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trigger warnings

Amelia had tried everything to get the stain out of her blouse. No amount of water, vinegar, or hydrogen peroxide succeeded, so it remained a stubborn reminder of her night at the Chef’s restaurant. She stared at it for a moment before pushing it aside to pull down the dress she’d wear to that evening’s gala, wishing she could do the same to the memories that came with it.

How he’d looked genuinely embarrassed as he used the napkin from her mouth to dab at the hot sauce on her chin. How he’d draped a coat over her shoulders while he called an Uber. How he pressed a note into her hand when he walked her to the door: Friday. 10:00 PM.

She never showed up.

The new ballroom of the old hotel felt more like the ninth circle of hell than a gala.

Keeping her head high and eyes low, the Critic quickly strode towards her table on the far wall, her red gown’s chiffon hem bouncing at her heels. She was ten steps from her destination when a hand rested on her upper arm.

Amelia spun towards it instinctively — hopefully, she realized — her head having not had enough time to tell her heart how to react. A rush of emotions that ultimately crashed into another. Disappointment.

She hadn’t thought George, the other arrogant chef who’d evaded her personal life in the last few months, would care enough to find her. Then again, she hadn’t thought much of him at all these days.

“Always in a rush.” He didn’t drop his hand from her bicep. Rather, he gave it a gentle squeeze. An otherwise reassuring gesture that felt claustrophobic under his gaze. “It means a lot that you’re here.”

George hadn’t changed. Like the slightly burnt pocket square that had seemingly come too close to a flame, there was always something grittier beneath.

“Of course.” Amelia worked to keep her face straight, surprised how he could still make her blood boil. “It’s all part of the gig, after all.”

“Right, but I know you hate these things.” George nodded as if she’d offered a false excuse. No longer engaging in conversation, but going through a mental checklist of items to control the narrative that best suits his ego. “I had other plans, but then the restaurant got nominated, and I figured I’d show up.”

Amelia took a deep breath before offering a sickly sweet grin in return. His restaurant was not only nominated but favored to win the highest honor this year. An award which, despite having only been promoted to head chef three months earlier, George was taking full credit for

“Right,” Amelia mirrored his casual disrespect, dipping to lows she wasn’t proud of. George had always tried to rile her up. Light jabs at her cooking attempts or tiny critiques of her articles. All of which resulted in some mild hate sex that allowed her to forgive the actual moment. “I heard it was a rough transition.”

“We had to clean house, but it’s been great ever since.” George placed the hand from her arm back into his pocket. A facade of boyish sheepishness. “Speaking of… I heard you’re speaking to — what’s his name — Oscar?”

“Oliver.” If Amelia’s heart kept dropping at the thought of him, she’d need a cardiac monitor.

“Of course!” George said without any real apology attached to it. “I hope that place he wound up at is going okay.”

“They’re nominated, so I’d say it is.” Amelia knew she was on the brink of embarrassing herself, defending a man she barely knew. A man whose relationship she’d neglected her every instinct to see again in an effort to preserve the very reputation she was putting at risk.

George’s only response was to take a sip of wine. A knowing smirk falling behind its rim. Amelia’s anxiety went to war with itself in the silence. She knew she should walk away, but couldn’t do so without knowing one thing. “How did you hear about that?”

“I’m surprised he remembered, considering he’d drunk enough rum to flambé a bathtub worth of foster.”

Amelia whipped around to see Oliver, effortlessly cool in a burgundy suit. Without a word, he wrapped an arm around Amelia’s waist. “He was ranting about the many women he’s hooked up with.”

George’s face flashed a mix of anger and embarrassment. Amelia thought he might lunge. Oliver looked more playful than ever.

“I hope you don’t mind that I told him I’d appreciate it if he kept your name out of his mouth,” Oliver finished, looking at Amelia now as gently tapped her hip. A silent sign to turn away. “Best of luck tonight, Greg.”

