water, gasping for air when I resurface. “Don’t apologize.”

“Oh, God. I can’t believe I made you choke! I didn’t mean—well, I did mean it—but I meant it as a compliment. Like, you’re obviously still cute. You’re handsome-cute. Is that a thing? Should I just say handsome? Is cute too cringey? It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore,” she rambles, eyes downturned.

“You think I’m cute?” I blurt out, and the possibility of her statement even harboring the tiniest seedling of truth hot-wires all my nerves.

Shiloh’s the one blushing this time, nodding her head, the light waves of her hair bouncing softly against her shoulders. “It wasn’t obvious?”

Was it? Did I miss the signs? I suspected there might’ve been attraction between us, but to hear her reassure me that it wasn’t just all in my head…it’s the best feeling in the entire world. Better than scoring the first goal of the season. Better than a barn burner that puts your team on the map for playoffs. Better than winning an overrated metal cup and bragging rights for all eternity.

“I guess I’m not as observant as I thought I was,” I admit with a nervous laugh, having abandoned my appetite as an uncontrollable, long-buried desire breaches my sensibility.

All I can think about is leaning across this table, cupping Shiloh’s face, and kissing her on the lips. I’m a guy who’s gone most of his adult life without romantic physical touch, but right now, it’s the only thing I crave—a hunger that can’t be satiated with good food or pleasant small talk, something so terrifyingly animalistic that I can feel it squirm deep in the marrow of my bones, searching for a life force to suck dry.

My gaze surfs languidly over the heightened rise and fall of her chest, over the way she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth unsurely, until it collides head-on with a half-lowered glare steeped in sin—one that I can feel pulling me farther out to sea.

My words are brittle as they vie for freedom. “Don’t look at me like that, Shi.”

Shi. It falls so easily from my tongue .

A muscle in her neck flickers. “Like what?”

“Like you want me to kiss you.”

She straightens her shoulders with a darkened look that tells me she’s just as hungry as I am. “And what if I do?”

I make some kind of noise between a groan and a growl. “Then I don’t think I’ll be able to stop myself.”

Without warning, dinner has moved to the couch, and we’re both sitting a fair distance apart—a distance that can so easily be bridged by one swell move. When I’m this close to her, I can pinpoint the beads of sweat dotting her hairline, can faintly make out the impression of her aroused nipples against her dress’s thin material (though I try not to look there), can hear the unsteady succession of her breaths with each passing minute.

Although I didn’t finish everything in my bowl, I ate a fair amount, and I’m now regretting the heavy sludge of dinner congealing in my stomach. My anxiety is at an all-time high, and the overbearing warmth in my body nearly whites out all my senses.

There’s a sour taste in my mouth—a foreign sickness that infects every part of me with moldering rot, that calls on the self-consciousness I’ve tried so hard to suppress up until now. “I haven’t…”

She cocks her head. “You haven’t…?”

Just spit it out, dude. Rip the Band-Aid off. YOU’RE A VIRGIN! You’ve never felt the touch of a woman before! Your hand’s the only thing that’s ever made you come! You’re so sexually inexperienced that she’d gain more pleasure by making out with one of those Old Navy mannequins!

I gulp, and it’s like the deployment of an atomic bomb in my ears. “I haven’t kissed someone in a long time. Or at least not someone who mattered.”

“But I thought…”

“I lied,” I divulge, caught in the throes of shame, subservient to the overbearing guilt that hovers above me like a soot-stained boot waiting to connect with my cheekbone. “In fact, the last time I pursued someone, I found out that she was just using me to leech off my fame. When she was done with me, she told me that I was too awkward and embarrassing to be around.”

As crazy as this sounds, maybe it’s a good thing Renata didn’t feel anything for me, otherwise she would’ve taken my first everything .

Shiloh looks so heartbroken that you’d think she witnessed everything in person. “Oh, Fulton. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. And that’s not true. You know that’s not true, right?”

Sometimes it feels like the wound is still fresh—like Renata’s words are still flaying my skin from my bones. “Yeah…I know. Since then, I’ve just had a really hard time distinguishing the difference between people who want to know me for me and people who want to know me for my job.”

“I completely understand. I’ve had my fair share of bad seeds too. I was dating this guy who abandoned me the moment my family’s business began to struggle, and he basically asked me to choose between him and my parents. He told me I wasn’t enough to make him stay.”

“That’s bullshit. That guy clearly wasn’t a man because no man would ever walk away from the person he loves. I’m so sorry, Shiloh. I’m sorry you had to deal with someone so insecure in his own masculinity that he compensated for it by tearing you down.”

That dipshit is lucky I don’t know his name: otherwise, I’d probably be arrested for assault and battery. And yes, that’s saying something considering I’ve lived most of my life like a monk who’s taken a vow of nonviolence.

Shiloh doesn’t respond. In fact, she just changes the subject. “So, you haven’t kissed someone in how long?”

“Four years.”

“Wow.”

“Why do you say it like that?”

“I’m just—I’m just surprised is all.”

