Author's Note: Happy Monday! Trigger warning for the raw shellfish squeamish ;P

- seven: go fish -
bella

With the Deftones blasting through my headphones, I can feel the rasp of the scraper across the wood more than I can hear it. The vibration up my arm gives me a satisfied shiver as I peel away a long, jagged ribbon of paint.

I'm aching from shoulder to fingertips, and the crick in my neck is starting to feel permanent, but I'm determined to strip this goddamn facade while the weather is cooperating.

Whoever last painted all this woodwork was an absolute idiot. The burnt orange and mustard combo is bad enough, but the careless, goopy layers make me want to hunt down whoever thought this was acceptable and revoke their paintbrush privileges. And with all the layers, each chunk I knock off with my scraper is practically an archeological excavation, a fucked-up leaded rainbow.

I wrinkle my nose under my respirator. At least the big sections of wood trim are mostly flat, so the paint comes away easily. I'm not looking forward to the titchier sections of moulding around the doors and windows, where the original builders had incorporated Victorian flourishes that must have been somewhat outdated at the time. That, I'm sure, will require chemical strippers and finer tools.

But for now, along the broad, flat planes of the pilasters and frieze panel, the scraper blade is plenty.

The song changes to something way too soft and slow. Bon Iver is so not the vibe for this work. I set my tool down on the top step of my ladder and fumble with my gloves so I can get into my coveralls to change it.

I've just got my hand into the inner pocket where my iPhone is hidden away when I feel a prickle on the back of my neck. Like someone's watching me.

I whip my head around slightly too fast, unbalancing myself. The ladder tilts, and for a heartbeat, I'm weightless, teetering over the sidewalk.

Then, strong hands clamp onto the rails, steadying it—and me—just in time. My breath hitches, and I freeze.

"Careful!"

Just like with the scraper, the sound is more in my body than my ears—a rumble along the back of my thighs, bare under the papery disposable coveralls, where my savior's firm chest is pressed against me.

I think I already know who it is before I twist my head further to see him.

Edward.

There's a tug-of-war between abashment and amusement on his face, and it's pretty clear which side is going to win.

I rip out my earbuds with slightly too much force, letting them dangle by the wires.

"What the fuck, man?" I snap. "You scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "I said your name a few times—didn't realize you had headphones in." He steps back, seeing that I'm stable now. "You probably shouldn't work on a ladder like that without a spotter."

I roll my eyes as I step down, trying to hide my shaking legs. "Yeah, ok, sure." I slide my respirator up onto my head, mentally grimacing at the lines I know it's left behind on my cheeks. "Not like I really have a choice."

Now that I'm on the ground, I can actually see him properly. White tee, tan Carhartts. Ugh, short sleeves. This is the first time I've seen his tattoos on display. All blackwork, I note.

I force myself not to look directly at them.

"What do you want?"

The way he shoves his hands in his jean pockets makes a muscle on the back side of his arms bulge into my peripheral vision—what is that, the tricep? I can't tell.

"I wanted to see if you had any of that albariño left," he says. His voice is tight, nervous, and he's shifting his weight back and forth in an uncharacteristically uncertain way. "I—uh—I'm still messing with that granita, for the oysters. I thought it might help to try the wine again."

"I do," I say slowly, eyeing him. It's been four whole days since our trip to the market. The oyster and albariño pairing is the most straightforward of his proposed menu—he could literally just squeeze some lemon over the things and it would be pretty much perfect. What could he possibly still be tinkering with?

"Great. Can I maybe take the bottle with me?"

"I mean, sure." I purse my lips, considering him with a tilt of my head.

"Cool." He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, making it catch the light so it looks like glinting bronze. "Sorry for interrupting—I just…you know. Need to get this finalized."

The dinner with Carlisle is the day after tomorrow. I'm honestly kinda shocked he doesn't have it all buttoned up yet.

"Do you want help?"

I'm almost as surprised by my offer as he is—it popped out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about it. Relief washes over his expression, and I find I don't regret it.

"That would be amazing," he admits. "If you have time, that is."

I really should finish the scraping first. At least the flat parts, and get paint stripper on the rest. The rain will be back next week, and it'll probably be a month til I can work outside comfortably again. But something about the way he's looking at me—hopeful and so damn earnest—makes all that seem irrelevant.

"Sure," I say, more casually than I feel. "Let me just put this stuff away."

