Free Play Me by Katie McCoy Page B

previous belief that food
and cooking wasn’t sexy at all. Or maybe it was just Jake.
Whatever he did would be sexy, probably. Like his own symphony, with
his kitchen as the instrument and the food as the melody.
    “So . . . ”
I didn’t want to interrupt his process, causing him to cut off
a finger or something, but I felt a little weird just sitting there
with my now half empty wine glass. Was it warm in here? I pressed a
hand to my throat. “What are you making?”
    He gave me a grin over
his shoulder. “Chicken soup,” he said. “Your
favorite, right?”
    Oh. He had been
listening. That was good, right?
    “How long have
you been a chef?” I didn’t really know much about the
cooking world—was that a weird question? If someone asked me
how long I had been a musician, I wouldn’t really know how to
answer. Forever, I supposed. Was it the same with chefs?
    “I graduated from
culinary school about five years ago,” Jake told me. “But
I’ve always liked to cook.”
    “Oh,” I
took another sip of wine and found that my glass was now empty.
Before I could do anything, Jake was already pouring me another
glass. A large pot was sitting on the stove and the rest of the
kitchen seemed as spotless as when I had entered.
    “How is
everything clean already?” I asked, thinking of the mess my
sister always made when she tried to cook at my parents’ house.
    “Habit.”
Jake wiped his hands on a rag and took a swig of his own glass of
wine. “That’s one of the first things they teach you—the
importance of a clear work station. You clean as you go, basically.”
    “Is that why your
apartment is so clean?” I asked and he grinned.
    “I guess.”
He peered into the pot bubbling and steaming on the stove. Then he
glanced up and gave me a wicked grin. “So,” he started,
“are you ready to lend me your tongue?”
    I took a long drink of
wine. This was a terrible idea.
    “Ready,” I
said.

 

Chapter 12
     
    Jake
     
    Ella kept surprising
me. I had fully expected my thinly veiled attempt to spend time with
her to be rebuked. I even thought about using the favor I had earned
watching over Jeremiah to convince her to “help” me, but
here she was, in my apartment, drinking wine and looking like every
wet dream I never knew I’d had.
    God, that mouth. It was
stained purple from the wine, and I wanted nothing more than to get
drunk from licking it. Right now, it was offering to taste my soup,
and sadly that wasn’t a euphemism.
    I had half lied when I
told her I was testing recipes. I had been making chicken soup since
I was a kid—one of the first things my mom had taught me—but
I had been making adjustments to it ever since. I was never fully
satisfied, so I was always looking to improve it. This was just the
latest adaptation of an old standby, and most of it had already been
prepped and ready to go. It wasn’t the usual elaborate meal I
would usually make for a woman, but from what I could tell, that
wasn’t likely to impress Ella.
    The broth, handmade of
course, I kept handy in my freezer, and was packed with spices. The
chicken that had been marinating in the fridge was seasoned with my
own blend of spices as well. I also sautéed the vegetables
before throwing them in, adding another layer of flavor. This time I
was adding coconut milk and bay leaves, giving it a Thai-inspired
flourish. Everything came together quickly, merely needing to be
added to the large stock pot and cooked until the chicken was done.
My mother’s original recipe had been a simple one, but one that
would never fly in a professional kitchen. Customers always wanted
something new, something fresh and exciting. This was my latest
attempt to give it to them.
    I prepped two bowls and
took a seat at the counter next to Ella. This was usually the moment.
I would pretend to eat, but really, I was always watching the face of
my (usually female) guest. The same thing always happened. She would
take a bite or spoonful and her