Oliver ran a thumb across the bare skin of her back as they walked toward the table, where Meredith was seated, wide-eyed and staring. She’d obviously watched the entire interaction.

“Thank you,” Amelia could barely hear herself, but knew that Oliver did by how he took her hand in his and squeezed. “I’ve humiliated myself in a unique variety of ways, so it’s probably best that I just try to pretend everything between our first introduction and now never happened.”

“We could do that,” Oliver smiled, clamping his teeth to his lower lip before turning towards her, passing a full glass of red wine into her hands. “Or we could stop thinking so much.”

Against her better judgment, Amelia smiled. Silently, she brought the glass to her lips. When she lowered it, he gave a slight nod of his head. She finished the glass. Oliver pulled out Amelia’s seat before taking the one right next to her.

“They don’t usually seat restaurants with the media.”

“No, of course not.” Oliver was unraveling the napkin to place in his lap. Amelia blushed, remembering her makeshift blindfold. “I put in a favor.”

The Critic was trying to wrap her head around what he’d said when Meredith leaned over her shoulder.

“Do you have a speech prepared?” Her blonde bob swept across the boat neckline of her butter-yellow dress.

“Absolutely,” the Chef answered honestly. “I’m going to win tonight.”

Meredith offered a kind smile before letting herself be distracted by their boss approaching the table, dragging several restaurant owners trying to get his attention behind him.

Amelia was surprised. It was uncommon for a restaurant as new as Oliver’s even to be nominated. A win like that was unheard of.

“Will you let me hear it?” Amelia asked in a way of showing interest and softening the truth’s blow. She wasn’t one to lie or dodge a question, but she had learned how to deliver it.

Oliver took the napkin from her plate before placing it on her lap. He let his hand linger on her thigh before taking a sip of his wine and turned to make small talk with the critic to his left. Not like a politician looking for a constituent’s vote, but that of a boyfriend meeting their partner’s colleagues.

"You will.”

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trigger warnings

The moment the Chef’s thumb landed on her tongue, the Critic craved more.

Oliver moved his hand to grip the back of her neck before leaning close enough for her to feel his voice. The wine seemed to have slicked away the cold facade, leaving something warm and playful in its place. Even the highlights in his dark, tousled hair seemed brighter from where they fell across his eyes.

“I’d say this a surprise, but that’d be a lie.”

Amelia narrowed her eyes in response, knowing it was directly counteracted by the uncontainable smirk. She didn’t attempt to string together words at risk of ruining their game as Oliver used the hold he still had at the base of Amelia’s skull to guide her toward the floor until her knees were pressed to the cold tile.

Amelia sat back on her heels, shoulders pressing against the emerald tiles lining the kitchen island. The Chef rose, immediately returning his attention to the stove, busying himself with the pots and pans as if she weren’t even there.

Humiliation pooled in her gut as she considered that this may all be a ruse. A punishment for how she’d made him feel earlier that evening. Frustrated, Amelia went to stand up just as Oliver kneeled beside her again, a timer in one hand and a knife in the other.

“I don’t appreciate distractions when I’m working,” Oliver stared straight at Amelia as he spoke, but she didn’t return the gaze. Rather, she kept an eye on the small paring knife that the Chef now tapped on her knee before inching it towards the chiffon hem of her skirt, playing with the soft skin of her inner thigh. “And everyone pulls their weight in my kitchen.”

As he spoke, the cold steel inched back down between her knees. He dug the tip into the soft flesh around one. Enough to make a point, but not break skin. “First, I want to make sure that you can take directions.”

Without needing to be told, Amelia spread her legs. The knife continued to follow her knees until they were an uncomfortable distance apart.

Satisfied, the Chef placed the knife back on the counter and wound the timer. He stood up to remove his apron, leaving him in only a white tee and black dress pants.

“Next, I want to make sure that you are the right fit for this job.”

