Spiral of Bliss 01 Arouse (19 page)

His
first
wife. The word still stings like a thistle. That makes me his second wife.

What was she like? Did he make her laugh? What kind of movies did they watch? How was the sex? What did they do? Where did they travel? Did he know how she liked her coffee? Could she cook?

I want answers to everything, not because I care about Helen but because it has so much to do with Dean. Because it’s all such a part of him, his history, his life.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Dean, I—”

He turns away toward the opposite wall. “Liv, I thought we were done with this.”

A bubble of anger bursts inside my head.

“You’re never
done with
a rough past, Dean,” I say, pushing to sit up. “You think you can just tell me about it and it’ll go away? That you make this big revelation and suddenly everything is back to normal with us?”

His back muscles tense. He doesn’t respond.

“We need to go to counseling again, Dean,” I say.

“I’m not discussing my first marriage with a damned counselor.”

My first marriage.

Even he still thinks of it as his first. When we got married, when we said,
“I do…,”
he’d done it all before. And I had no idea.

A wave of exhaustion slams against me. I roll over and stare at the ceiling. I don’t even have the wherewithal to battle all the old emotions that I hate—fear, inadequacy, anxiety. Loneliness.

Everything that I’d felt before I met Dean. Everything I thought we’d replaced with love and trust. I can feel it all breaking through again now, and I don’t know what to do.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

October 19

make a trip out of town this afternoon. We have a new exhibition opening at the museum, and we’ve ordered the signage and wall-text from a printer in downtown Forest Grove.

I volunteered to pick up the completed order. I tried to tell myself I was being helpful, that the trip had nothing to do with the fact that Tyler Wilkes’s restaurant is four blocks from the print shop.

After picking up the order, I store the materials in the trunk of my car. Then I walk that four blocks to Julienne. It’s a chilly, sunny afternoon, dried leaves brushing the sidewalks, people heading in and out of the cafés and shops.

I’m nervous, unable to shake the feeling that I’m doing something wrong. I stop outside Julienne and pull my cell phone from my satchel.

“Dean?”

“Hey. Where are you?”

“Forest Grove. I had to pick up some signs for a new exhibit.”

“Oh.” There’s some rustling of papers on the other end. “Careful you don’t hit rush hour.”

“I will… um, that’s why I’m calling. I’ll probably be late.”

“Yeah, me too. Ton of work to do, then a football game.”

“Okay. I’ll see you this evening, then.”

“Drive safe.”

I snap the phone shut and shove it back into my satchel. I stare at the calligraphic writing on the window of the restaurant. Then I turn and start walking away.

“Liv?”

Shit.

I turn. Tyler is standing at the open door, looking at me quizzically. He’s wearing his chef’s jacket. He gives me a tentative smile.

“Thought that was you. What are you doing here?”

“I was… I had to run an errand at a print shop down the street.”

He holds the door open. “Come on in. I hope you weren’t going to leave without stopping by.”

I make a show of pushing back my coat cuff to look at my watch. “Actually, it’s getting late and—”

“Come on.” He pushes the door open farther. “We close from three to five to prep for dinner, so I can show you around.”

“I don’t want to interrupt your work.”

“You won’t.” He tilts his head toward the inside. “I did say you could stop by anytime.”

Something knots in my stomach, but I walk past him into the restaurant. The interior is elegant, quiet, with perhaps forty linen-draped tables and booths, soft lighting, leather seats. Muted paintings line the walls beneath ivory-colored crown molding. A few servers walk around setting the tables.

“It’s beautiful,” I say truthfully.

Tyler smiles. “Thanks. I like it. Come on back to the kitchen.”

The hum of voices and clank of pots and pans rises as we walk to the back of the restaurant. Several chefs bustle around, checking simmering pots, peeling potatoes, scaling various cuts of fish. They give me nods of greeting when Tyler introduces me, then return to their tasks.

“We change the menu according to what’s available or in season,” Tyler explains. “Tonight we’ve added king salmon and grass-fed beef tenderloin.”

He hands me a menu. The food is impressive and mouthwatering, including seared scallops, wild mushroom salad, slow-roasted veal, and fresh apple tart.

“Sounds delicious.” I put the menu on the counter. “I’ll have to come here with Dean sometime.”

Saying my husband’s name aloud eases a little of my tension. Tyler studies me for a moment, then nods to a table near the kitchen.

“Sit down. You can sample some of what we’re serving.”

“I really can’t…”

“Come on, Liv. Aren’t you hungry?”

Well, yes, I’m hungry. I didn’t eat lunch, and it’s four in the afternoon, and I likely have a dinner of microwaved pizza in my near future.

I take off my coat and look at my watch again. “I can’t stay long.”

“It won’t take long.” He moves to pull out a chair at the table, then stops. “Wait a sec. I have another idea.”

He disappears into a backroom and returns with a chef’s jacket. He holds it out to me.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“Come on. I’ll show you how we make a few things.”

“Tyler, you don’t have to—”

Instead of arguing with me, he goes behind me and puts the jacket around my shoulders. “We’ll make the salmon so I can show you how to fillet it.”

He returns to the kitchen. I watch him for a second, then push my arms into the jacket sleeves and button it up. The name
Julienne
is embroidered on the lapel. I fish in my pocket for a rubber band and fasten my hair into a ponytail, then go to wash my hands.

This is fine. I’m not going to sit there while he cooks for me. I’m going to watch what he does and learn something. Exactly like in class, just a different venue. Totally fine.

