"Stop him!" Emma tried to yell, but the words came out a hoarse whisper, as all of her worst nightmares came to life before her very eyes. She watched helplessly as the server pushed his way through the swinging door and out of the kitchen, carrying the one dish that could make or break her entire career.
Glaring at Walsh's back, she cursed as he threw her a snarky little smile over his shoulder, untying his apron and tossing it on the ground before he slunk right out the back door. Fucking bastard.
She knew he was a jerk, had gotten a good enough grasp on who he really was to inspire her to break up with him almost a month ago, but she had no idea what a horrible person he truly was. Horrible enough to convince her that they could still be friends. Horrible enough to act like continuing to work together would be "no problem at all." Horrible enough to keep smiling that smug grin all the while he was planning her demise. God, she was an idiot.
Now he had done something to the dish that was most certainly being sent out to the food critic, and her dreams were swiftly coming crashing down around her. She was finally a head chef, finally in her own restaurant. It had taken years of paying her dues, pounding the pavement, scrounging and saving, and now it was all about to go down in flames. A poor rating (or no rating at all) in the Michelin guide could ruin her.
Not if she could help it. Springing back into action, she pounced on Walsh's station. "You, come here," she commanded the saucier standing by. "What did he put on that dish?"
The saucier was literally shaking in his boots as he clutched a towel tightly in his hands. "He used this, Ma'am," he said, pointing to a light red sauce. Emma tasted it and groaned loudly as the spicy flavor overwhelmed her. He had left her no choice.
Lifting a pot lid, she checked her appearance in the reflection, smoothing a few flyaways that had come out of her ponytail. Then she pulled her white jacket down tightly and steeled herself for what she was about to do.
Walking quickly, she pushed her way through the door and out into the hallway preceding the dining room, scanning the room as she attempted to find the table. She knew he was sitting at table 25, but in the heat of the moment, she was having trouble remembering which one that was. Not far ahead of her, she watched as Noel, her best server, walked towards a table on the far side of the room, one hand behind his back and the other elegantly holding up a platter carrying the plate in question.
There, it must be him, she thought, watching as a bald, rotund man about the age of sixty glanced up from the table to watch the server approach. But as Noel reached his table, he turned sharply, stopping at the next table over and smiling down at a very debonair gentleman dressed impeccably in a navy blue suit and placed the plate in front of him.
Well, shit. She was not expecting this - not the devilishly handsome fellow of around thirty years of age she saw before her, picking up his knife and fork and smiling up at Noel, revealing straight white teeth and a dimple in his cheek. His dark hair and manicured scruff made a stark contrast to the soft blue of his eyes, and Emma felt herself stop suddenly in her tracks, gasping softly. Food critics are not supposed to look like that. The whole situation was entirely unfair.
Noel passed her on his way to the kitchen, giving her a ridiculous expression that implied he found the gentleman extremely hot as he waved his hand in the air as if he'd just been burned. She smirked at him, shaking her head slightly as she fought to retain a profession stance.
Before she had time to consider the plethora of ways the universe seemed intent on screwing her over, she straightened her spine and continued her march towards him, determination and fierce pride fueling her steps. He looked up at her with an inquisitive face when she stopped in front of his table, and she noticed that his white shirt was unbuttoned a bit more than is considered proper, though she could hardly complain about the view of his coarse, dark chest hair it afforded her. He must be European.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you not to eat that," she said as quietly and firmly as possible, bending down so that she could meet his gaze head on, her hands clasped behind her back.
He was holding the fork in midair, halfway up to his mouth as his tongue swiped over his lower lip, a movement she found impossible to ignore. He seemed to notice her staring at his tongue, then he broke out into a wide grin as he slowly lowered his knife and fork.
"Ah, the Chef de Cuisine herself," he said, giving her a slight nod. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Swan?" His lilting English accent was complemented by the low timbre of his voice, and she blinked twice, momentarily entranced.
Emma straightened, humming in the back of her throat. "So you know who I am, yet I don't even know your name," she mused with a raise of her eyebrow. She silently kicked herself for sounding so flirtatious. Where did that come from?
Raising a cool eyebrow at her, he none-too-casually looked her over from head to toe while smiling provocatively, and she could feel his gaze searing a pathway down her body, making her shiver slightly. Seemingly satisfied, he held out his hand. When she placed hers in it, however, he didn't shake it but instead brought it up to his mouth, grazing his lips over her knuckles in the softest of kisses.
"Killian Jones, at your service," he said, adding in a wink for good measure. Emma Swan wasn't generally one to swoon, but she could certainly see a woman of lesser strength melting before this Jones fellow, the touch of his lips still tingling on the back of her hand moments later, as she pulled it away and back to being safely clasped behind her back.
"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones. I'm know this is a bit unorthodox, but I'm going to have to take that plate back to the have another sent out," she told him, grasping the side of the plate.
He was quick, however, and grabbed the other side of the plate before she could take it away. "And deprive me of the pleasure of your company, and my meal? Why, that's just bad form, Chef Swan." The tone in his voice was teasing, but Emma tensed nonetheless as he watched her intently. She felt like the entire restaurant was watching them, and a cold rush of fear ran up her spine as all the eyes in the room seemed to turn in their direction.
