The Connoisseurs Part 4 | A Romantic Short Story
Tensions run high for a high-strung critic with a persecution complex and a heated chef with a knife to grind. A LVNDR Romantic Short Story. 18+
The Critic watched over the Chef’s shoulder as he reached behind him to push the elevator button to the fortieth floor. Oliver’s other hand rested on the space between Amelia’s collarbones, gently pushing her back into the mirrored wall of the elevator.
“Will you show up to your reservation, now that I’m an award-winning chef?” Oliver grinned against Amelia’s lips. She matched the curve of his smile with her own before pushing him away as the door opened.
They parted just long enough to stumble from the elevator to the apartment door ten steps down the hall. Drunk on tangible and intangible substances, Oliver unlocked his apartment before taking Amelia’s hand and pulling her across the threshold.
“So this is where the magic happens,” Amelia teased as Oliver led them deeper into the space. The entryway was decorated with pictures of professional cooks with both their signature dish and literal signature sitting in the frame together. Some she recognized, some she didn’t. A play on the tradition of decades-old restaurants in big cities plastering celebrity faces on their walls.
“I’m developing a new recipe,” Oliver’s eyes flashed as he brought Amelia in closer to him, wrapping her flush against his chest as he turned to walk her backwards into the kitchen. “A dessert.”
“Oh, is that why I’m here?” It was meant as a joke, but grew uncertain when Oliver turned on the oven. Amelia didn’t typically like surprises, but trusted she’d be fed one way or another.
“Of course,” Oliver responded simply, lifting Amelia to sit on the counter before turning away from her. The cityscape beyond the floor to cieling windows was bright in comparison to the dimly lit kitchen. It was just bright enough for her to make out a few words on the post-it notes haphazardly pinned to the fridge with simple, black magnets. Combinations of spices and cooking temperatures next to cuts of meat. Strung together in some makeshift storyboard.
Amelia thought of the days Oliver must have sat in the kitchen alone, playing with flavor profiles until he found one worth adding to the fridge. Molding recipes in hopes that the right dish matched with the right taste buds.
That’s why Amelia loved being a food journalist. She loved getting to witness the result and tell its story in a way that brought the right people to the table.
When Oliver turned around from where he’d been perusing various drawers and cabinets, she was surprised to see that he only held a pen. He leaned back into her, the entire lower half of his face sneaking towards the left in a devious smirk.
“Kiss me.”
Desperate to curb a craving, the Critic rolled her eyes before leaning in to offer a teasing kiss. A slow graze that left tingles in its wake as if each nerve was clamoring for more time.
The Chef broke away, nodding as he clicked the pen and wrote a single word on his hands. Espresso.
“What are you doing?” Amelia took his hands, the laughter bubbling out of her like shaken champagne. Oliver’s face went serious, as if he were studying the way her laugh sounded before writing another word on his hand.
Grabbing his wrist, Amelia angled it to read what he’d written across his palm. Sugar.
Oliver tapped his pen against her chest before lightly dragging it across the fabric of her dress down her sternum to rest just below her belly button. He tapped it a few times before setting it onto the counter, freeing his hands to hold onto her hips as his lips met her neck.
Amelia let her head sink backwards as the Chef draped kisses across her collarbone. He stopped where skin met cloth, sighing as if he’d just realized it was there. Oliver rose to lock eyes with the Critic as he reached around her neck to untangle the elaborate bow, letting it cascade around her waist.
With her torso now entirely bare, Oliver dipped back towards her chest as if never interrupted. Amelia gripped his hair in her fingers while his dug deeper into the fabric around her hips, desperately clawing at it.
Oliver’s mouth trailed downwards, the skin beneath his lips becoming more sensitive before finally reaching the sharpest peaks of Amelia’s breast. He dragged his tongue across them, making her gasp.
He pulled back. Grabbing the pen again. Berries.
“Are you going to be doing that the whole time?” Amelia was still playing with his hair, running each tendril through her fingertips as she watched him study her.
He wrote down another word before tossing the pen into the sink. Amelia got a glance at the ink-stained hand just before it returned to her waist. Spice.
“Lay down,” Oliver’s voice was thick as he coaxed Amelia onto her back before working her dress down her thighs until it gathered onto the floor at his feet. Oliver took his time working his way back up her body, letting his fingertips play with the inside of her legs before pushing them apart.
With the clean snap of scissors on lace, she was completely naked. Her skin flushed against the cool marble of the kitchen island. Without hesitation, Oliver dipped toward her center. The light kisses from earlier finding a new, more sensitive destination.
Dizzy, Amelia clawed the counter as Oliver explored. Each moment torturously slow as if he was truly curating a flavor profile. She lifted her hips against him as he held her knees tight where they hinged against the counter. So sensitive now, she didn’t know if she wished for the sensation to simmer or flare.
The decision was made for her as Oliver covered his body with hers. One hand taking over the space where his mouth had been, while the other reached up to wrap around her throat. He sank his face into her hair.
Her game with Oliver had flipped on its head quicker than she was able to wrap her own around. An appetizer that had turned past, presents, and futures mingling into a full-course meal.
Her body shuddered as if to block out the racing thoughts and focus solely on how her body had begun to feel like a kettle whose steam was only beginning to escape. Oliver nipped at her ear as he relentlessly pressed down onto her nerves, offering reassuring shushes into her hair until she unwound.
Oliver pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead before helping her down from the counter, washing his hands, and turning towards the fridge to pull out the ingredients smudged against his palm.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.”