I go to where Tyler is standing. There’s a whole salmon lying on the counter in front of him, and he patiently explains all the different parts, then demonstrates how to scale and cut a perfect fillet. His movements are so fluid it’s like he’s cutting through butter.

“Your turn.” He flips the salmon over and hands me the knife.

“I’ll destroy it.”

“Liv, stop thinking that everything you try will end up a disaster,” Tyler says. “Don’t saw at it. Keep the blade tipped toward the backbone.”

I have no idea how much a salmon like this costs, but I don’t want to be the reason Tyler’s unable to serve it. Nervous again, I make the first cut near the tail.

“Don’t go through the backbone. Tilt the blade.” He puts his hand on mine to guide it. His handling of the knife is far more confident than mine, and we slice the second smooth fillet from the fish. It’s a good feeling.

Tyler shows me how to remove the bones, then preps the fillet for sautéing with braised lentils. Another chef is working on a mustard, crème-fraiche sauce, and Tyler sends me over to him. Although the other chef is working fast, he doesn’t seem bothered by having to stop and explain the technique to me.

When I return to Tyler, he shows me how to season and sear scallops.

“The less you mess with food, the better it is,” he says, stepping aside and nodding for me to put the scallops in the hot pan. “Don’t put too many in, and don’t move them around until they’re ready to be turned.”

He doesn’t coach me when to flip them, but I’m very aware of him watching as I slide a spatula under the scallops. To my relief, they’re a lovely golden brown. I know from class that it’s easy to overcook scallops, so I take them from the pan about thirty seconds before I think they’re completely cooked.

Tyler hands me a clean dish and we plate the scallops with celery-root puree, fava beans, and arugula.

“Now go and eat,” he says, nodding to the table. “Scallops can’t wait or they get rubbery.”

By now my stomach is growling, so I sit down and eat. The scallops are excellent, crispy on the outside, soft and creamy on the inside. I finish them all just as Tyler brings me the perfectly cooked salmon and braised lentils, which are melt-in-your-mouth delicious.

He pulls out the chair across from me and sits.

“Not bad, Chef,” I remark, which of course is a vast understatement.

His grin tells me he knows that. “Glad you like it.”

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Your dad must be really proud of you.”

“He would be.” A shadow crosses his face. “He died a few years ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “I finally convinced my mom to sell the diner after he died. She’s living down in Florida now near my sister. I see them a couple of times a year. I’m thinking of opening a place down there someday.”

He looks at my empty plate and stands. “Hold on. One more thing I want you to try.”

A few minutes later, he returns with a warm, flourless chocolate torte adorned with raspberries and homemade coffee-bean ice cream.

“The ice cream is my favorite,” he says. “When it comes down to the basics, I’ll always pick good ice cream over anything else.”

He watches me as I eat the torte. I’m very conscious of his gaze.

“Tyler, this was amazing.” I lick the crumbs from my fork. “You didn’t have to take the time to show me so much, but I’m glad you did.”

“So am I. And I offered, remember? I was thinking we should come here as a class one afternoon. Like a field trip. So everyone can see how a restaurant kitchen runs.”

I look at him for a minute. His face is flushed from the heat of the stove, and his blond hair is ruffled. A few strands stick to his forehead. There’s a smear of chocolate on the front of his chef’s jacket.

Cute, indeed.

I pull on my coat and stand. “Thanks again. I won’t tell Charlotte I was here, though, because she’ll get jealous.”

“Charlotte doesn’t have a reason to be jealous.” He pauses. “Does she?”

“No.” I duck my head. “Of course not. I’ll, uh, see you in class.”

He walks me to the door. Before I leave, he puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Hey.”

I stop.

“Did it make your soul sparkle again?” he asks.

For some insane reason, my throat closes over. I can’t speak past the constriction. Instead I just nod and pull away from him. He lets me go.

“See you in class, Liv.”

I hurry outside and walk back to my car. It’s not until I take off my coat before getting into the driver’s seat that I realize I’m still wearing the chef’s jacket. I pull it off and stuff it underneath the seat, then head home.

I smell like olive oil, salmon, dill, chocolate. I need a shower.

My chest is tight, even though I did nothing wrong.

Did I?

At home, I drop all my things on the counter beside Dean’s keys and briefcase. The shower is running. I remember the time I’d tried to join him in the shower and encountered a locked door.

Now my chest is so tight it hurts.

I go into the bedroom. The bathroom door is open.

I fumble with the hem of my T-shirt and start to take it off, then stop. Instead I reach underneath it, unhook my bra, and toss it aside. I take off my skirt but leave my panties on.

Before I can think too much, I enter the bathroom. Steam coats the air, blurring the mirror and the shower door. The outline of Dean’s body is behind the glass, his arms raised to scrub his hair.

He turns at the sound of me opening the shower door. Water cascades down his chest. My eyes follow the rivulets down to his groin. He’s already half-erect. That alone makes my heart throb. I wonder again what he’s been thinking about, standing here naked with hot water pounding over his skin.

I’m your wife, Dean.

I don’t know if the reminder is meant for me or him. Water splashes through the open door onto me, dampening my T-shirt.

Dean’s gaze goes to my breasts. My nipples harden and tent the soft cotton. My belly starts to swirl with desire, and I reach up to rub my palm across my breasts.

Dean places one hand flat against the door and pushes it fully open.

“Get in here,” he orders.

The gruff tone of his voice pulses through me. I step inside. The water drenches me in seconds, plastering my shirt to my skin and outlining every curve. Dean closes the door hard enough to rattle the glass on its hinges, then he turns and hauls me against him.

I move my hand down to brush against his cock. “What were you thinking about?”“You.”