Water's Wet Erotica (Seven Stories: Including Virgin to Vixen Series) (21 page)

My friends and I had even made fun of cooking shows, and we had done a comedy routine on cooking shows for a school talent show last year. I wracked my brain to remember the gist of our banter.

I folded my hands and said, “
Mmm
. It’s spicy and piquant. Fresh-picked plum tomatoes, I think.
Fragrant, elephant garlic gloves, hand-roasted over a gas flame.
Eggplant, but not the usual purple eggplant, nothing that ordinary.
The white eggplant, with a delicate flavor, has been soaked in salt water and rinsed before cooking. The zucchini is just right, almost an
al dente
perfection if one were to use a pasta metaphor, but yes, there is a pleasing mouth texture and a bite of white pepper, and perhaps a secret ingredient that leaves an underlying mystery. I taste the slight nuttiness of ground pine nuts, to be sure, but there is something more.
Something familiar, and yet, its identification escapes me.” I paused for dramatic effect. “Could it possibly be a light grating of raw black truffles on the finished plate, or am I gravely mistaken?”

“Oh, you’re marvelous! I can’t believe this. You are
gold
! You understand
this!
You understand my passion.
Food!
Ingredients! Process! It is my art! And you get it!
”

“Thank you, Archie,” I said demurely. “It is my privilege to eat the food that you have prepared.” And then, I tried not to lay it on too thick, but I was on a roll. I continued, “And so, if this art on my plate could do so, it would thank you for its creation.” I smiled, because though the food was marvelous, the words were utter
b.s
. from my quarter and were a complete swiped mash-up of food lingo from my pop culture understanding of what chefs did and how their thought processes worked, and some scraps of humor stolen from our comedy routine and said to Archie with a straight face. Oh, my friends and I had watched thousands of cooking shows on the Food Network, and now, I used it to my advantage to get Archie interested in me—as an adult.

“Oh! Your amazing words mean so much to me!” From the expression on his face—ecstasy with more than a hint of ego, no surprise there—he was totally buying it. I was definitely out of my comfort zone now. I was definitely out of my element. And it was damn intriguing that I was nailing it. What was even more intriguing was that I was staying for the entire show tonight.

He rushed away to putter with something on simmer on the gleaming stainless restaurant-looking gas stove. And while he wasn’t looking, I wolfed down a couple of bites of this marvelous food that I wanted to shovel in as fast as I could.

I mentally marked the date in my mind as the night that Kimberly pushed the envelope in her life…and became a real adult, bantering with another adult,
about gourmet
food
, of all things. Thank God for my cable television addiction: apparently, it was my entrée to an adult social education.

He came back to my side. “Eat more, sweetheart! Please!” he said. And so, being obedient, I ate. But I did it like a young lady.
So,
it was
truffles
grated over the top
?
That was a stroke of luck. I had never had a truffle in my life, before this night. Lucky guess!

Tonight almost felt like a rite of passage and I was paying close attention to Archie’s every move, every nuance of behavior. I had turned myself loose with a full-grown man and it was more exciting as every moment unrolled before me.
Before
us.

But you better believe I didn’t leave his house without doing as he requested.
That wooden spoon, laid in a spoon rest on the counter, was a reminder of what would happen if I crossed Archie Griffin at the point of his, um,
ego.

After I had eaten, I folded my napkin and put it next to my plate.

“Chef Archie Griffin, thank you so much for your hospitality. Would you like me to help with the dishes?”

“No, dear, you’re an honored guest tonight.”

I smiled and said,
“Archie, the meal was delicious
and I had a lovely time
. I would love to stay
longer
, but
may
I have your permission to go home now, so I can get some sleep
?
”

His wide smile made me feel like a million dollars. “Of course you
may
. You were kind enough to share a meal with me, and I can’t thank you enough for that.”

For a moment, I felt special. I smiled a genuine smile when I went to the front door to leave. No sooner did I get to the bottom of his stairs, I heard him call my name.

“
Kimberly,
tonight has been so special to me. W
ould you like to join me tomorrow night for another meal?”

“I would like that very much,” I heard myself say. I was shocked at my subconscious reacting with such
a quick affirmative answer
. I decided not to second
-
guess my subconscious. Instead, I was going to enjoy Archie
Griffin
’s company
and his food,
regardless
of whether
he thought of me as a child
or an adult
. 

Tonight, I had crossed some invisible bridge to adulthood. I had passed all of his tests. I believed that tomorrow night was actually a real date…with a grown man, a guy who was such a stud muffin that there was no way I would tell anyone at school about him. Archie was a delicious secret, and I wanted to keep him all to myself.

I went to school the next morning with nothing on my mind but Archie. I wondered if he thought about me when he slept. Was he as excited about our dinner date as I was? Was I just there to pass the time? No matter how he looked at me, I thought his quirky ways were sexy and exciting.
He had made food into a sensual experience. If dinners with Archie became a regular thing, I would have to start exercising like a madwoman.

