Chapter 14

Journey

“Hope you’re hungry.”

Jason tips the driver as I exit the car in front of a foliage-covered gate almost invisible from the street.

“Starving,” I answer.

He punches in a code as the car drives off down the street.

I don’t know what I’m expecting when the gates open up. Something imposing and ultra-contemporary? A vampire’s castle, maybe?

“What’s wrong?”

I’m staring down a landscaped cobblestone driveway that ends in a U-shaped curve in front of a three-story stone mansion that screams more arts and crafts than it does “lair.” The sandstone glows against the landscape fixtures. The windows put out the inviting, homey light of a house that bustles with activity.

“I didn’t peg you for a traditionalist.”

Jason grunts and rests a hand on my lower back. He punches in another code at the front door.

“What did you expect?”

“Steel girders. Or Gru’s house.”

Jason snorts as he pushes open the door, and suddenly, I’m out of smart remarks.

The entryway could be a museum: warm-colored marble floors lead off the main foyer in so many different directions, that I don’t know where to look first. The three-story cathedral ceilings draw the eye up to astonishing mahogany wood beams with expert details.

Behind me, Jason kicks off his shoes and arms the security code.

“You don’t like my house?”

That smirk tells me he knows I’m head over heels for this house. I clear my throat, struggling to find the words. “I’ve never been in a house this big before. I don’t know where to look or what to do, and I feel very, very small.”

It’s the truth. In my tiny town in Iowa, the wealthiest family lives in a two-story Tudor on a mediocre lake. This place is grander than any private home I visited in New York or the Bay Area during my internship.

“Hey,” he says, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Calm down. You live here now.”

So much of me doesn’t want to believe that. Why would I even be allowed to eat in a place like this, let alone live here? And yet I know Jason isn’t messing with me.

“Sure,” I say, feeling the thrill of him weaving his fingers through mine as he leads me under the arch in front of us. “The girl with just enough first and last month’s rent saved up in her checking account to get an apartment over a nail salon an hour away from the city. Sure. I definitely live here now.”

“I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but I’m pretty sure it’s time to feed you,” Jason says.

When we enter the kitchen, I burst into tears.

“Hey. Hey, what’s going on?” His arms go around me as I gawk at everything. The marble countertops. The hand-carved vent hood. The stainless steel. The range itself costs more than triple my life savings—I know because I pinned that motherfucker the moment I knew I was going to become a chef. And there’s a damn scullery off to one side that’s bigger than the bedroom of the house I grew up in.

The magnitude of what I’ve walked into, this wealth and privilege, it’s too much to absorb. “What…am I doing here…with you?”

Jason is genuinely amused. “Should I make you another to-do list? First, I’m gonna cook for you. Then, you’ll clean your plate and drink your wine on the patio. After that, we shower, and then I put you to bed. Understand?”

I swipe away a tear and nod.

“Good. Have a seat, now,” he says, gesturing to one of the luxuriously cushioned barstools at a marble island on which you could play doubles tennis. I slide onto the stool, and my bones relax. Somehow, having everything simplified makes me feel better.

Do I actually like having everything decided for me? I’m not going to lie; having the pressure off me has an easing effect.

Jason moves deftly through the kitchen, gliding from the fridge to the stove, from the butcher block prep area to the scullery. “Hope you like salmon,” he says, firing up the broiler.

Me? I’d happily eat Chef Boyardee straight out of the can—cold—after a hard day at work.

“Is this a normal thing for you? You just cook a whole-ass meal for yourself from scratch when you get home from work after cooking all day?”

Most chefs I know won’t admit it to the general public, but they eat absolute garbage on their personal time. I’ve dated and been friends with enough of them to know that Pop-Tarts and potato chips play a prominent role in most of their home kitchens.

He laughs as he drizzles the salmon filets with lemon juice and oil. “I haven’t cooked all day in ages, though. It was fun to get back into it.”

I stare at his back curiously. “What do you mean, you don’t normally cook every day for work? You’re a chef.”

He shoves the salmon in the oven, pulls out a head of butter lettuce from the crisper, and proceeds to make homemade dressing.

“I am,” he says, dicing a sweet bell pepper in about ten seconds flat. “But I’m a restaurateur most days. Cash and I have been in business together for a while now, and most of my time is spent traveling around to all our restaurants, going over menus, and training and recruiting executive chefs. I don’t often sweat it out in the kitchen anymore.”

