Chapter Fifteen

Fifteen

E rik and I arrive early at the Hut, a fancy restaurant where we are supposed to meet the other teams. The owner is Lars's good friend who's letting us use the place while it's closed to the public before the dinner service. After the cooking contest, we must leave the place clean and ready to receive customers. Everyone is talking about how cool it is that we get to cook in such a fine restaurant, having it all for ourselves.

When all the couples have arrived, Lars explains the rules. "Lotte and I are the hosts, and you guys will be in your teams, each couple responsible for cooking a dish according to our guidelines. I've used a part of our Fun Season budget to buy some ingredients, and they'll be available in the kitchen. Whatever you can find, you can use. What is locked away belongs to the restaurant and shouldn't be touched. Is everything clear so far?"

He looks at the group, and we all confirm by nodding our heads.

"You'll have sixty minutes to prepare your dishes and serve them on plates for all of us to eat. Lotte and I will be the judges. We'll stay here at our table, and we'll rate your dishes without knowing who made what." He lifts a finger, his voice rising over the excited murmurs. "I have six envelopes with me. Each couple will take one and follow the instructions. They will tell you what kind of dish you must cook." He holds a hand out, offering us six envelopes. I grab one.

"Go, now! You have one hour!" Lars taps his watch.

The couples spread around, putting their heads together to read what is in their envelope. Erik lands a hand on my shoulder, leaning closer to see what we got. My heartbeat instantly rises.

"A hot dish," I read in a whisper, a bit breathless. "You may use the stove, and you can use whatever ingredients and tools you find in the kitchen." I look up at Erik, and he's so close to my face, my stomach flips. "Any ideas?"

"It all depends on what we can find in the fridge," he says with his minty breath. I swallow hard, nodding. "Come on," he calls, adding some distance between our bodies. "Before the others raid it."

He takes my hand, and we hurry to the big industrial kitchen. Chiara and Anika are already choosing pots. Simon and Lia are taking fruits and vegetables from the cold room. George and Alex are organizing their workspace. Ellen and Mads are standing in front of the oven, discussing options, and Martin and Astrid are looking in the small fridge. Erik and I see why: the big walk-in refrigerator is locked.

We come from behind them, trying to peek over their shoulders.

"You guys wait your turn," Martin says, gathering ingredients in his arms.

"What are you making?" Astrid asks us, smiling. "Our dish should be soup."

"Perfect. Then you don't need the beef." Erik sneaks a hand inside the fridge and steals a piece of meat.

"Hey!" Martin protests.

"It's a race, my friend," Erik says and passes an arm around me, guiding me away. We laugh quietly all the way to the stove, and I'm so hyped by his touch, my body trembles and pulsates.

"Nothing like a chance to beat your foe, huh?"

"Martin is not great in the kitchen," Erik tells me with a mischievous grin, his face flushed with the heat indoors and the tension of a tight schedule. There is also a thick layer of excitement around him, and I let myself take it in.

"So, what do we make?" I ask him. "Now we have beef. What about your stroganoff? It's easy enough, right? And delicious."

"Then we make your Brazilian version."

I shake my head. "No, no. I'm not... Yours is better."

"You still haven't made it for me," he argues. "And it will be nice to have an interesting dish the others have never tasted before."

I frown, put off by the idea. "It's not that different from yours, trust me. We should just do what is most likely to please Lars."

Erik turns to the stove, shaking his head, reproachful. "How long will you keep hiding behind me, Sol? When will you show them some of your personality?"

I step closer, frowning. That's one of those things he will never understand. I don't want to be an exotic bird that people find fascinating. The thing they observe from a distance and say, Oh, how interesting , like I'm something that will never belong in their reality.

Is it such a flaw to not want to raise eyebrows and just blend in seamlessly? To not be remembered only for your cultural heritage?

"I'm playing it safe, Erik," I say firmly. "We're making a dish everyone knows. Either you're in or you're out."

Erik is quiet for a second, then he starts looking in the cabinets for a pan. "Go grab some onions, garlic, butter, mushrooms, flour, cream, mustard, beef stock, pasta, and a bit of parsley."

"Ugh, wait," I say, overwhelmed with the long list. "I'll see what I can get."

A few minutes later, I return with all I could find and carry.

"There'll be some replacements. Ketchup instead of mustard. We'll add tomato puree, and no beef stock."

"Great. Then there'll be a Brazilian touch after all." He winks at me, and I surrender a little smile in return.

While Erik cooks the beef and I assist him by cutting the vegetables and measuring the ingredients, the other couples work hard all around us. Astrid and Martin cook their vegetable soup on the second stove, Ellen and Mads make their oven-only dinner, Simon and Lia prepare a salad on the counter behind us, George and Alex make an elaborate sandwich that looks more like art than food, and Chiara and Anika prepare a dessert that fills the kitchen with a delicious chocolate smell.