Laughing nervously, she refused to let go of the plate, holding her ground. "I'm terribly sorry, you see, this dish has the wrong sauce on it, and-"
"Ah, I see." His brow furrowed, and suddenly Emma was blurting something out, something desperate and terribly uncouth that she could only hope would salvage the situation.
"How about a private audience?" she asked, holding her breath and silently panicking. What in the hell did she just do?
(Earlier)
Killian Jones sauntered into Light Magic with an uncommon feeling of anticipation. His life was spent waltzing into some of the finest restaurants in the world, but for some reason this particular restaurant held exceptional allure.
Tink, his coworker, would argue it's because he had heard that Chef Swan was not only a spectacular cook, she was also a complete knock out. Killian would argue back that he'd been following her career for years and had never so much as seen a photo of the reclusive chef. The fact is, she'd often been a subject of workplace banter, because she had a habit of joining a restaurant when it was on the rocks and leaving it just when it was beginning to take off again. He had to admit, it intrigued him. Most chefs liked to rest on their laurels once they'd finally gotten a taste of success, but not Chef Swan. She was either very flighty - more so than her namesake - or she was genuinely interested in growing her career by amassing a broad wealth of culinary knowledge and an even broader palate.
That sort of tenacity was inspiring, to say the least. He could appreciate someone who had integrity and a solid work ethic. She had also learned how to cook the old-fashioned way - by working in a kitchen - and had received no formal training, something that earned her his respect. He himself had managed to overcome a difficult early life to rise to success and he could appreciate the effort it took when an expensive education wasn't just dropped in your lap like it was for some of the pompous idiots he'd encountered.
Of course (not that he would ever admit it) he was dying to get a look at her, having been regaled by tales of her great beauty. Some had even gone so far as to compare her to a princess. If she was truly as beautiful as had been rumored, then he was going to be very impressed by the total package, rare as it was to find brains, beauty, and grit.
So, it was with great anticipation that he sat in the dining room awaiting the arrival of his first course, napkin draped elegantly over his lap as he sipped on a glass of Reserve Pinot Gris. He perked up when he saw Noel, his waiter, walking toward him.
Smiling, he placed a large white plate in front of him. "Your first course, sir. Veal sweetbreads with chestnut cream sauce and roasted grapes."
"Thank you," he said, picking up his knife and fork. He was really looking forward to trying the chestnut cream sauce, which was supposed to be legendary, but as he looked down at the plate, he noticed that the sauce was red. Very peculiar, very peculiar indeed. Curious, he cut one of the sweetbreads in half and was bringing it to his mouth when a firm but feminine voice stopped him.
"I'm very sorry, sir, but I'm going to have to ask you not to eat that," she said, and he looked up into the face of a beautiful blonde angel, her green eyes full of fiery passion. Chef Swan in the flesh, so then the rumors were true. He smiled, full of intrigue and fascination. She was everything he had hoped she would be and more.
He noticed that she was staring at his mouth, and he had to admit it pleased him greatly. Her eyes darted away as if she'd been caught doing something naughty, and he wished he could reassure her that where his tongue was concerned, she was more than welcome to take her fill.
"Ah, the Chef de Cuisine herself," he said, giving her a slight nod. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Miss Swan?" He watched as her eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she blinked twice, looking charming as a rosy blush spread across her cheeks.
"So you know who I am, yet I don't even know your name," she mused with a raise of her eyebrow, and he knew he was a goner right then - hook, line, and sinker. He took the fact that she was flirting with him as a very good sign of his chances.
Looking her over from head to toe, he admired the fit of her formal white chef's jacket. It certainly didn't look that good on most of the chefs he encountered. Beneath it she wore tight black skinny jeans and black boots, and his eyebrow raised appreciatively at the way the material clung to her toned legs. She shivered slightly, and he immediately offered her his hand, taking hers and placing a soft kiss on her knuckles which he hoped would make an impression.
"Killian Jones, at your service," he said, adding in a wink for good measure. When he released her fingers, he felt a small twinge go through his hand all the way up his forearm, as if he'd hit his funny bone. He should be alarmed at the intensity of his reaction to this woman, but in a way, he could hardly say he was surprised. If he was mesmerized by her on paper, it only made sense for him to be even more captivated by the real thing.
"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Jones. I know this is a bit unorthodox, but I'm going to have to take that plate back to the have another sent out," she told him, grasping the side of the plate. Well, this was most unusual.
He was quick, however, and grabbed the other side of the plate before she could take it away. "And deprive me of the pleasure of your company, and my meal? Why, that's just bad form, Chef Swan." He tried to keep the tone in his voice was teasing, but saw her tense nonetheless as her eyes darted around the room. For some reason, he sensed there was a lot more to the story and he was suddenly dying to know what it was.
Laughing nervously, she refused to let go of the plate, holding her ground. "I'm terribly sorry, you see, this dish has the wrong sauce on it, and-" Her blush deepened, and he realized he was only embarrassing her. Obviously, she was just trying to collect the dish and get back to the kitchen, and he was shamelessly trying to keep her there as long as possible.