His answering smile is dazzling.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

Edward insists on stowing the ladder and tools for me, shooing me upstairs to retrieve the wine and take off my protective gear.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the entryway of the apartment and groan aloud at the angry red grooves on the bridge of my nose and on either side of my mouth—a perfect negative of the mask I've been wearing for the last two hours.

"Goddammit," I mutter as I rip the mask off my head, tangling the elastic straps in my hair. I look almost as much of a mess as I did the first night Edward met me.

Putting up the ladder and my tools won't take him long, so I don't have time to try to hide the marks on my face with makeup. Not that I have the skills, anyway.

I rip off the coveralls—at least my cutoffs and t-shirt are clean, if a bit raggedy—and run a brush through my hair. It's long enough now for a proper ponytail, at least, which is a great improvement over the chin-length bob I'd impulsively gotten last year.

Hair more or less tamed, I give myself a quick once-over—it'll have to do, I decide. I grab the wine from my fridge before heading out to find Edward.

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

"You live alone?"

I don't even try to hide the surprise in my voice. I'd had an image of Edward as barely scraping by, given he hasn't had full-time work for at least two months now.

"Yeah," he replies casually as he tosses his keys on the little table by his front door. "I hate roommates. Can't do it."

The house—more of a cottage, really—is probably only a few years younger than my building, but it's been better cared for. Nice wide plank flooring, period-appropriate but simple lighting, original windows.

I take in the cozy living room for a moment. He's set it up comfortably, with furniture that definitely doesn't look like Ikea. There's an arched opening to a little dining room, with a glimpse of the kitchen beyond. Curtains hide what's behind the French doors on the other side of the couch, but I guess it's his bedroom.

"It's nice," I say.

He grins. "Thanks. My cousin went a little nuts on Craigslist and Facebook Marketplace, finding all the furniture."

I'm starting to feel awkward. It's weird, being in his house. It's weird, knowing he lives a three-minute walk from Cygnet. It's weird, recognizing his scent in the air.

"Let me show you what I'm working on," he says, already striding toward the kitchen.

It's also small, but efficient. Spotlessly clean, too, aside from one section of the butcher block counter where he's clearly been working. He's set it up like a station on the line, with a cutting board surrounded by pinch bowls of salt, black pepper, chiffonaded herbs, minced garlic.

Mise-en-place. Everything in its place. Including Edward, who's assumed a tight-elbowed, almost military stance, totally at odds with the laid-back indolence I'm used to seeing.

He washes his hands briskly in the porcelain sink. I set the bottle of wine down and follow suit.

"So. The granita." He pulls open the freezer and extracts a few shallow rectangular containers, each filled with slush in various shades of green. With precise, economical movements, he turns and arranges them on the counter by his mise.

I'm suddenly reminded of a comment he'd made the day I interviewed him—"It needs to feel like watching a ballet. Smooth, effortless. Can't let 'em see you sweat."

It's not quite ballet, the way he moves. More like tango, maybe. Sharp, staccato, close.

"I've been experimenting with the sorrel," he's saying as he scrapes at the ice in one container with a fork. "Trying to find what to combine it with." He holds out the fork to me. "This one is just the sorrel."

I sample it. The first sensation is just cold, but as the shards melt, the sharp, tart, concentrated green flavor of the herb spreads across my tongue. It makes me salivate. I swallow quickly and glance at him.

He's watching me with an intensity that makes me shiver—but when he sees me looking, he blinks quickly, and the expression is gone.

"So what's wrong with that?" I ask.

Edward's lips tighten. "Nothing's wrong with it," he says. "It's just…boring. Too straightforward. I want it to have a little depth."

Something about this explanation itches in the back of my mind. "Not everything has to be complicated." I can hear the edge in my tone. "It's oysters and white wine, for chrissakes. You can just let it be good."

His eyes—green, so green—narrow at me. He seems to grow an inch or two, and suddenly I'm very aware of how close we are in this little kitchen.

"The albariño is good," he says with exaggerated patience, but the underlying tension is clear. "But it's not a particularly complex wine. Some aspect of the pairing should be interesting, or why even bother serving it?"

The back of my neck flares hot. I slap the fork onto the countertop harder than I mean to. "Are you saying the wine I picked is boring?"

His jaw clenches, and he takes a deep, noisy breath in through his nose. I can't help watching the way the muscles twitch and roll.

"That's not what I'm saying." His tone is controlled, and I can tell he's trying to deescalate. "It's a great wine. But you said yourself it's delicate, right? I think something to temper the acidity of the sorrel will help bring out some of the more subtle notes. A straightforward acid bomb in the granita might block you from appreciating what's underneath the lemon in the wine."

