Just Desserts Read online

  “Pardon?” he asked, taken off guard.

  She tilted her head, her dark eyes glinting in the low light. “You look like you could use something sweet.”

  She wasn’t his normal type. The lush curves were not something he went for—model skinny, not voluptuous being his thing. But her smile was stunning, like stop you in your tracks beautiful, and the oozing confidence already had me transfixed for him.

  “Yeah, okay,” he answered, clearly dazed.

  “Hello there, friends,” she greeted us. “I’m Sanaa.”

  “Boone.” I held out my hand and she took it instantly, her grip warm and firm.

  “Pleasure,” she said, before moving her attention to Elaine.

  The women did the thing they do where Sanaa complimented Elaine’s earrings and Elaine her dress. But it was genuine, and Elaine was nodding after the exchange like she could imagine them being friends. It was nice, and then the stranger whisked our friend away. Ten minutes later, Sergio called and asked us to meet him for a really late dinner out. I wasn’t up for it, but I put Elaine in a cab to send her to her husband just two blocks down the street.

  On my way home, I got a call from Scott and I was so surprised I almost didn’t answer.

  “Hey,” I rumbled over the phone. “I thought you were dead.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he sighed, “and I feel like a douche about disappearing, so I’m calling to see if you wanted to have dinner with me and some of Danny’s friends tomorrow.”

  I cleared my throat. “Monday’s your only night off. You sure you wanna spend it cooking?”

  “Absolutely,” he told me. “Let’s say eight?”

  “Can I bring a date?”

  “What?” he gasped.

  My fist pump probably looked odd to anyone walking by, but I was deliriously happy. His shock was a very good sign.

  “But I’m trying to set you up with one of Danny’s friends!” He was indignant.

  Well, shit.

  “Boone?”

  “Count me out. I can find my own dates.”

  “Oh, come on, please,” he begged. “I talked you up while we had drinks tonight, and if you don’t show, Justin will think I’m a flake, and I’m trying really hard to impress Danny’s friends.”

  “I—”

  “I told him how hot you are—and Danny agreed, by the way,” he said playfully. “I wasn’t all that crazy about that, but since it’s true and all, I guess that’s okay.”

  “Your boyfriend thinks I’m hot?”

  “He doesn’t like me to call him my boyfriend. He thinks that word is far too high school for grownups.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t do that, don’t psychoanalyze everything. Just let it go.”

  “Sure.”

  “That was not a sincere ‘sure,’ that was a patronizing ‘sure,’ like ‘whatever you say, dick.’”

  I snorted out a laugh.

  “Please just show up,” he said, chuckling in spite of himself. “Justin’s thinking of getting a tattoo, and I wanted him to see all of yours and you can tell him how long it took.”

  “I’m getting naked in front of people now?”

  “It’s a little of your chest and your arms and your back. You don’t have to get naked, though, gimme a break, Boone, have you ever met a gay man who didn’t want you to take your clothes off?”

  I had, actually, yes.

  “You’re smart and beautiful and good with your hands and you’re rich on top of it.”

  “Not rich,” I grumbled. Comfortable, yes; rich, no.

  “Please, baby.”

  Baby?

  “You want me to get down on my knees?”

  “If you’re offering,” I said, trying really hard to sound like I was teasing. “Then, yeah.”

  He passed judgment on me. “Perv. Just stop giving me crap. I’m making a new recipe I found in one of the cookbooks you got me.”

  I was so lost. “What’re you talking about?”

  “The cookbooks,” he reiterated. “You know, the ones that came with the antique stove.”

  “There were cookbooks in it?”

  “Like you didn’t know,” he scoffed. “They were in the crate that was delivered the following day.”

  Crate?

  “You must have bought the stove at auction, huh? I think the books were sold with the stove. Same lot number.”

  I had no idea where Eiyad had gotten what I’d asked for.

  “You know, some of the cookbooks are from the early nineteen hundreds, and they’re probably worth a mint.”

  I would have to tell Eiyad and get him to charge me for them. “Great.”

  “One of them has incantations in it about cleansing a house, tricks for growing a good herbal garden, and not only the phases of the moon but the names of different ones.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “No, seriously, it’s really cool.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  “Boone,” he groaned.

  “Sorry.”

  “The one I’m going to start cooking out of is old too. It has this ancient leather binding that’s falling apart, so I’m being super careful with it. There are a few Xeroxed pages stuffed in where you can see the original got wet, or something. So whoever it was didn’t want to make notes on the parchment, but highlighted on the copy. That’s awesome that different people went to so much trouble.”

  “How do you know it’s not the same person?”

  “The writing isn’t the same.”

  “So the original is a printed book? I’m confused.”

  “No, it’s written out in longhand.”

  “Handwritten?” I grimaced because thinking about some piece of crap book copied on some ancient machine at the library was enough to give me hives. His cookbooks should be pristine—he deserved a beautiful library. “Throw it out.”

  “No! Are you kidding? There’s great stuff in here!”

  I wasn’t convinced.

  “The book is called Recipes for the Heart: Mystical Meals and Dangerous Desserts.”