Amelia rolled her eyes at Oliver as he kneeled. Instinctively, her knees inched closer to each other, but Oliver took one in each of his hands before pulling them apart again. He kept a firm hold on them as he leaned into her.

“Open your mouth,” Oliver commanded, one hand staying on her leg while the other crept into her hair. Amelia pursed her lips as she went to ask what he was doing, but the Chef interjected before she could. “I won’t ask again.”

A blush crossed Amelia’s cheeks. Whether it was for disobeying or how she considered obeying the instructions, she wasn’t sure. She licked her lips, contemplating the request, before letting her lower jaw drop open.

“That will do for now,” Oliver offered with a sigh before pulling a linen cloth napkin down from the countertop. “No peeking.”

Amelia barely had a second to think as the Chef pulled the material around her eyes, tying a knot at the base of her skull. For several seconds too many, she was left blindfolded. “Okay, this is a little dramatic.”

The familiar grip on her skull returned, inching her head upwards. She could just barely see the kitchen’s dim lights from beneath the makeshift blindfold.

“You lost a turn for not following instructions.”

“I didn’t realize we were pl—”

The Critic’s words were cut off as Oliver took her jaw the hands not latched onto her head. He squeezed just enough to prop her mouth back open, but not hard enough to bruise.

She heard a cork pop open before a drop of liquid landed on her tongue. The burn spread like wildfire. She reached for the napkin at her eyes, but was met with a light slap to the cheek.

“Play fair or not at all.” Oliver’s voice was too light to be a threat. Amelia realized he was laughing. Not at her, but with her. As if he was simply happy to find someone who knew how to play his favorite game. “If you remove the napkin without permission, this is over. Do you want that?”

Amelia swallowed down the hot sauce before licking her lips and hesitantly shaking her head. She didn’t want to stop.

Within seconds, heat erupted across her tongue as Oliver shook another drop into her mouth. The Critic winced, but managed to keep her mouth open despite the tears welling in her eyes. “Swallow.”

Amelia immediately closed her mouth, the short-lived relief quickly evaporating as the spices raced down her throat. Oliver leaned down to her level. “What pepper was that?”

“How am I supposed to know?!” Amelia gasped.

“You’re a critic,” Oliver goaded, “I thought you knew everything.”

“You’re a prick,” Amelia spat, hoping he knew she didn’t mean it. On the contrary, it felt that she was finally playing along.

“Such a sharp tongue,” Oscar taunted from where he dabbed a spot of hot sauce on his index finger before pushing it against her tongue. “This should help.”

Amelia’s eyes welled with the heat, but she showed no signs of giving up, even as Oscar pressed deeper into her throat.

“Would you like to guess?” Oscar removed his finger, “or do you prefer to forfeit another turn?”

“Ghost,” The Critic coughed out. Her entire body shuddered when she heard the bottle pop open again, a rush of cold juxtaposing the heat that had spread across her skin.

“Not quite.” Oscar exuded faux sympathy as he wiped at her lips with a calloused thumb before bringing the vial to his own lips, pouring it onto his own tongue. He swirled it around like an expensive wine before leaning down to Amelia, pulling her jaw open, and spitting into her mouth.

“Swallow.” He kept his hand on her chin as she followed instructions, but this time to hold her jaw closed. When she finally swallowed, he asked again. “What’s your guess?”

The Critic’s brain had become foggy. The overwhelming rush of endorphins from the spices, pain, and humiliation clouding her judgement and any rational thought left. She spat out the name of the first pepper she could think of. “Habanero.”

“Getting colder.” Oscar jeered as the timer went off. “Unfortunately, you’re out of time.”

Amelia shook her head as if it’d help clear her brain. “What does that mean?”

The Chef took his time kneeling to her level to twist the lid back onto the hot sauce and remove the napkin from her eyes before speaking.

“Let me walk you home.”

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The Critic ordered her steak medium. The Chef made it rare.

“You don’t know what you want until you’ve tried it," Amelia mimicked, pulling her credit card from the black leather bag slung over the back of her chair. “That’s fucking bold.”