"Ah, I see." His brow furrowed, as disappointment and admittedly a small rush of shame washed over him. He was just a food critic after all, and here he'd gotten all these big ideas about meeting Chef Swan and starting...what? Some sort of torrid love affair? Or that she might somehow be his true love? He hung his head.
"How about a private audience?" she asked suddenly, and he glanced up to find her looking at him nervously. Well, perhaps he wasn't completely misjudging their interaction after all. Could it be that she felt the attraction too?
"A private audience? Is that customary treatment for all of your diners or are can I assume that you're in fact coming on to me?" he asked with a cheeky grin, as she rolled her eyes most delightfully in response. "Because I certainly wouldn't complain if you were." He leaned forward in his seat, watching the blush spread from her cheeks down her neck. What he wouldn't do to get his hands on all those tidy little buttons of hers and follow the flush all the way down.
"Mr. Jones, let's not pretend. I know it's supposed to be confidential, but I also know you're a critic for the Michelin Guide. I'd like to really show you what I can do in the kitchen, but I'm afraid we're having a few...technical difficulties today." She waved her hand in the air before continuing, letting out a small huff. "If you come back tomorrow, I can promise you'll get the best I have to offer." He couldn't be certain, but he thought he saw the corner of her mouth quirk up when she said it, and that was more than enough encouragement for him.
He waved his hand at a busboy who was passing by with a tray of clean stemware. "Another glass, please, for our fine chef here. And when you're done with those, please take my plate back to the kitchen."
He nodded at the chef, who was standing there looking dumbfounded.
"What are you doing?" she inquired.
"Sit. Please. Have a glass of wine with me. You look like you could use one."
She rolled her eyes again, but less pronounced this time. "Mr. Jones, I have a kitchen to run, and a dining room full of customers. I can hardly just-"
There was that strong work ethic he had so admired. "Ah, but you can," he said, pouring wine into the extra glass from the bottle and handing it to her. She took it, but then just stood there, as if considering her options.
"Judging by the level of service I've already received in the short time I've been here, I'd wager your kitchen is a well-oiled machine. Surely they manage on their own for a few minutes?" He smiled at her, biting his lower lip as he waited for her to make her decision, nodding his head slightly in the direction of the chair opposite to encourage her to make the right one.
Finally, sighing softly, she glanced back towards the kitchen and moved towards the empty chair. He popped out of his seat and went around the table to pull her chair out for her.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder. "Are you this 'hands on' with all of the chefs you meet, Mr. Jones?" she asked suspiciously.
"On the contrary, Chef Swan, I'd like to think I'm always a gentleman," he said in a low voice, leaning in close to her ear and watching as she swallowed unmistakably. "And please, call me Killian," he added as he pulled away, after he had her safely tucked in under the table.
"Now, if it's not too presumptuous of me, I'd like to propose a toast," he said, raising his glass to her.
She raised her eyebrows, shaking her head softly as if she found him a bit ridiculous. Still, she smiled softly as she answered, "A toast to what?"
"To the beginning of a culinary adventure together," he said, clinking his glass against hers lightly. Then he took a sip of his wine, watching over the rim of the glass as her mouth parted softly and she took her own taste. She closed her eyes momentarily, as if savouring the taste. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
"Delightful, isn't it?" he asked as the busboy cleared his plate.
She nodded in agreement. "It's quite good. Robert, our sommelier really knows what he's doing. I made sure to bring him with me when I opened this place."
"Wise move, so it seems. So, tell me, what went wrong with my dish? If you don't mind me asking?" He watched as her intelligent eyes scanned over his face, probably trying to get a beat on him, and he wondered if he'd made a wrong move.
Leaning back slightly in her chair, a slow smile spread across her face. "Only if you promise not to write about it in your review."
"Well now, that depends, doesn't it?"
"On what?"
"On how interesting a story it is." He grinned at her and she grinned back, shaking her head slightly.
She paused, taking another sip of her wine as she seemed to consider him. He could only hope he would pass whatever test she was giving him internally.
"It was my ex-boyfriend," she finally relayed. "He was my sous chef, and apparently he's been planning this...sabotage or whatever you want to call it - ever since I broke up with him." She took another sip, this one a bit larger.
Ex-boyfriend. Well, now, that sounded positively grand. He forced himself to hide his excitement upon hearing this news.
"I see. The bloody wanker thought he'd ruin your career, did he?"
"That seemed to be it, and to be honest, I thought perhaps I was in real trouble here."
Killian shook his head. If she was in any sort of trouble, it had nothing to do with her career.
Looking her straight in the eyes, he said earnestly, "Little did he know that I'm a bit of a fan of yours." His knee bumped against hers, and the air crackled between them.
Emma straightened in her seat, looking skeptical. "You are?"
"Aye. I've followed your career, and seen the choices you've made. You've made a lot of smart moves and you're not afraid of a challenge. I like that in a...chef." He looked up to hear her clearing her throat, glancing towards the dining room.
Slowly, she stood up, looking more flighty than ever and he suddenly wondered if he'd been too forward.
