Chef's Kiss

Kindred Spirits

Nick

I'd woken up to an empty house that morning, but the smell of something sweet had wafted into my room as I slept, and it was an incredible way to wake up.

I made my way to the kitchen in the silence of the house and found strawberry waffles on a plate, waiting for me with a little note beside them reading 'Nicolas' in pretty, girly handwriting. Cute.

I think I finished those waffles in 2 and a half minutes flat, they were so fucking good. I was finishing the last piece of bacon and scrolling through my phone when the doorbell rang. I headed down the stairs and swung the door open to find Violet, a good 4 or 5 grocery bags in her hands and a sweet smile on her face.

"Good morning, chef," I greeted her warmly. When we'd met the day before, she'd instantly rubbed me the right way. She was observant, like me, and I saw it in her immediately. She also didn't mind being in charge and that's what I'd wanted when I'd asked the agency to help us find a cook.

"Good morning, sleepy head," she replied with a smile of her own. I stepped aside to let her in, taking the bags from her and carrying them up the stairs. I heard her following me up and brought them over to the counter. "How did you sleep?" She asked.

"Oh my god, I was fucking exhausted last night, I think I slept for like 13 hours. Felt like I was in a god damn coma," I ranted as we started unpacking the bags together.

"You must've woken up starving," she noted.

"I did. Those waffles were a fucking godsend," I said by way of thanks. She just smiled back sweetly.

"Glad you liked them. I'm gunna start prepping dinner now. Lunch won't take me that long but dinner's gunna take more time. And you don't have to help me unpack the bags, you know. That's what you pay me to do," she pointed out. Not in a sassy way. She was incredibly good at being up front without being harsh.

"I know," I acknowledged, unpacking the last of what she'd bought. "It just feels wrong having you do that in my own house." And that was the truth. I knew it was her job, but she was working in my house. It just didn't feel right.

She laughed lightly then and placed her hand on my arm for a beat.

"It's really okay," she assured me warmly, then headed over to the cabinets. "Go do your thing, no need to babysit me. I love this, this is my work."

I nodded at that and heard her words. "Okay," I conceded. "I'm gunna do a little vaccuming and clean this fucking pigsty up a bit. Is that okay with you?"

I was completely taken aback as she laughed out loud at that.

"Oh my god, Nicolas, you're fucking sweet, aren't you?" She tilted her head at me as she pulled out a few carrots and other vegetables, along with the peeler and the trash bin.

"What?" I laughed nervously. "What did I say?"

"This is your house, honey. I'm a visitor here. This is your domain. You're in charge. And you don't have to feel like a tyrant or a dictator for it..." Her words didn't exactly make me feel any better but then she went on. "You know when people make the joke that the secret ingredient in their recipe is love?"

"Yes. But I've also heard it's blood, sweat and tears," I countered by way of playfulness.

"Oh I put plenty of that into my work," she played along. "But nothing ever tastes as good as love. It sounds fucking cheesy," she recognized as she began to work. "But it's the truth. And if I feel like you're at home while I'm here, then I'll feel like I'm at home while I'm here. If I can become a part of the fabric of this house, see the love between your family and feel at ease in it, it will find its way into the food. No one really teaches you that, but being comfortable in a kitchen is how good food is made. It's how all good things are made. And as much as this is your kitchen, it kind of needs to become mine too. Know what I mean?" She asked, tilting her head and glancing up at me for a moment.

I took that in.

"That was a beautiful speech," I commented and she laughed.

"Do you ever read?" She asked me suddenly.

"Oh god, fuck no, I hate reading," I admitted. "Why?"

She continued to smile as she pulled out the cutting board.

"I don't know. There's something about you. It's like a...goes to the bookstore with a tote bag, wears tortoise shell glasses, goes to book signings kind of vibes..." she said, assessing me.

"I kind of love that,"  I had to smile at her assessment. "Like an academic, goes to class, drinks Americanos kind of thing?"

"I was thinking more like white mochas with cinnamon on top?" She countered.

"Yeeees," I agreed, appreciating her creativity. "That's beautiful, I wonder if other people see me that way," I wondered, leaning on the counter and resting my chin in my palm.

"I'm sure they do," she assured me, not looking up. Her words were so gentle. There was something about her that was incredibly confident. She believed in what she said, that much was obvious. We were strangers to each other, yet it felt like we'd known each other much longer.

"You're different, huh?" I assessed her. She glanced back up at me.

"Nah," she denied. She pulled off her hoodie then, clearly getting into her work, and folded it up before placing it aside. As she reached out to put the hoodie down I noticed her wrist.

"Oh wow," I exclaimed, pointing. "Matt has that exact same tattoo." A realistic bumble bee, smaller than his, on the inside of her wrist. "That's crazy."

"Yeah, I noticed that this morning too," she replied, glancing at her wrist. "Kindred spirits, maybe?"

"Hmm, maybe," I wondered. They didn't seem alike to me at all, but who knew really? "I'm gunna put on some music while I clean. Okay with you?"

"Oh fuck yeah," she replied with a smile.

"Love iiiiiiit," I said, turning from the kitchen and heading back to my room for my speaker.