“It’s a nice change of pace,” Meredith rebutted, taking a photo of the receipt for the expense report. “The Chefs kiss our asses so often that it’s refreshing to see one so....”

“Arrogant?”

The culinary field wasn’t exactly known for raising the most hospitable professionals. Despite the profession itself being rooted in nurturing others, cooks tended to attack each meal with the vigor of a soldier on the front lines.

However, since the Critic and her colleagues could make or break careers overnight, the culinary tyrants typically made attempts at an out-of-shape smile or joke.

Not that they announced themselves. On the contrary, the food journalists attempted to stay anonymous. Between their late Wednesday night reservation to the multiple dishes no two women could finish alone, however, restaurant staff typically sniffed them out before the main courses were decided upon.

From there, it was typically an evening of being tended to like royalty. As much as Amelia hated to admit it, the Chef’s words annoyed her not because he was rude, but because he was right. She’d forgotten how to do things any way but her own.

Amelia took a swish of wine in hopes of cooling her temper. The rush of self-awareness cooling her senses. “I’m sorry. I’m being harsh.”

“Actually, I’m glad you’re finally letting off steam,” Meredith said in a way that Amelia knew she meant it. “I just wish you’d direct this fire at the man who deserves it rather than the one who just fed us the best baklava I’ve tasted in my life.”

“Fine, but…” Amelia sighed, still weaning herself off the tantrum. “The tirokafteri was a little too spicy.”

Meredith only smiled before plopping a mint into her mouth, sucking on it as she leaned onto her forearms as if to tell Amelia a secret. “You can’t handle a little heat?”

“Whose side are you on?” Amelia had been so focused on getting out of the restaurant that she hadn’t noticed how Meredith’s eyes widened, offering a slight shake of the head amidst her continued criticism. “I’m only saying that overwhelming the senses is not conducive to a pleasurable meal.”

“It sounds like you need to expand your horizons.”

The feeling of the Chef’s gravely voice at her back reverberated down Amelia’s spine. She turned to silently watch him place boxes of leftovers they hadn’t requested onto the table before turning back towards the kitchen.

Amelia and Meredith retreated to a bar across the street to unwind from the humiliating encounter. It’d taken two more glasses of wine before Amelia was able to find the same level of humor in the memory as her colleague had.

“He was going to know our thoughts anyway, right?” Amelia continued, beating the dead horse until it was minced enough to make a dish out of.

“Right. Even though we probably would have left out the personal effects you lightly spattered in your verbal assault.”

The Critic pressed her face into the palms of her hands, elbows resting on the bartop before her empty wine glass. “I can never show my face on this block again.”

“The restaurants here are pretentious anyway.” Meredith turned toward the bartender. “You heard me! Pretentious!”

The bartender simply nodded before handing them each a glass of water. Amelia was grateful to her friend for giving her something to cringe about the next morning that wasn’t her own behavior. They’d be banned from this neighborhood together.

“My car is here.” Meredith looked down at her phone, the Uber notification lighting up the screen. “Are you okay if I head out?”

Amelia nodded before stepping down from the barstool and following her friend to the busy city street. With a hug, Meredith dipped into her ride share, leaving Amelia to wait for her own on the corner. She’d raised her face to the night sky, trying to visualize the stars permanently hidden by the city’s lights, when she heard a door slam shut from across the street. No… not shut.

The black door of the Chef’s restaurant had been thrown open. The solid, steel surface had carelessly struck the building’s vintage brick. Drunken passersby stopped to look into the restaurants as they stumbled toward their next destination.

Peeking into the restaurant’s lobby, Amelia was surprised to see it empty. The hostess table and dining room had been tidied up and readied for the next day’s guests. The only sign anyone was there at all was the steam barreling out from the kitchen.

Like a proverbial moth to a literal flame, the Critic walked toward it.