"Well, thank you for the wine, but I really need to get back to my kitchen. I'm, uh...glad that I've made an impression. Hopefully I can make an even better one tomorrow. How does 3 o'clock sound?" She suddenly appeared more closed off, back to her professional demeanor, but he figured it was because she thought someone might overhear them.
"3 o'clock sounds perfect, Swan. I'll be looking forward to it." He nodded at her, letting her know he really meant it.
She smiled. "Again, I'm really sorry about your meal. I promise tomorrow you'll get my A-game." Turning, she started to walk away, and he smiled back at her.
"Swan, I just have one question."
She turned around, and came back to the table. "What's that?" she asked inquisitively.
Killian gestured to the table. "What exactly am I supposed to eat for lunch?"
That got a real smile, and he marveled at the way it lit up her face. She was positively glowing.
"Johnny's Pizza. Two blocks south of here. Best pizza in New York, I promise." She kissed her fingers in the Italian way as if to imply the level of deliciousness was off the charts.
"Hmm...careful, Swan. You make a statement like that and we just might have to make a wager on it."
She smiled again, and he counted his blessings. "You're on! If that's not the best pizza you've ever had, I'll make you dessert tomorrow, my special recipe."
He shook his head. "Sounds like a win-win for me! See you tomorrow, Swan."
She walked backwards for a few steps and almost ran into a busboy. Ducking her head bashfully and tucking a stray hair behind her ear, she smiled again before she turned around and practically ran back to the kitchen.
Sighing, he watched every step she took until she was gone. He felt the loss of her glowing presence immediately. He shook his head as he took another long sip of wine. It had been a long time since he'd let a woman into his heart, ever since he'd lost his first love, his Milah. Could Miss Swan finally be the one to open it back up again?
Emma practically ran back to the kitchen, not daring to look back over her shoulder at the charming, enigmatic man she had just shared a glass of wine with. What in the world had just happened? Moments ago she had been lamenting her choice in dating partners, and now all of a sudden she was flushed all over, positively radiant from her interaction with a very handsome, very witty man who apparently knew everything there was to know about her. A pang of insecurity rushed over her. She wondered if he knew she was an orphan as well? That was one thing she didn't feel comfortable sharing with a lot of people, she'd rather leave the past in the past.
Entering the kitchen, she took in the curious glances from her staff and knew right away that things needed to be smoothed over after Walsh's betrayal and disappearance.
"Laura, I need you to take over Walsh's station for now. Sam, you can help with meat. Ricardo, I need you to go through all the sauces and make sure they taste right. Is that clear?"
Her staff nodded at her, exchanging glances. She needed to go through all the sauces again herself, but right now she needed some fresh air. Walking out the back door, she paced in the alleyway behind the restaurant, the clack and clang of the kitchen and the noise of city traffic providing a backdrop to her thoughts.
All things considered, everything was fine. Better than fine, even. Not only did she not get zinged for serving a food critic a botched dish, but said food critic looked like some modern-day version of James Bond and was apparently a "big fan of hers."
Emma smiled, feeling giddy like a schoolgirl. God, those eyes. They were light blue with a touch of green, little flecks of gold circling his pupils. The kind of eyes she could stare at for hours. He looked like he should be modeling, not writing restaurant reviews. The way he had spoken to her made it seem like he was definitely interested, too.
The question was, dare she let herself get involved with him? That would be completely unprofessional, wouldn't it? Conflict of interest and all that?
She crossed her arms over her chest and bit her lower lip, squinting up into the sun. Walsh was a supportive boyfriend - or so she thought - but he was always full of critiques, always conflicting with her on her menu choices, questioning her sauces or her technique. Even when they weren't working, he was tough to please. If she wore a dress, he'd tell her it was too long or too short, or the wrong color. The more she thought about it, he was probably her biggest critic.
What would it be like to date someone who was a "fan of hers," who looked at her like she hung the moon and stars? Because that was the way Killian Jones had looked at her when she sat across from him at the table, and as much as it made her squirm, she had to admit it was pretty fantastic.
The rest of the day passed by in a blur, the usual mixture of reduction sauces, pan-seared this or that and even a velouté or two. Even though the kitchen was down a man, she found she didn't miss Walsh's influence at all. In fact, things seemed to be running more smoothly than usual. Everyone pitched in and worked hard, and she felt proud that she had hired a staff with a similar work ethic to her own. Killian had been right - her kitchen was a well-oiled machine.
The next day was Sunday, and the restaurant was closed, which meant it was generally her day for relaxing or catching up on chores around the house. That morning, however, she awoke with butterflies in her stomach.
Why was she being such a girl about this? It's not like it was a date. It wasn't a date...right?
She tried to stroll casually through the farmer's market as usual, but she couldn't help thinking that the vegetables she was buying were for him, and she took extra care in selecting them.
The closer she got to the appointment, the more she felt fidgety and anxious, spending extra time on her hair and makeup. She even debated whether to wear her usual black jeggings or not. Would he expect her to dress in her chef's uniform? It was just the two of them after all.
In the end, she settled on a sleeveless green blouse which brought out the color of her eyes, and dark blue skinny jeans. Despite the discomfort she knew she'd feel later, she opted for a pair of black heels instead of her usual boots, adding a feminine touch and making her legs look long and lean. She took one last look at herself in the mirror, nodded her approval, and then walked out the door of her apartment, her stomach twinging in anticipation.