Jason goes on to tell me all about how Cash and he met while waiting tables, and ended up as roommates to save money while planning to go into business opening their own sandwich shop. Investors eventually came through as Jason worked his way up to sous chef, and started to win awards. From there, they went on to buy a local barbecue place that was in financial trouble, then it was a steakhouse, and then another. Now they own a dozen or more upscale restaurants all over the metroplex.

He slides a glass of wine over to me.

“Accolades are great, but it’s nicer not having to work myself to death like my father did. I was lucky to meet Cash. He knows finance and management. I’m the food and ideas guy.”

The aroma of broiled salmon has me salivating, and the wine makes me pleasantly buzzed on an empty stomach.

“That’s done,” he says, the oven door slamming shut as he plates up our dinners. “Let’s go to the patio.”

I follow him out of the kitchen and down the hall to a sitting room at the back of the house lined with floor-to-ceiling windows. He flips a switch on the wall, and the windows slide open, effectively turning the whole sitting room into part of the patio. The outdoor “patio” is a terraced paradise filled with raised garden beds, vining flowers, lush furniture, and a waterfall fountain. All of it overlooks a pool with a covered bar and barbecue area.

“So. You think you can tolerate me enough to live here?”

He must be joking. “I could spend days exploring and never see you,” I say.

“It’s not that big. You should see Cuban’s house.”

Sure, sure. He’s been to that guy’s house, because of course he has.

“No thanks. Not a Mavericks fan,” I say, embarrassingly, through a mouthful of salmon. I immediately apologize.

“Sorry for inhaling everything. It’s so good.”

“Don’t apologize. Watching you eat my food is the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Heat crawls up my neck. “Stop.”

“Has no one ever told you that?”

I shake my head and sip my wine, swallowing back the emotions that threaten to form a lump in my throat.

“Other than friends and friends’ parents, no one’s ever made a home-cooked meal for me without a lecture.”

Jason sets his glass of wine down and leans across the glass table. “What do you mean, a lecture?”

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Journey.”

I sigh. “When you grow up with locks on the cabinet doors and are scolded for eating than what your dad can afford to feed you, you don’t come to expect a lot of generosity.”

I wait for the “what the fuck” expression, but Jason’s hard mouth is even, his eyes calm.

“Locks,” he repeats.

I swear to god, the fact that he’s not reacting at all is making me more emotional than if he started raging.

“Yes.”

“What else did that man do to you?”

Oh god. “Jason, I don’t need you to be my therapist.”

“No, you don’t. But I’m gonna be your husband at some point so I would hope you’ll tell me everything.”

I laugh. “Sure. Okay. He would keep track of how many slices of bread I ate per day, how much milk was missing, how many slices of cheese. He would take any opportunity to remind me what the daily recommended calories were for a girl my age. On the rare occasions we could afford to eat at a restaurant, he’d always comment on the portions being too big, and that I should save some for later. Everything about the way I ate and how much was unladylike. It all came to a head at my sixteenth birthday party. It was just a few high school friends at one of those pizza buffet places with an arcade in the party room. I was so happy to be with my friends and eat pizza, and I thought it was so nice to get a break from all the judgment. There’s no way he would say anything shitty with my friends there. Oh, but I was wrong. When the manager brought out the birthday cake, I blew out the candles. My friends sang Happy Birthday. And then my dad took the knife away from me when I was about to slice up the cake for my friends. I thought maybe he was being nice. He cut me the smallest sliver, and cut everyone else a big slice. It was so uncomfortable, because everyone knew exactly what was up. It was then and there that I decided I would grow up and become a famous chef, and when I did, I would never, ever cook a meal for my father.”

I’ve never said any of that out loud to anyone other than my best friend at the Culinary Institute. Jason’s stare bores a hole in my heart, but I’m staring at the pool and noticing how the still surface reflects the little lamps illuminating the deck.

Finally, when he says nothing for too long, I look up.

“Be right back,” he says.

Moments later, he returns with the biggest slice of key lime pie I’ve ever seen.

“Don’t even try to tell me you’re full,” he says.

Jason sits across from me, picks up one of the two spoons, and feeds me.

“I can feed myself,” I tell him, then quickly follow this up with, “Oh my god, this pie is so delicious. What is this crust, this isn’t graham crackers.”

“No, it’s Girl Scout cookie crust.”

“How dare you. This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth. No offense.”

As cool and calm as can be, Jason asks, “After I have your father stuffed, how would you like him displayed? Mounted in the trophy room?”

I choke on the pie.