I drove home from school, fixed my ponytail and applied a light amount of makeup to my face. I ran the lip gloss over my full pink lips and dabbed some perfume on my neck and wrists. I changed out of my striped skirt and loose blouse into something a bit more revealing and fitting for my age. I hated the uniforms at school.
They were purposely designed not to be sexy in the very least. Obviously, school uniform designers needed to watch
Project Runway
, because the daily uniform trope was abysmal and if I was to wear the pants that matched the top, it would look similar to hospital scrubs.
Idiot dress code!

I kept
on
my knee
-
high socks and slid a mini skirt up to my waist. When I turned around to look at my skirt from behind, I smiled at the way the skirt barely covered my
plump, apple
-
bottom ass. My perfectly round tight ass was the one physical trait about me that would give
away
my age. I hoped this skirt would entice Archie or encourage him to view me as a woman and not a girl
—a girl who could identify a grating of truffles over
ratatouille
. I snickered. That was some dumb-ass luck.

I ran down the stairs of my home and grabbed an apple. My parents were at work, and the house was empty. I used the quietness to focus
on my homework,
so I could hang out longer tonight at Archie’s house.

When I finished my last math problem, I closed my book and glanced outside. It was dusk and my parents would be home soon. I decided to leave them a note to let them know that I had planned to help Mr.
Griffin
whip up one of his famous meals.

Before I left, I ran up to my room and grabbed one of my cherished art projects, wrapped it in tissue paper, and taped it.

I walked across the street to Archie’s house
with my present
and lightly tapped on the door. As if he
had been
standing there waiting, he swung the door open and greeted me with a huge, unforeseen hug.

He sm
elled like basil and tomatoes—a sc
rumptious combination for a renowned chef such as Archie
Griffin
. “Hey
,
Archie, something smells good in here.
I can tell that you have been romancing the tomato again, but in even more magical ways.
”

“
Thank you! It’s tomato week for sure at the Griffin house. I bought different kinds to try out new recipes. And y
es, I’ve been slaving away for hours to make you my famous spaghetti and meatballs,
with heirloom tomatoes tonight, both red and yellow. And the meatballs are a combination of minced veal, pork and beef, with minced Vidalia onions and many secret ingredients.
”

“Yum,” I said. “My mouth is watering.”

H
e grinned. “Come in, come in
! I can’t wait for you to taste this!
”

The
front of the
house still looked dark and ominous
and we walked through the dark part without fanfare
.
T
he kitchen was bright with pots and pans everywhere and chopped veggies on a cutting board which sat on the center island.
Every light in the kitchen was on. My dad would have had a hissy fit about making a big electric bill.

“How was your day at school?” he asked.

I cringed
inwardly
. I didn’t want him to think about me as a girl in high school. I wanted him to think of me as the woman that I am. “It was good.
The usual.
Tests.
Gossip.
Fashion faux pas. Cafeteria food tossed.
Did you go to work?” I tried to change the subject and show that I could engage in adult conversation.

“
I only work nights
,
sweetheart. I’m a chef in a dinner house, not a
line
cook in a
chain family restaurant
.”

“Oh.”
He
’d
made me feel dumb. How was I supposed to know exactly where he worked and what kind of
establishment it was
? I kept my answer smooth, polished, adult.
“Good to know. So
,
when do you work next at the dinner house
?”

“I only work on Friday, Saturday and Sunday. Those are the days when the dinner house needs their top chef.
If you go to a good dinner house, never go on any day but Friday through Sunday.
”

“Good tip,” I said.
I walked around the kitchen and ran my fingers over the
gorgeous granite
countertops.
I noted that he had one section that was marble. I touched it. “And this is where you make your pastry,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, impressed that I knew. His eyes were alight with interest in me.

When I looked at Archie, I saw that he was
eyeballing
me
as if I was a delectable dessert
. I felt a tinge of excitement when I realized that he was lustfully looking at my body.

There were parts of me that yearned to be touched
—parts
of me that needed the strong hands of
a
man
—this man—
to induce pleasure and excitement. Now alone with Archie
Griffin
in his home while he cooked us a fantastic meal, I couldn’t think of anywhere else I wanted to be.

“What’s in your hand?” he asked.

I had almost forgotten! “I brought you one of my art creations. Just so you can see what I like to do, too. It’s a gift.
For you.”

I handed it to him, my pulse pounding as I knew I was setting myself up for judgment of my creative work, as he did with me and his cooking.

“Oh, my goodness.
May I open it?”

“Please do,” I said, remembering not to just nod, but to actually talk.
His house rules.
Respond aloud when spoken to.
I remembered.

He tore the tissue paper and his mouth dropped open when he saw my raven sculpture with spread wings on top of a library bookshelf, his head poised in a question with an open beak. “You really made this?”

“Yes. With my own two little hands. I’m not sure if you can tell what it is, so I will tell you. It’s a sculpture that I did of Edgar Allan Poe’s raven. I’ve done several of them as studies for a larger piece that I plan after I graduate high school.” I laughed nervously. “Well, when I run away to go make art instead of go to my dad’s alma mater to business school and contemplate anorexia or becoming a suicide girl.”

“Anorexia?”
He shuddered.