When Killian arrived at Light Magic at precisely 3 p.m., he found the door closed and locked. Had she forgotten about their engagement? He knocked at the door, hopeful she would answer.
A second knock and a few moments passed, and he was starting to get anxious, but fortunately he heard the click-clack of a woman's heels getting closer to the door, before the lock was turned and the door opened.
Sucking in a breath, he was floored by the sight before him. Emma was smiling softly at him, dressed in a dark jeans and a flowy green top that matched her eyes. Her hair was falling in soft ringlets down over her shoulders and it was pinned to one side with a jeweled clasp. She was even wearing lipstick.
Suddenly, the wine and roses he was carrying in his arms didn't feel so inappropriate after all. He had debated with himself bringing them all morning before he finally just said, "Fuck it," and grabbed them on his way out.
He smiled at her. "You look stunning, Swan. Absolutely stunning." He shook his head in disbelief and she ducked her head modestly.
"Thank you," she said, smiling confidently.
He handed her the bouquet of red roses. "These are for you."
"Oh! Wow, thank you. What did I do to deserve these?" she asked, taking the flowers and smelling them appreciatively. He made sure to pick the ones with the most intoxicating scent, and he smiled when she closed her eyes after taking a whiff.
Shrugging his shoulders, he said, "Any woman who cooks me a meal deserves flowers. And the wine - well, I thought perhaps we could share it, if that's alright, love? It's one of my favorites." The term of endearment rolled off his tongue before he could stop himself, and he hoped she wouldn't take offense to it.
She seemed to be smirking at him, and he found himself wondering what she was thinking. But before he could even dare to ask, she turned and led him back towards the dining room, giving him a delightful view of her arse the entire way.
In the center of the room, she had dressed a table for one, complete with a lit candle. He balked at that, however.
"You don't honestly expect me to sit here like some ponce and let you wait on me, do you?" he asked incredulously.
Emma turned to him with wide eyes.
"Oh! Well, I guess I sort of did, yeah. But if you'd like to join me in the kitchen, I suppose I'd be alright with that."
He walked right up to her, crowding her space, and gently stroked a line down her arm.
"Emma - may I call you that?" he asked, continuing when she nodded at him. "Let's not stand on ceremony, shall we? I know I'm a restaurant critic and you're a chef, but perhaps for today we could pretend like we're two friends sharing a meal." He squeezed her hand and watched as she smiled shyly, completely enthralling.
She swallowed thickly before replying, looking up at him through long dark lashes.
"Alright," she said simply, and he felt as though they had reached an accord, a mutual understanding of sorts. Bending down, he blew out the candle at the table.
Placing his hand at the small of her back, he walked beside her to the kitchen. Inside, it was much more brightly lit than it had been in the dining room, a panel of high windows flanking one side of the mostly stainless steel, industrial kitchen. Several pots were already bubbling on a stove, and a heavenly scent filled his nostrils.
"Well, if it tastes anything as good as it smells, you shall have a glowing review indeed, darling."
She glanced up at him, looking perturbed. "Do you call everyone 'love' and 'darling?'"
Smirking, he set the bottle of wine down on the counter and looked straight into her eyes, tucking his hands in his pants pockets. "No," he said, tilting his head as he dared to take a step closer. "Only people I particularly like."
Emma knew she was in trouble as soon as she opened the door of the restaurant. If yesterday Killian Jones had looked like James Bond, today he looked like a Calvin Klein model, dressed in fitted dark jeans and a black button-up, still unbuttoned enough to display a bit of that fabulous chest hair. With the sun shining on his face, she noticed he had ginger in his beard, and his hair was disheveled in just the right way, as if he'd simply run his hand through it and it had fallen perfectly into place. And then there were those heavenly blue eyes again - shining at her with wonder and mischief.
Taking a deep breath, she accepted his compliment and his roses, smiling smugly when she noticed him call her 'love.' She liked it, she could admit that, but it made her wonder if he was this flirtatious with all the pretty ladies he met, the thought making her more jealous than she would have thought possible.
She showed him to his table in the dining room, but as soon as she did she knew it didn't feel right. Luckily, he had no qualms about asking to join her in the kitchen, and she found herself grateful for his ability to plow right through her inhibitions. What other inhibitions might he be likely to push her through? she thought as his fingers trailed down her arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
His hand rested lightly on the small of her back as she walked him to the kitchen, and suddenly she was more nervous than ever, knowing they'd be alone in there for quite awhile, not a soul to interrupt them.
He sniffed appreciatively at the aroma in the kitchen, much of her prep work already done before he had arrived. She felt like she should be nervous about him tasting her food - he was a restaurant critic after all - but instead she mostly felt excited. It was like he put it himself, "the beginning of a culinary adventure together."
