With his full arms he gestured for me to lead the way, so I stepped in front of him and walked toward the kitchen.
“So how do you see this working?” he asked as all his bags came to rest on the island.
I crossed my arms and leaned up against the counter. “Practice, you mean?” Because as for the other stuff, just as long as you don’t grab me and kiss me, I think we’ll be okay.
“Yeah.”
With a shrug I replied, “It was your idea.”
“Thank you for finally acknowledging that.”
I laughed and he smiled in response, and then the internal lecture began.
I’d meant everything I’d said. I wasn’t going to take a chance on derailing my career, just when everything was going better than it ever had, to chase after the possibility of something developing with a boy. A man, Hadley. Max Cavanagh is many things, but a boy is not one of them. Noted. The possibility of something developing with a man. A man I was now overwhelmingly, undeniably—and I feared irreversibly—attracted to. Funny how a guy taking your breath away and making your brain momentarily shut off for the first time in too long to remember can make you realize how good-looking he is.
But it was more than that. And the more was the part that had been even more difficult to admit to myself. I liked him. Moving past the pain between us had been one thing, and agreeing to work with him had been another thing entirely. But liking him? Enjoying his company? Respecting him for more than just his culinary acumen and his eye-opening, mind-blowing kissing skills? Where had that come from? Seemingly from nowhere. All I knew was I had climbed in bed the night before appreciating some of his individual characteristics and had climbed out the next morning appreciating the man himself.
The man who, without a word or even a glance in my direction, seemed to be inviting me back into his arms, just by standing in my kitchen. By caring about this joint venture of ours enough to practice just being in my presence. By involving me in his thoughts and strategy, rather than sabotaging me—as he no doubt could have, pretty easily. By trying to be better.
By standing across the kitchen from me, back turned, stretching those fabulous arms over his head and bowing his well-defined shoulders in deliberate warm-up and preparation. As if he were preparing to run a 5k, not cook lunch.
I exhaled a shaky breath. Pull it together, Hadley.
“Do you always warm up before you cook?”
He faced me. “Don’t you?” He smiled in reaction to my “Are you crazy?” expression. “I guess I tend to be pretty physical in the kitchen.” He seemed to consider his next words carefully, and once he spoke, I understood why. I wasn’t about to hear anything his on-air persona would ever reveal to his audience. “It’s not so much that cooking is a sport for me, although it probably comes across that way. I don’t know. It’s really more of a dance.” He looked down at his feet. “There’s a rhythm. A tempo. A give and take. Someone leads and someone follows.” His eyes returned to mine, a little bit sheepishly. “And I don’t mean you and me. Or anyone else I might be cooking with.” A smirk overtook his lips. “Although, obviously, I will be leading.”
I laughed. Or at least I meant to laugh. With defiance. I’m afraid it came out as nothing more than a pathetic whimper.
“But, really,” he continued, “it’s a dance I share with the kitchen. I have to lead, and it has to follow. There’s no other way to do it. But, just like a man and woman dancing, the only way for it to really be something is if there’s trust. Respect. If I’m leading, I have to be in control at every turn, but that’s not about power. It’s about creating something special together. It’s about sensing what my partner needs, and my partner knowing I’ve got her. That my hand on her back, directing her with such a gentle touch, is also strong enough to keep her from falling.” He looked back down at his feet and chuckled. “That probably sounds really stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid, Max. Not at all.” How I wished it did. How I wished that friendly ridicule was how I wanted to respond. I cleared my throat and directed my eyes to his grocery bags. “So, what did you bring for us?”
He began to unpack his ingredients so I walked over to assist, but I stepped back as if I had been stung when I saw the superfluous amounts of produce being pulled from the bag.
“What’s this?”
He looked at me and then back at all the produce—then back at me again, confusion in his eyes. “What’s what?”
“All this green stuff.”
“They’re called vegetables, Hadley.” His smile widened. “I can deep fry them if you like.”
I scrunched up my nose and began digging through what remained in the bags. “It’s not that I don’t like vegetables. I’m just not a salad fan, really. And I’ve never seen that many vegetables go into anything that wasn’t a salad.”
“A-ha! I’m not making salad. We’re still on track to reach my goal for the day!”
“Which is?”
“For you to admit, at the end of the meal, that I’m the greatest chef of all time.”
Laughter exploded from me. “Yeah, good luck with that, flyboy.”
“Flyboy?” He chuckled as he opened a container of cleaned and prepared freshwater chestnuts and took one out and popped it in his mouth. “Where did you learn your insults? A USO slang instructional manual from 1942?” He held the water chestnuts out for me and I took one, and slowly took a bite.
“See? I like vegetables.” I took another nibble as I questioned myself. Were they vegetables or nuts? I wasn’t sure. And I wasn’t sure if I should carry on in confidence or wink, as if to say, “Just kidding. What kind of chef wouldn’t know that water chestnuts aren’t vegetables?”
Thankfully he saved me.
“I thought they were some sort of legume for the longest time. For vegetables, they seem so . . . nothing.”
“So, um . . . what is this fabulous non-salad dish you’ll be preparing, Chef?”
“Chicken lettuce wraps.”
“Great. Salad you eat with your hands. That’s much better.”
He threw his hands up in the air. “Are you even going to give me a chance here?”
“A chance? Sure.” I smiled at his agitation. He was playing it up for comedic effect, but I had no doubt I was also pushing his buttons, just a tad. “But you set the bar awfully high. If you said your goal was for me to say, ‘Hey, Max, that was pretty good,’ then I’d be going a lot easier on you. You asked for this. Besides, do you really expect me to think you’re the greatest chef in all the world after you prepare a dish that is included in most cookbooks for the beginning chef, aged five to eight years old?”
He and I were already looking at each other, right in each other’s eyes, but in that moment—that lighthearted moment accompanied by smiles on both our faces—it was as if our eyes locked into place. As if the gears had been just a bit off—close enough, but not secure—and everything had been loose and flexible. That changed in an inexplicable instant and we both knew it.
“Hadley, I really am sorry about how I acted during filming yesterday.”