  “That sounds lame.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It sounds wonderful.”

  I grunted.

  “God, you’re horrible. What kind of romantic are you?”

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “No, wait, listen,” he ordered. “Do you know the only author listed here is Granny B? How fun is that?”

  “Oh so fun.”

  “I’m not missing the sarcasm there, Boone.”

  “Will you please just let me—”

  “You should see some of these recipes… like mushroom soup for comfort, or applesauce cake for rainy afternoons… they’re really sweet.”

  “Why would mushroom soup be sweet?”

  “Not taste sweet, you ass, sweet like romantic.”

  “Oh, okay.” Only a chef would get a hard-on for a recipe.

  “I’m going to make chocolate mousse for sorting.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what this one’s called: Chocolate Mousse for sorting. What kind of sorting do you think it is?”

  “How would I know?”

  “I mean, sorting things out or sorting what… it has to be that, don’t you think?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know, it’s funny, but the recipe only makes two servings.”

  “Why do I care about this?”

  “Because how cute would that be for the restaurant? I told you I needed a signature dish, maybe a fantastic dessert would be just the thing.”

  “Sure.”

  “And it could be under the heading ‘For Lovers’ or something like that,” he waxed on, clearly not listening to me. “So I’d make this dessert that you have to share with someone.”

  “Yeah, that’s not limiting at all.”

  “God, you’re horrible tonight.”

  “Not just tonight,” I assured him.

  He growled. “Well, whatever, you’re gonna try it tomorrow.” He finished like i
t was a done deal and I had agreed.

  “Why?”

  “Were you listening? I need a signature dessert for the restaurant.”

  I grunted. “Okay, but if it only makes two servings, how are you making it tomorrow for four people?”

  “Six.”

  “Six?”

  “Yeah. Danny, me, you, Justin and Danny’s friends Tate and Phillip,” Scott finished happily. “It’ll be great.”

  It would not be great. “I’m bringing Elaine.”

  “No.”

  “And Sergio.”

  “No. Just you. You don’t need any backup; I’m your best friend. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you’re around so much,” I retorted, unable to keep the bitterness of being ignored for three weeks out of my voice.

  “Stop.”

  “Question.”

  He sighed loudly.

  “If the recipe only makes enough for two, how are we all having it?”

  “I’m tripling the recipe, of course.”

  “Why? Just make it for you and Danny one night.”

  “No, I wanna try it out.”

  “Fine, but why do you wanna have just one dessert, anyway?”

  “No, you’re missing the point. I’ll still have lots, but one that’s the specialty of the house. All the best restaurants have them.”

  “Who says?”

  “You’re just being difficult,” he assured me, annoyed. “And everybody knows that’s how it’s done.”

  “Let me guess. Is everyone just Danny?”

  “No,” he said, sounding defensive.

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t do that.”

  I exhaled sharply. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea that I come over.”

  “Just—please.”

  What could I say to get out of it?

  “Boone.”

  “Fine, I give up.”

  “Good,” he said smugly, chuckling.

  “Should I bring wine?”

  “No, I’ve got that covered.”

  “What are you making?”

  “Fish.”

  “What kind?”

  “Don’t worry about it. You like everything I make.”

  It was true, I did.

  “Thank you for agreeing to come, baby.”

  Baby. I was such an idiot.

  COMPARED TO my place, Scott owned and lived in a shoebox. His third-story one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment was nice; it was just tiny. He lived on Dumaine between Chartres and Bourbon, and there was no possibility, ever, of finding a parking spot, which was why I walked everywhere I could. I didn’t announce myself at the door that was open a crack, pushing it open instead.

  “It’s disgusting. You should throw it out before anyone gets here.”

  “I don’t understand. I followed the recipe.”

  “And it’s not pretty either, not that it matters.”

  “Hello,” I called out.

  “Crap,” Scott muttered as I came around the corner into the kitchen.

  I stopped dead in my tracks, because his outfit had me floored.

  “Hi,” he said far too cheerfully.

  His skinny chinos, rolled up above his ankles, were a muted orange melon, his button-down dress shirt was pink, and the cashmere sweater tied loosely around his shoulders was a dark mustard color that matched the driving loafers on his feet that I didn’t remember him ever wearing before. I had no idea that anyone dressed that preppy outside of college. His always messy tousled wavy hair was now shorn down to a layered side comb, and the rings, beaded and silver bracelets, were new.

  “Don’t say anything,” he warned.

  What could I say?

  “What’s wrong?” Daniel asked.

  “Nothing,” I answered.

  “Nothing,” Scott assured him, walking to the sink with a bowl of what I assumed was mousse. “You should go downstairs and direct your friends where to park.”

  “Yes, dear,” he said softly, leaning in to give Scott a quick kiss on the cheek before walking over to me. “Good to see you.”

  “And you,” I lied, taking his hand, noticing the lingering smell in the apartment. “God, what is that?”

  Daniel snickered. “I think it’s the horrible mousse Scoot just made.”

  Scoot? “No,” I disagreed, walking over to the sink, pushing by Scott to lean down over it. “That smells like food rotting in there, or mold or something.”