After she asked him about his little pet names, they had both stood there for a moment, taking one another in, and the air crackled with tension. She'd never felt this sort of chemistry with anyone before. Usually you don't know what it's going to feel like when someone kisses you until you actually do, but with Killian Jones she just knew in the pit of her stomach that it would be completely electric and she licked her lips unconsciously, watching how he followed the movement with his eyes. Her hands were tucked in the back pockets of her jeans, and she realized she was jutting her chest out towards him, her body making its desires known. Despite that, he very gallantly kept his eyes on her face, only flicking them down to her shirt for a fraction of a second, letting her know her message had been received.
Tucking her hair behind her ears, she cleared her throat lightly, breaking the mood. "So, uh, let me get you a plate. The first course is already done."
A small raise of his eyebrows and the curve of his lips turned his face into a thing of smoldering beauty, and it was hard to walk away, knowing how close she had been to just reaching out and grabbing him and going to town with that wicked mouth of his.
"Excellent. If you'll just lend me a corkscrew and point me in the direction of your stemware, I'll get the wine poured."
"There's a butler's station just outside the kitchen door. You should find everything you need there."
"Right. I'll be back momentarily," he said with a flourish and a bow, and she laughed softly. She was having way too much fun.
Emma put on an apron and checked her items on the stove. Looking at her timer, she realized it was just about time for the sweetbreads to come out of the fryer. Plucking them out and dumping them on a paper towel, she picked the choicest pieces and nestled them into her legendary chestnut sauce. Then she grabbed the roasted grapes from the oven where they were keeping warm and spooned them onto the plate, making a nice arrangement. Wiping down the sides of the plate with her towel, she carried the dish over to where Killian was pouring the wine and set in down in front of him.
"Veal sweetbreads with chestnut sauce and roasted grapes - this time done properly." She handed him a napkin folded over utensils.
When he was done with the wine, he looked down at the plate, full of praise. "This looks wonderful, Emma." He handed her a glass and then picked up his knife and fork, looking as eager as a boy on Christmas. She never realized her cooking could inspire so much excitement.
Cutting into a sweetbread, he dredged it through the sauce and picked up a grape along the way before placing it in his mouth. Once he started chewing, his face contorted into a thoughtful expression and she waited in breathless anticipation while he finished chewing.
He turned and looked down at her, pausing for a moment. "Absolutely spectacular. Bloody brilliant!" and she broke out into a wide grin, pride running through her.
"Thank you. I'm glad you like it."
"Like it? It's a revelation, Swan. This sauce-" he shook his head, putting another forkful in his mouth and shaking his head in disbelief. "It's what I like to call exquisite. Here-" He turned towards her, holding his fork up in the air. "Close your eyes and just taste it, don't think about anything else at all for a moment."
She closed her eyes obediently, though she felt a bit self-conscious about it. Opening her mouth, she felt him place the forkful of food delicately inside, and she closed her lips around it, feeling everything, sensing it, and tasting it as if it were for the first time. Mmm, is all she could think. It really was exquisite.
When she opened her eyes, he was looking intently at her, his pupils blown wide and once again she wondered if he was going to kiss her. Instead, he scratched nervously behind his ear and she found herself wanting to know what was going on inside that head of his.
Watching her close her lips around his fork had conjured images in his mind that he was frankly a bit embarrassed to admit. Not that he was ashamed of his attraction to her necessarily, but he was a gentleman after all, and he wanted her to know that he took her seriously, that this wasn't all just an attempt to get inside her knickers.
Scratching nervously behind his ear, she smiled at him knowingly, and suddenly it felt just a bit hotter in the kitchen than it had previously. He toyed with the top button of his shirt, debating popping that one open as well.
Her food was absolutely delicious, and he couldn't wait to find out what else she had in store for him.
"Are you going to join me, Swan? Surely you've made enough for two. Or shall we just continue to share? I have to admit, after getting a taste I'm not sure I want to part with any more of this."
She turned back to the stove, fiddling with one of the controls as she lit the flame and put a pan on top of it.
"I'm afraid I can't, otherwise something might burn. I'm kind of intense when I cook. I have to focus completely on what I'm doing, you know?"
"I do," he said, nodding. "I used to be a chef myself, although not nearly as creative or talented as you are, darling."
"Yes, I read that. You first cooked on a fishing boat in Alaska."
"Ah, so you've done your research, then." He found himself pleasantly surprised and flattered.
She turned to look at him, smirk firmly fixed as she shrugged her shoulder. "It only seemed fair. Since you know all about me, after all."
"Not nearly as much as I would like to," he murmured under his breath as she clattered a pan on the stove. Walking slowly, he came up behind her and she startled when she finally noticed his proximity.
"Sorry, love, didn't mean to startle you."
He watched as she put a piece of fish into a pan, the flesh sizzling loudly as it hit the hot surface.
"So, what made a sailor decide to become a restaurant critic?" she asked curiously.
He leaned against the counter, crossing one leg over the other. "Well, you have to understand, my seafaring days happened when I was very young, only eighteen or nineteen years old. My brother was all I had after my parents died, and he heard you could make good money on fishing boats, so we got ourselves out to Alaska and gave it a shot. Turns out I was more skilled in the kitchen than I was at fishing, as it were." He chuckled softly at the memory.
She glanced at him and smiled in between shifting pans over the stove. "Sorry about your parents," she said with a thoughtful look. "I know what it's like to grow up without a family, but you're lucky you had your brother."