I know I’m usually not all there in my head sometimes, but I really can’t grasp what’s happening right now. It’s like trying to shove two incompatible puzzle pieces together to make sense of a bigger picture. “I don’t follow.”

“Look at you, Fulton! You’re… you ! You’re handsome, kind, funny, generous. You’re the whole package. So it’s hard to believe that you’re even single right now,” she confesses in a whisper, lust eclipsing the rich, earthy brown of her irises.

“Oh,” is all I say.

Shiloh scoots the tiniest bit closer to me—close enough for our knees to bump—and I catch a whiff of that intoxicating vanilla, cinnamon, and fresh dough combination that holds my every thought hostage.

Oh, God. Is she gonna kiss me? She looks like she’s gonna kiss me. What do I do? I’m panicking. HELP!

Relax, Fulton. It’s just a kiss. You just…touch lips. It’s not hard.

Speaking of hard, I think, um, I think there’s something happening downstairs, and in a second or two, it’s going to be a helluva lot more noticeable. I should’ve never agreed to a date. Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. What if she hates the kiss? What if she gets her hopes up, only to be disappointed in the end? I’d worry about not being able to perform, but I obviously don’t have that problem right now.

Shiloh unexpectedly grabs my hand, and I know getting closer to her should activate my fight or flight response, but that’s the last thing that happens. Everything slows down, if only for a second—time, my heart, my spiral of self-doom.

“Can I kiss you, Fulton?”

Five words. Five words I never expected to hear from any girl, let alone Shiloh.

I don’t think I entirely comprehend the weight of her question before nodding instinctively. And then, as I watch her lean in, I close my eyes, and her lips brush against mine in a rush of dopamine and sensational, color-changing fireworks, flooding my body with a deluge of renewed liveliness that I can feel tingle in the soles of my feet.

My head goes woozy, butterflies swarm in my belly, and my heart’s broken free of my control. There’s no tongue—thank God, because that’s beyond my expertise (obviously)—but the kiss is nowhere near chaste. I don’t really know what to do with my hands, so I stupidly keep them by my sides as Shiloh caresses my cheek, deepening the press of her mouth on mine with an urgency that’s inexplicably attractive.

When we eventually break away, I’m wide-eyed and dumbfounded, so detached from my body that I’m frozen to the sofa with a stiffy that I couldn’t hide if I wanted to.

“Shi…” I breathe, unsure why I’m even saying her name in the first place.

To urge her to stop? To keep going?

But my question is answered for me when she sweeps me up in another kiss—this one more calculated, more natural, a dance that we’ve just conquered. It’s a marrying of lips that precedes the first dart of a tongue to test the waters, and like a dog, I follow her every move with undying devotion, finally stockpiling the courage to skirt my hands up the length of her sides.

Her breasts are flattened against my chest, and instead of her hand staying innocently on my cheek, it migrates to my hair, her nimble fingers tethering around the strands .

God, this feels so fucking good. She tastes so fucking good. I never knew a kiss could be this… life-changing . I don’t want it to stop. I need more. Every emotion and physical feeling in my body are fighting to come out on top—a fast heart rate melding into an equally fast pulse, the fluttering in my gut devolving into this buzzing ball of anticipation.

And as I feel her body recline to give me more room—and to give my lips a better vantage point on her throat—something strange squeezes through my stomach, too harsh to be those aforementioned butterflies flapping around.

I can feel my insides cramping, but it pales in comparison to the feel of Shiloh’s tongue sliding over mine. While she readjusts her position, I follow suit and lean forward on my hands and knees, only to find that moving at all was a terrible idea that will lead to the worst consequence imaginable.

Whatever nervousness or indigestion that was going on manifests in a bout of pressure that practically sucks my stomach in on itself, and my pain would’ve gone unnoticed if it wasn’t for the seismic growl that pierces the air between us.

Shiloh pulls away with a frown, her eyes scanning the expanse of my belly. “I’m sorry. I’m such a bad host. I didn’t know you were still hungry. Let me make you another bowl?—”

She shimmies out from underneath me to get up, but I grab her wrist before she can go anywhere, and I slouch back against the couch cushions.

“It’s not. That’s not—I’m fine,” I lie, bearing an instant onslaught from whatever gods above are punishing me. I have no idea why my intestines are dead set on tying themselves into a constrictor knot, but they’re doing so with a disturbing amount of ease.

Concern mars Shiloh’s expression. “Something’s wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Then why are you wincing in pain?”

“I’m not wincing in pain. This is…just my natural resting fa ce.” I breathe through the waxing ache in my lower abdomen, but on the inside, I’m curling up in a fetal position and pleading with a higher power to grant me relief.

What the hell is wrong with me? Why is my body betraying me like this? I was kissing a girl! Things were good!

But no matter what I say or how I say it, convincing Shiloh to back down is about as implausible as finding some kind of reprieve in the next minute. The quiet ambience of the night was comforting at first, but now there’s nothing to cover up the intermittent gurgles emanating from my stomach.

She narrows her eyes. “Fulton.”

I roll mine. “Shiloh.”