Although we are all concentrated on our dishes, some of us are curious about what the others are doing and walk around to get glimpses and show support. Drawn by the smell of minty chocolate, I stop behind Chiara and Anika, saying a lengthy "mmmm" that makes them laugh happily.

I'm returning to Erik when Martin approaches to ask if he can use our knife. I'm still a few steps away when he says to Erik in a low voice, "I don't know what you're doing, but it needs to stop."

"Stroganoff." Erik turns to him with an innocent look, stirring his dish. "I can't stop until it's done."

Martin's mood is dark. "If this is because I left you before we—"

"I don't know why you're bringing that up now."

Erik looks very calmly at him, almost like he is bored with the conversation. I stay where I am, pretending to search for spoons to disguise that I'm listening.

"I'm here for Sol. Because I'm her boyfriend."

Martin snorts, showing he doesn't buy our charade. Sensing that Erik needs me by his side, I walk over and drop the stuff I picked up on the counter, smiling as though we are the happiest couple in town.

"Got it all, honey!"

Martin rolls his eyes.

"Anything you need?" I raise an eyebrow at him.

With a last cold glance in my direction, Martin turns on his heel and gets back to his soup. I look at Erik, trying to see his reaction. To my relief, he is smiling.

He interlocks his fingers with mine, brings our united hands to his lips, and kisses the back of my hand. I try to make it look like this is something he does all the time, but my insides are pulsing with the power of ten overworked speakers, a song of temptation and enticement blasting in my brain.

"Would you stir a little while I put the pasta to boil?" he asks, close to my ear, and when I nod, he places me where he was before with a gentle touch on my waist. He lifts my ponytail and gives me a quick kiss on the neck before stepping aside to handle the pasta.

This is so sexy and unexpected that my knees almost give out. Shivers from his kiss on my neck linger, and I feel slightly breathless in the steamy, crowded kitchen.

Oh my. What is he doing? Showing off to Martin? Making us believable?

I don't want him to stop.

We touch each other a lot until the end of the one hour—in subtle, excusable ways. But at every brush of hands and deliberate proximity, I fall deeper into the depths of desire.

I'm taking advantage of him, that's undeniable. I'm thoroughly enjoying my fake boyfriend, and from adjusting his shirt to handing him a tool to feeling the electricity of our skin making contact, I don't care if it's all an act.

The feels are real.

In the end, Erik is handling the pan from behind me, his mountain of a body heating mine from head to toe. I feel his chest muscles against my back, and it's hard to breathe. Hard. Wait, is he—? I just want to turn around and bring his mouth to mine, and push him down on a bed...

Holy Odin. I'm doomed.

Lars appears at the kitchen door, tapping his watch and distracting me from my uncontrollable emotions. "Time's up, everyone! Now you have five minutes to serve your dishes and bring the plates here for us to enjoy! Remember to bring each other's dishes so as not to let us know who made what!"

At the end of the five minutes, the seven different courses are served on plates for all of us to taste. We all clap, congratulating each other for our good work. We bring it all to the main dining area, serve Lars and Lotte first, and wait for their verdict. They make delighted sounds when tasting the dishes and end up choosing Team Georgelex as the winners, with their Tower of Artsy Wonders Sandwich.

Then it's time for all the chefs to taste the dishes. The tables are placed close to each other so that we are one big group enjoying an early dinner, having a great time.

"Hygge," I say to Erik, who is sitting by my side, both of us feasting on the dessert.

"Yes, it's hyggeligt ." He squeezes my hand. I look around to see if Martin is looking, but he is not even in the room, probably in the bathroom.

We help clean. It's a lot of work, given how many utensils twelve people had to use to cook in a hurry. But we work efficiently as a team, and soon the place is shining.

"Good job today, Team Sol & Storm," Lars says to us when it's time to leave. "Interesting stroganoff."

"It had a Brazilian touch," Erik replies, holding my hand and smiling.

"See you guys at the next event? It will probably be in the third or fourth week of November."

"Of course." I give him a bright smile. "Count us in. And tak for i aften ," I say the phrase Erik taught me earlier today to thank Lars for the evening.

" Det var dejligt. Tak for mad."

"Velbekomme," Erik replies for both of us.

I understood that Lars thanked us for the food, and then Erik whispers in my ear that Lars first said it was lovely.

We say goodbye to my boss and everyone else and start walking home. Even when the others are long out of sight, Erik keeps holding my hand.

I can barely focus on my steps. My whole being, the entirety of my sensory processing, is concentrated on the hand he is holding. He drops it at some point, and I hide my fingers in the pockets of my coat. We talk joyfully about our cozy afternoon, making comments we've held back in the presence of others, and the closer we get to home, the more nervous I feel.

Something has changed today.

I'm taking off my shoes at the door next to Erik when Larissa calls me on the phone. I ignore it. I want to be in the moment with him, see what will happen... But she calls again and Erik is suddenly engaged on his phone, and I answer the call. I talk with my friend in my room.

And the moment passes.

We are no longer Team Sol & Storm. We are Sol and Erik again, living in their own routines. A room away.

A world away.