He felt a pang in his chest at her words, wondering how this strong, fiery woman could have grown up without a family. It hardly seemed right, but it did explain that intangible quality she seemed to possess in spades: grit.
He wanted to ask her more, but noticed that she was plating the fish, delicately arranging pieces of popcorn around it. When she was done, she placed the dish in front of him.
"Panko crusted pan-seared halibut with popcorn."
His eyes lit up with delight. It was a veritable feast for the eyes, and he hadn't even tasted it yet, the fish resting atop a light green sauce that was as bright as springtime. He gave her a soft whistle. "You've really outdone yourself, lass. This looks incredible."
She smiled with pride and his heart swelled. An orphan like himself, he could hardly believe it. Shaking his head, he accepted the clean utensils she handed him and then cut a piece of the fish, collecting a piece of popcorn together with it. The fish was incredibly tender and flavorful and altogether the dish was an explosion of texture and flavor in his mouth. He found he liked it even better than he had the sweetbreads, if that were possible.
Groaning softly, he looked at her with mock anger. "It's so good, Swan, so right. Here, I insist-" He fed her again, and this time she instinctively closed her eyes, rolling the food over her tongue as she chewed. It was a beautiful sight indeed.
"It's good, if you don't mind me saying so."
"Good? It's like heaven on a plate!" he told her unabashed.
"Alright, let me get started on your next course. You finish your fish."
"You don't have to tell me twice," he said, waggling his eyebrows at her and making her laugh.
Emma was onto her third and final course, and everything was going swimmingly. She had to laugh at how much she had dreaded her visit from the Michelin Guide critic, and here it was turning out to be one of the most thrilling experiences of her life.
She seasoned her pork chop with salt and pepper, checking the stove to see if her pan was hot enough. Ladling butter into it, she placed the chop inside and listened to the satisfying sound of it sizzling in the hot pan. If he liked the halibut, she couldn't wait for him to try this.
Feeling heat behind her, she realized he was standing over her shoulder again, peering at her progress. "I brought your wine," he said, placing it on the counter next to the stove. "It's a zinfandel from California. One of my favorites."
His nearness was definitely not making it easy for her to concentrate, so she grabbed the glass and took a sip, hoping it would help calm her nerves. Her taste buds exploded with the rich flavor, layers of berry and chocolate overwhelming her.
"Wow, this is amazing," she said, taking another sip.
"Yes, yes it is," he said softly, his fingers grazing over her hip as he stepped to the side, sending shivers up her spine. Shit. If he didn't stop touching her…
"So, Killian, do you live in the city?"
"I do," he answered. "In West Village. You?"
She looked up at him in shock. "I live in West Village, too. Everyone tells me I should move to the Upper East, but I like Greenwich. It's quirky."
They shared a smile, Killian's eyes shining with something like affection. "We're practically neighbors then, Swan. Now I know where to go next time I need to borrow some sugar."
Laughing, she checked on her meat and found it was ready to be transferred to the oven to finish it off. She began plating the polenta and roasted brussels sprouts. Then she took the meat out of the oven and let it rest while she made a pan sauce out of the drippings. When it was all done, Killian was practically drooling over her shoulder, watching her every move. Normally, that sort of attention would make her uncomfortable, but with him it felt somehow normal and domestic, and she was suddenly glad they were here alone together.
"I can already tell this is going to be your pièce de résistance."
Emma hummed thoughtfully. "The other dishes are where my creativity shine, but this one...this one is just so damn good. I could eat this every night."
"Well, then, please. I insist we share." He grabbed another fork and knife and handed it to her.
She rolled her eyes at him, but there wasn't much heat in it. "If you insist. But I want you to try it first."
He ran his tongue over his lower lip, stroking his chin with his fingers as he considered the plate. Then he cut into the pork chop and swirled it in the sauce. This time he didn't hold anything back, both groaning and rolling back on his heels.
"Swan….Swan. This is ridiculously good."
Him liking her food so much made her like it even more, and she found when she tasted it, it was like it was the first time all over again, the flavors fresh and new. Something about Killian Jones made her reconsider her perspective.
They ate together in companionable silence, except for the "mmm"-ing noises Killian made every now and then which made her giggle, since he waggled his eyebrows along with it, the two seemed to have a life of their own.
When they were done, he insisted on helping her clean up, washing the pans and cooking utensils while she dried, and they talked about their favorites places to go in the city. After the last dish had been dried and put away, she threw her towel down, shifting from foot to foot nervously.
Killian crept a bit closer, moving into her space, close enough so that she could smell the fragrance of his cologne, masculine and spicy.
"I hate to say it, love, but don't you think you're forgetting something?"
"What?" she asked, suddenly apprehensive. Here she had thought her work was done, but as she was finding with this Jones character, he was always full of surprises.
He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "My dessert. Or did you think I would forget?"
She scoffed at him. "Are you telling me that Johnny's wasn't the best pizza you've ever had?"
He shook his head. "It was quite good, though perhaps a bit modern for my taste. I prefer something old school like Lombardi's, that coal oven creates the best crust in the world."