  “I told you.” Daniel chuckled as he went around the corner. “Your place smells bad, Scoot.”

  “Just go already,” he teased.

  Once the door was closed, I rounded on him.

  “Don’t,” he warned again.

  “What the fuck are you wearing?”

  “I know!” he yelled.

  “And who the fuck is Scoot?”

  “I know!” he yelled louder, slamming the bowl down on the counter and charging across the room to stand at the window.

  I leaned on the counter, arms crossed, ankles crossed, watching him. Almost instantly, I smelled lemons, followed by something….

  “What is that? Clover?”

  He glanced over at me. “Could be.”

  I smiled wide. “She likes me.”

  His groan was loud. “Yes, we’ve already established that.”

  The entire apartment was suffused with verbena and a hint of lavender. “Oh, I think she missed me.”

  He shook his head as I dragged my finger through the top of the mousse. It was light and airy, not cuttable like some, more the consistency of pudding. The first taste was good, the second better, but everything he made was. I would have been surprised if it wasn’t. When I opened the drawer to get out a spoon, he heard me.

  “No, don’t eat that. It’s horrible.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I asked, putting a heaping tablespoon into my mouth. “It’s fantastic. You have any Cool Whip?”

  He hurried over, stopped beside me, and took a spoonful of the mousse. “It’s—” he began but then suddenly stopped, his eyes opening wide. “Fuck.”

  “What?” I asked, taking the spoon back so I could eat some more.

  “I swear to God, it didn’t taste like that a minute ago.”

  I grinned at him.

  “No, I’m serious.”

  “Maybe it’s your spectral friend,” I said playfully.

  He shook his head. “I have never had that happen before, and I mean, they told me when I moved in about the weird smell thing and the lights, but changing the taste of food?”

  “Ass huh.”

  “Stop talking with your mouth full,” he scolded, taking the spoon away so I couldn’t shovel any more into me. “What did you say?”

  “I said ‘ask her.’”

  “You ask her,” he said softly, leaning closer to me, his shoulder bumping mine.

  I rolled my eyes before looking over to the corner of the living room at the picture of a beautiful African-American woman in a high-necked Victorian gown. “Man, Florence, you were hot.”

  The lights dimmed in the kitchen for a second and then returned to normal.

  “So, Flo,” I crooned, straightening up. “Are you messing with Scoot’s mousse?”

  Nothing.

  I glanced over at my friend before whispering, “I don’t think she knows who Scoot is either.”

  He groaned loudly.

  “Okay,” I said, addressing her again. “Are you messing with Scott’s food?”

  One flicker of the lights.

  I pivoted back to lean down next to him. “Yeah, you’re right, it ain’t her. You must’ve just tasted something else really sweet before you tried it. Did you drink a soda?”

  He shook his head, and I noticed how soft his eyes were, the light gray absolutely melting.

  “What?”

  “You believe in ghosts.”

  “Yeah, so? You do too.”

  “Yes, but Danny doesn’t. He says that the lights going off and on i
s shorts in the wiring. And that the bad smells are from groundwater seeping into the pipes, and that when things go missing that it’s just me misplacing them.”

  I laughed. “She’s moving stuff?”

  “God,” he grumbled, trying to take my spoon. “Yes.”

  “Get your own,” I groused, holding it out of his reach.

  He took a step back and opened his arms. “Look at me.”

  I scoffed.

  “I’m dressed like a tool.”

  “A color-blind tool,” I corrected.

  “Fuck.”

  “A preppy tool,” I continued.

  “You can stop now.”

  “But you’re still pretty underneath all that.”

  “Pretty?” he asked hopefully.

  Fuck it. “Yeah, come on, ya know ya are.”

  His eyes met mine, and I wanted to stay right there and stare into them and watch as they darkened, and not move and just admire him, but I heard voices at the door and laughter before four men spilled around the corner.

  “Honey, I’m home,” Daniel announced loudly, jokingly, and we were engulfed by other people who wanted our attention.

  It was not lost on me that the mold smell was back.

  Chapter 4

  I HAD to stop being such a judgmental prick. Tate and Phillip were friends of Daniel’s and they’d been together for seven years. Justin Kramer—who was there to meet me, no way to miss that—was an oncologist who worked with Daniel at the hospital. They went to Harvard Medical School together, were both from very wealthy families, and were, as far as I could tell, both terribly grounded and all-around nice guys.

  When Daniel talked about Scott’s food, it was with the same loving appreciation I normally piled on myself, and Justin chimed in quickly to compliment a meal he’d had the previous weekend that Scott was trying to tell everyone had been piss-poor. Tate and Phillip were just as generous with their praise and then sat, mesmerized, as my best friend told them all about the ghost who haunted his apartment.

  “Oh, that’s fabulous,” Tate was quick to say, and he scolded Daniel for being a doubting Thomas. “As if you know everything, Doctor.”

  “Come on,” Daniel said with a laugh as I started clearing the table. “You and I both know there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

  “Don’t make me give you the line from Hamlet to Horatio.”