“I don’t blame you,” she whispers with a shake of her head. “I could never do it.”
I can feel my insides trembling. “This is inhumane,” I hiss back at her.
She just chuckles and walks to the next station.
I straighten my spine and glare at the set of broad shoulders now making their way to the front of the room. “I won’t do it.”
Desmond swivels around, locking eyes with me. “If you can’t prepare the meal, you’re free to leave, but you won’t leave with a certificate.”
My jaw drops. I shouldn’t even care, seeing as I never wanted to come to class to begin with. But I’m less than two hours from putting closure on the last three months of classes I’ve endured. I’m not going to just walk away. I’ve earned that certificate. “Give me something else to make. You can’t make me kill a live lobster.”
There’s chuckling around the room because, apparently, I’m the only one having a hard time with this. Even my sister is biting her lip with amusement, the traitor.
“I’m not handing out individual assignments. I’m sorry, Maggie, but no lobster means no certificate.”
My chest puffs as heat wraps around my body like a raging fire.
“C’mon, Mags, you can do it,” Monica says with a gentle nudge. That’s her, the eternal optimist. I swear there’s never been a dare my sister hasn’t accepted in her life.
I don’t know how long I stand at my station, fuming, but at some point, Monica is by my side, setting her cooked lobster on my station. “Take mine. He’ll never have to know,” she whispers. “Now start on the shallots, or you’ll get too far behind.” She grabs my lobster and plops it in her still-boiling pot.
When I raise my eyes to hers, she just winks and goes on about her mission. I do as she says and prepare the pan and shallots to get them cooking. Then I stare at the poor cooked lobster and contemplate becoming a vegan.
It’s not like I eat much meat anyway. I’m more of a salad-with-a-dash-of-olive-oil kind of woman. My one indulgence is pasta on the odd occasion. Besides the whole kill-a-lobster part of class, I find my mouth watering for the ravioli part of the meal.
I manage to mix up the shallots with the lobster and some ricotta and Parmesan cheese for the filling. Then I lay them in spoonfuls on a pasta sheet. Easy peasy. Once my raviolis are boiling, I start on the lemon-garlic sauce then set it to simmer.
This whole cooking thing isn’t entirely bad, but it doesn’t mean I would want to come back here again. After today, I’ll be set free, and I can go back to spending my Saturdays on the couch, flipping through fashion magazines.
I’m leaning over my workstation, tapping my fingers on the stainless steel, bored out of my mind, when I hear my sister’s frustrated growl beside me. I look at her over my shoulder, noting her flushed cheeks and wide eyes.
She swipes her forehead with the back of her hand as she looks my way. “How are you done already?”
I shrug and stand up, glancing quickly at the lobster ravioli I made from scratch. “It was easy after the whole lobster murder.”
She winces. “Don’t say that. I’m the one who did the murdering.”
“Twice,” I remind her, only to receive a heartfelt frown. Just because my sister is braver than me doesn’t mean she enjoyed boiling the damn thing. Neither of us have had much experience with cooking, and while she’s much better now than she was three months ago, I know she wants to prove to herself that her skills extend beyond fashion design.
I attempt to get off the subject of murder. “Anyway, there was nothing to it. Shred the lobster, prepare a garlic-lemon sauce, and let it simmer on the stove.”
Monica turns her focus back to me and squints. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I look at my countertop and shrug. The hardest part of it all is timing everything perfectly so that one thing doesn’t cook sooner than the rest. As a matter of fact, I am quite pleased with myself. The only thing there is a wine bottle chilling in a bucket of ice. I pull it out and flash Monica a grin. “Guess I better crack this baby open.”
I dare a look at Desmond while I pour myself a glass. He’s at the front of the room, observing the class. Then his eyes meet mine with a narrowed challenge, as if he can’t believe I accomplished anything, much less prepared an entire gourmet meal from scratch.
Monica clears her throat, turning my attention back to her while I sip from my glass. “I meant the bread. Did you start your loaf?”
Her words are like a bash on the head. “Oh no.” I set down the wine and smoosh my face in my hands. “I completely forgot. Crap. No.” That should have been the first thing I did. But I was distracted with the thought of killing the lobster.
I swivel in a circle, suddenly drawing a blank. I don’t remember what I’m supposed to do. “Shit,” I squeak, a little too loud.
“Is there a problem here?”
Hair spikes on my skin, and a wave of heat rolls through my insides. That’s pretty much the effect Desmond Blake has on me now. It used to be flutters in my tummy and flushed cheeks just from looking at him. Then he had to go and open his mouth.
Okay, so his mouth is pretty nice. He even has one of those deep voices that could work me like a vibrator if placed in just the right spot. But the words that come out of it tend to make me want to clench my fists and spew a rebuttal.
“Of course not.” I try to control my voice, but I can feel my insides quivering. “Everything is parfaite.” I push my fingers together and kiss the tips of them. “Trés bien.”
“This isn’t a French dish, Maggie.”
“Oh.” I can feel my cheeks heat in embarrassment, but I quickly turn my fluster into confidence. I push Desmond aside with my elbow in an effort to reach the stove. “Excuse me. You’re distracting me.”
He catches my elbow before I can completely turn away and narrows his eyes. His look continues to harden as it travels down to my apron.
“What?” I ask, finding it impossible to hide my utter annoyance. His frozen gaze forces me to look down at the apron I found online. I was sick of wearing the blue-and-yellow Edible Desire aprons, so I opted to buy a bundle of my own. This one is black and reads, “Fuck me, I’m the Chef” in gold metallic lettering. “Oh.” I quickly realize Desmond doesn’t find it the least bit funny.
Then his eyes snap to mine. “There are kids in here.”
I toss my head to the right and look at a young girl with her mother a few stations over. They’re laughing and mixing something on the stove, totally oblivious to the scolding I’m getting.
“No one even saw it.” Frustrated, I reach around Desmond and pick up my wine. I place the cool glass against my lips, my forehead lifting when I realize he’s not walking away. He’s just standing there. His brows are furrowed, an angry dimple has popped in his cheek, and wisps of curly auburn hair have abandoned his otherwise perfect-looking man bun. I can’t remember the last time I got under someone’s skin like this, but I recognize the look because he has the same effect on me.
I take a slow sip, my stare leaving his glassy blue one. Dang, he’s attractive. It’s unfortunate his appeal ends there. What a waste of a great-looking man.