The heat of my temper is subsiding now, and I feel a little embarrassment take its place. He's right, of course. But the idea of admitting it aloud…

"Too much sour could overshadow the minerality," I admit grudgingly.

"Exactly," he says, and he's back to smiling. The tense moment has passed, and I force myself to lower my hackles. "So that's why I tried tempering it with some other ingredients."

He uses a new fork to flake off bits of granita from each of the other containers in turn, letting me try each one. Sorrel and mint. Sorrel and chives. Sorrel and stinging nettles.

"They all taste nice," I say, laying the last fork down.

He grunts. "On their own. But I'm not sure they're right with the wine. If I remember it correctly."

"Well, we can have a little refresher, if you want." I motion to the bottle of albariño. "Maybe that'll help."

The glasses he pulls down are simple, economical. I pour a healthy taste in each, and we sample.

Edward spits his in the sink, frowning.

"What?" I ask. "You don't like it?"

"No, it's good," he says absently. "Just thinking."

I raise a brow, watching him pointedly.

"There was one other combination I tried," he says after a moment. "With cucumber."

"Hmm." It makes logical sense—something to temper the tartness of the sorrel leaves.

I take another sip of the wine and try to imagine what the granita would taste like with it. I think it would work wonderfully. But if he said he tried it…

"So what was the problem?" I ask.

He turns around to lean against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "I didn't like it with the oysters," he says. "Those Olympias have like that coppery flavor, you know? The cucumber was interacting with that in a way that really bothered me."

"Well, let me try it and see."

Edward gives me a crooked smile. "Used up all the oysters."

"Damn," I say dryly. "Too bad there are absolutely no more to be found anywhere in this city."

"Yeah, well, I didn't want to go pick any up until I had at least one direction I was happy with—I wanted to be able to try it all together fresh."

"Chefs," I grouse, rolling my eyes. "Come on, grab your keys. We're going on a field trip."

.:.:.:.:.:.:.

The jaunt to my favorite fish market is quick. We pick up two each of a half-dozen different varieties, loaded up in a styrofoam cooler with ice and separated to keep them straight.

The employee behind the counter, a heavily tattooed and pierced woman, throws in an extra pair of the Shigokus for free.

"They're my favorite," she tells Edward conspiratorially, and I feel a pang of irritation at how she's leaning over the counter toward him. "And these are just so fresh. They were in the water four hours ago."

Edward's eyes don't even flicker away from his close examination of the bounty in the cooler, despite the bounty of cleavage also on offer. "Hey, thanks!" he says sincerely. "I can't wait to try them all."

The woman laughs, giving me a look somewhere between wistful and jealous. "Never trust a straight man who doesn't love oysters," she advises with a knowing tap to the side of her nose.

I can't decide if I want to laugh or glare at the blatant innuendo.

"I'll keep it in mind," I reply coolly, handing her my credit card.

She keeps her comments to herself as she runs the card and tops the cooler with a cover drilled with holes to let the shellfish breathe. But I can tell she's putting a lot of unnecessary hip into her movements on purpose, and I'm relieved when we can finally leave.

"God, I missed seafood on the coast," Edward says with childish glee as we exit the store. "It's just not the same when everything's been flown in."

I snort, snatching the cooler back from him so he can get in the drivers' seat of his old—but serviceable—Volvo. "Some of those came off a plane, too," I point out. "Alaska, BC, probably even the ones from the Sound."

"Yeah, but some of them didn't," he says, entirely unbothered by my pedantry. "Can't get that in Chicago." His cheer is entirely unassailable—I'm smiling despite myself.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye as he drives us back to his house. He drums his thumbs on the wheel as he drives, in time with the songs playing on the radio. I think I catch him humming along to that Espresso song, which makes me bite back a grin.

But the drive is short, and he's parking smoothly in an empty spot along the curb in front of his house before the song ends.

I take a closer look at the exterior as we walk up the steps to the little porch. Blue, with cream and red trim. Cheerful. Well-maintained. I'm pretty sure it's just a one-bedroom, unless there's some kind of basement addition, but it's gotta be at least 1600 bucks a month to rent a house like this. Probably more.

Not out of reach for a chef de cuisine at a fine dining restaurant, but definitely beyond the means of a guy picking up prep shifts.

I set the thought aside for now—it's not really my business, of course.