Emma rolled her eyes at him. "Fine. But the truth is...I already made you dessert anyway. I was just giving you time to digest your meal."
He perked right up at that, following closely behind her. She had made a batch of her best chocolate brownies that morning, and they were wrapped in foil, sitting on the counter waiting to be sliced.
"Fetch me a couple small plates, would you?" she asked him, figuring if he was willing to wash dishes, he wouldn't be offended by being asked to grab some plates.
He put them down on the counter, and she dished up a brownie for each of them.
"I'm not pastry chef, but I think you'll like these," she told him, watching as he took his first bite.
He looked up at her through long, thick lashes. "Perfection."
She watched as he broke off a piece, holding it up to her mouth.
"I shared every other dish with you, somehow it wouldn't feel right if I didn't share this as well," he said, his voice a bit softer, almost tentative, as if he was worried she would refuse.
Smiling, she stepped forward, boldly grabbing his wrist and pulling his hand to her mouth. When she closed her lips around the piece of brownie, she took in the tips of his fingers as well, and she watched as he sucked in a harsh breath. Their eyes locked, and for a moment they just stood there, neither moving or saying a thing as their gaze penetrated the space in between them. Glancing at his lips, she grew warm all over. She wanted him to kiss her, but he seemed to hesitate, and suddenly she felt apprehensive. He was supposed to be reviewing her restaurant, after all. It's not like they could just have sex on the counter afterwards, the thought making her blush.
He wanted to kiss her so badly, it took every ounce of strength to resist diving forward and crushing his lips to hers. The soft floral scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils as they just stood there, entranced. A warm, rosy blush painted her cheeks and she ducked her head, tucking her hands in her back pockets. The moment was lost, though his fingers were still on fire from the touch of those glorious lips.
Smiling, he took another bite of his brownie, and she backed away from him, picking up her plate.
"So, then, do you have what you need to write your review?" she asked hesitantly, not looking at his face.
"Oh, no, Swan. I'll be back in to dine straight away. We always do at least three separate visits before we make our full appraisal."
"Oh," she said, and she seemed to relax a bit more. "I didn't realize you'd be coming back."
"Aye. As long as that's not too objectionable to you."
She reached out to him then, placing her hand on his arm. "No, actually, I'm glad. I wasn't sure when I would see you again."
He could tell she was making a strong statement with her words, and he was more than pleased. She was the most extraordinary creature he'd ever laid eyes upon, and he wanted nothing more than to be in her presence as much as humanly possible.
Again, he felt as though he should kiss her, but he wanted to court her properly, take her out on a date where she didn't have to cook the meal herself, and he didn't want to push things too far too soon.
"Here, let me give you my card. We can keep in touch," he said instead, pulling out his wallet and extracting one.
She took it from him, and he couldn't help but notice a vague look of disappointment come over her features.
"Don't worry, Swan, like I said, I'll be back within the week."
"How will I know when you're coming?"
He shook a finger at her. "You won't. That would be cheating, don't you think?"
She had to laugh at that. "Alright, Mr. Mysterious. My servers will just tell me when you get here anyway."
He grinned at her, backing away slowly.
"Well, then. I hope it will be a pleasant surprise."
"Most pleasant," she said softly, searching his eyes.
Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips and kissed it softly, though with a bit more pressure than the first time.
"Goodbye, Emma. It's been a pleasure."
She smiled at him and his heart did a funny little jig.
Turning slowly, he made his way out the kitchen door and through the dining room, hanging his head in shame. What a coward he was! He should have just kissed her while he had the chance, and never stop kissing her for the rest of his life, maybe. He'd never felt this way about anyone before. But he'd been so scared of messing it up, wanting her to take the lead and making sure she felt comfortable, he'd forgotten to really give it a shot.
He was almost to the door when he heard a noise.
"Wait!" Emma called out, walking quickly towards him. She looked both vexed and determined, and he had never been so happy to see anyone, though he had no idea what had inspired her to come after him.
That question was soon answered when without any warning or pretense at all, she tugged him forward by the lapels of his shirt and kissed him, just about knocking him off his feet.
It took him a moment to respond, but then he wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close as her hands went to the back of his head, fingers digging into the hair at the nape of his neck. They were a perfect fit, their bodies responding to one another with flawless synchronization as he dipped his head and cupped her cheek, changing the angle of the kiss. Her lips were warm and tender, her body both soft and strong against him, and he molded himself to her, getting as close as he could.
Pulling back momentarily for air, she chased his lips, looking into his eyes and smiling. Thumbing at her chin, he smiled back for a moment before he kissed her again, this time exploring her mouth with his tongue as she moaned softly. He's not sure how long they stayed that way, swaying together in the entry of the restaurant, but he never wanted to stop kissing her, this glorious woman who he had fallen for already.
When they finally pulled back, he wrapped his arms around her lower back, holding her close.
"Three stars," he said, and she smiled up at him. "Bloody hell, all the stars!"
Emma laughed. "You wanna get out of here?"
He brushed his nose against hers. "I'll follow you anywhere, Swan."
"Good," she replied. "Time for our next adventure."
And with a wink and a smile, they were off.