I’m trying to lighten the situation, but I can tell there’s nothing I can do to save what was, hands down, the best moment of my life. And now it’s gone, all because my stomach’s revolting the very safe, very normal dinner I just ate ten minutes ago.

“It sounds like there’s a war going on in your stomach.”

I throw my head back against the couch with a groan, refusing to brave a glance in her direction. My whole face is burning like the surface of the sun. “I’m sorry. It’s just a bit of indigestion.”

I don’t know why Shiloh hasn’t run for the hills yet, but she nods sympathetically. “Do you want some TUMS?”

Hah. Good ol’ TUMS. Always helpful when I eat…

And then it dawns on me. Cold, hard realization douses my spine like a bucket of ice water, negating the heat still flourishing through every inch of my body. The spasming is getting worse, nausea’s pooling at the base of my throat, and I’m beginning to sweat through my goddamn shirt. I know these telltale signs. I’m not indisposed because of a few pre-date jitters.

Staying as calm as possible, I feel my features pinch in discomfort, and I let out a breath that doesn’t seem to relieve any of my growing unrest. “Shi, what was in the dinner you made?”

She freezes like a deer caught in headlights. “Um, bone broth, rice noodles, beef, bean sprouts, cilantro, green onions, a little bit of cheese. The recipe doesn’t usually call for cheese, but my mother always gratinated her Pho with Gruyère.”

We both stare at each other. The puzzle piece falls into place. She mirrors my “oh shit” face.

“You order dairy-free coffee.”

“Yeah.”

“I just fed you dairy.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God. You’re lactose intolerant,” she whispers, immediately hiding her face in her palms. “I’m so, so sorry, Fulton. It totally slipped my mind. I—I poisoned you.”

Even though the situation is pretty dire, I can’t help the laugh that expels from me. “You didn’t poison me. I’ll live. It’s just a stomachache.”

Shiloh lifts her head, begins to fret like I’ve seen my mother do a million times when I came to her after accidentally—or purposefully—ingesting lactose as a kid, and rests the back of her hand against my clammy forehead.

“Do you need to go to the hospital? Are you about to pass out? What can I do?”

Despite my gut bubbling like a cauldron, the feel of her touch is placating, and I kind of drift off into this semiconscious state where everything’s fuzzy and the cramps are nothing but a dull throb. “Keep touching me. It feels nice.”

Panic thickens her tone. “Dear God, you’re delirious. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“I do. You’re what I need right now, okay? Just you.”

I sidle up against her body, but no niggling worry of being disgusting or embarrassed crosses the threshold of my mind. In fact, I’ve never felt so at peace before. I feel safe being this close to her. I feel…spared of any judgment.

That is, until everything goes south (literally and figuratively), and the impenetrable traffic jam of dairy packed in my stomach begins to try and digest itself. I’m going to fart. Fuck. I’m not just going to fart, I’m going to shit my pants.

“You need to leave,” I say, repelling myself from her body and trying to push her toward the exit.

Shiloh doesn’t budge. “What?”

“Shiloh, I’m serious.”

“We’re sharing a hotel room!”

I scrub a hand down my face, mentally debating with myself what my next course of action is. A, everything goes right for once and Shiloh leaves the premises immediately. B, I barely make it to the bathroom and the nonexistent fan does nothing to cover up the noise. Or C, I actually shit my pants and drive the only woman I’ve ever wanted a thousand miles away from me.

All of it is pretty humiliating, so I don’t know why I’m trying so hard to save my dignity. “Please. Just for, like, thirty minutes,” I beg.

“I’m not going to leave you like this!” she argues.

I’d physically shove her out the door, but I don’t have that kind of energy—or that kind of time. I get a rush that beelines for my lower, lower intestines, and I’m hightailing it to the bathroom without her evacuating the vicinity like I had hoped. I can hear Shiloh shouting at me from over my shoulder, but I lock the door before she gets the chance to barge in.

I flail for my phone, dialing Gage through blurred vision.

“Hey, man. I’m kind of in the middle of something,” he says through the speaker.

“Help me,” I whisper pathetically.

“The fuck?”

Since there’s no way of sugarcoating the truth, I stampede across those stupid fucking eggshells. “Gage, you need to come get me. I’m going to shit my pants.”

His voice drips with concern. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s a long story, okay? I just need you to…I need you to help me climb out the window!” I growl, already clearing a space on the tiny shelving unit used for toiletries in the corner. The window’s not too far up, and it looks big enough for me to squeeze my body through.

Will I get out in time before all hell breaks loose? I have no idea. But anywhere is looking better than here because Shiloh’s begun to pound her fists on the door.

“Ful, that’s crazy.”

“You’re only two hotel rooms away!”

“No, dude. Cali and I are at a restaurant right now.”

Gage is dead to me.

The twinge in my belly tells me I need to start climbing because I have negative four point five seconds before Shiloh’s on the receiving end of one of the worst sounds and smells in the entire world, so I notch my foot into one of the shelves, pull myself level with the window, and slide the partition to the side with one hand.

Since I’m pretty much manning this self-save, I don’t even notice when Shiloh somehow busts the door open with inhuman strength, getting a front-row seat to the most embarrassing moment of my life.