Amelia wrapped her oversized blazer closer to her body before entering the kitchen to find the Chef alone. Facing away from her, his manic movements danced across the pots and pans on the stove before him. He only paused for a swig of red wine straight from the bottle.

Every sober sense yelled at her to leave. Every drunken one insisted that she stay.

“Should you be drinking?”

The words escaped Amelia’s lips before she was fully convinced she wanted to say them. The look of shock etched onto the Critic’s face when he whirled toward her quickly dissolved into something more playful. Lazily leaning against the counter, his expression gave way to a curious lightness for the first time that evening as he brought the bottle to his lips for a long moment.

“Always critiquing,” the Chef tsked as he used his black apron to wipe the drop of wine that had escaped his lips. He did not attempt to hide his glazed eyes as he pulled two wine glasses from the cabinet and split the rest of the red wine between them. “Oliver.”

“Amelia,” the Critic offered as she took the glass as the Chef — Oliver — turned back toward the burners.

“Drink,” Oliver tossed over his shoulder, as he rummaged through a drawer beside his work station, pocketing a small object before turning back towards Amelia.

Amelia moved forward in an attempt to see what he was cooking, only stopping when Oliver turned toward her.

“Is it too spicy for you?” Oliver mocked, pointing at Amelia’s untouched glass of wine. She took a hesitant sip in response before placing it on the counter.

“That was unprofessional.” Amelia squeezed her eyes shut as if she could physically push the memory from her brain. “Everything else was incredible. I’m just a little sensitive to…”

“Arrogance?”

Amelia genuinely wondered if she should leave the city. As if this were a sign to careers, homes, and lives altogether. “You heard that?”

“I heard that.” Oliver nodded. Wiping his hands on his apron, he set the heat to simmer before turning towards her, leaning against the stove. “I used to work with your… ex?”

“Of course you did,” Amelia paled upon realizing how an awkward situation only dipped deeper into planning her grand escape. “Well, you can add this to the list of stupid things I’ve done or said to bond over. I’m sure he’s told you plenty already.”

“He didn’t speak of you at all, actually.” She wasn’t prepared for the sting. “Which is why I didn’t feel guilty letting my thoughts wander every time you visited the restaurant.”

Oliver’s words washed over her like a soothing balm sent to heal the initial burn, leaving her speechless.

“More,” Oliver’s lips turned upward into a smirk, tongue running across his teeth as he picked up the glass and handed it to her.

Instinctively, she grabbed it from him and took a sip of the thick cabernet before setting it on the marble top once more.

“Did I say you could stop?” Oliver leaned into her, picking up the glass from where she’d discarded it once more. Instead of handing it to her, however, he raised it so that the rim was resting on her lips. “The least you could do in my kitchen is follow instructions.”

Amelia’s face flushed as she took the glass, tipping it just slightly. As she began to pull it from her mouth, Oliver’s fingers — still at the glass’s base — held it to her lips.

Another light tsk. Enough for Amelia to take another sip, then another, and another. She waited for Oliver to remove his fingers, but he didn’t. On the contrary, he tilted it so she had to lean her head back further. The last bits of wine in the glass spilling onto her as she choked. Satisfied, Oliver took the glass and set it on the counter as Amelia grabbed a paper towel to wipe the spill from where it ran down her chin and across her cream top.

“Before that hits, you need to make a decision.” Oliver scanned the length of her body from where she continued to pat at her face. The smirk hadn’t left his face since they’d begun playing this game as if some karmic power was reminding her that first impressions are often entirely wrong. “I can call you a cab, and you can go home to write whatever ostentatious piece you want about me or… You can stay and try a new recipe.”

Amelia pretended to check the gold watch beneath her blazer, gently shaking her head to clear her head, unsure if she was brave enough to agree to what she knew she wanted. As if reading her mind, Oliver placed a thumb on her lip, guiding her mouth ajar. “Wider.”

She didn’t resist.

“You can be a good listener.”