Edward takes the cooler from me as soon as he has the front door unlocked.

"Thanks," I say. "Where's your bathroom?"

"Through the bedroom." He motions with his chin to the French doors. "I'll get these shucked real quick."

The masculine scent of him is stronger in the bedroom, though it's relatively tidy. The bed's not exactly made, but the duvet's been pulled flat over the sheets and the pillows straightened. One side table—the one closest to the window overlooking the small backyard—has a half-full water glass, a book, and a pair of reading glasses. I can't see the title from here, but it's a thick mass-market paperback.

The other side table, I note, is clear.

I force myself not to go snooping and cross to the bathroom, where I absolutely do not open the medicine cabinet.

Though I do check under the sink, where I spot cleaning supplies, extra toilet paper, and a box of mixed-size tampons.

Interesting.

I wash my hands when I'm done (rosemary-mint scented hand soap and an actual clean hand towel on the ring) and head back to the kitchen.

I freeze in the doorway at the sight awaiting me.

Edward's leaning against the counter by the sink, oyster knife in one hand and the other holding a shell against a while towel tucked to protect his thumb. Light streams in from the window, illuminating his profile with a halo effect.

Tendons strain, muscles ripple as he pushes the oyster knife into the seam, making his tattoos jump. He shucks French-style, I notice, at the mouth rather than the hinge. A practiced twist of his wrist lays the glistening meat bare with a brutal sort of sensuality. I suppress a shiver at the hollow, wet, grating sound of the top shell releasing.

Poor thing didn't even put up a fight.

"So, any particular meaning behind all that?"

I keep my tone casual as I motion to his sleeves.

Edward doesn't look up from the oysters, just talks as he shucks.

"They're all my dishes that made it to a menu—an ingredient from them, anyway."

I raise an eyebrow. "You've gotta be running out of room by now." After all, he's cooked in a lot of kitchens.

He flashes me that charming grin. "Eh, there's still some real estate…further down."

I snort, trying not to blush. I was wondering just where his ink ended.

"I stopped doing every single dish after my first CDC job," he explains. "Now, I'm a bit more choosy. Can't repeat an ingredient, you know?"

I give up trying not to examine the tattoos. I let my eyes trail from his long, scarred fingers up to where his bicep disappears under his t-shirt sleeve. It's all black ink in a detailed, botanical style, almost like old-fashioned engravings. He has the basics, like garlic and shallots. Peppers. Herbs. But then there's the voluptuous-looking pomegranate, sliced in half and dripping dark juice. Morel mushrooms. Delicate saffron crocuses. Blackberry vines twined around an animal skull—rabbit, maybe? A slick salmon, mouth gaping.

A map of his tastes, rippling over those corded, rough forearms and carved biceps.

I want to lick it.

The thought makes me start—inappropriate, stupid, dangerous—

"What about you? You got any?"

I glance back up at his face. He's scanning me, searching my exposed skin. I clench my fist against the edge of my shorts.

"Just one," I say.

Something glitters in his eye. "Where?"

"Nowhere you need to be concerned with."

For a second, he looks chagrined. But he can't quite kill that gleam of interest. He puts the oyster knife down, presses his hands against the butcher block. Leans toward me. The spark turns wicked, and my breath hitches.

"Ribs." His voice suddenly has a gravelly quality, almost like the sound of his knife against the oyster shell. "On the side, under your arm."

My face heats and I try, I really try to step back. "I should get the granita ready."

"Come on," he says. "Just tell me—it's on the right, isn't it?"

The answer pops out before I can stop it. "Left, actually."

"Damn!" he huffs, snapping his fingers in disappointment. "So close." But his expression is alight with victory, and I can see his gaze lingering on the faint curve of my breast as I cross my arms over my chest.

My nipples tighten in response. Thank God I'm wearing a lined bra for once.

His eyes flicker back up to my face, and I catch a note of uncertainty. "Sorry," he says with a little half-smile. "Not trying to be inappropriate." He goes back to arranging the oysters on the platter. All those pretty little half shells, sleek and shining just for him. "Force of habit—used to run a betting pool on all the new hires' tattoos. It got pretty competitive."

"No, I get it," I say smoothly. I tilt my head to the side, letting my eyes run over that lean chest and down to the waistband of his Carhartts. "So tell me," I start with a casualness I don't feel. "Is the chef's knife on your abs or your pecs?"

That makes him really laugh, a true gut-buster, his head thrown back to expose the light stubble dusting his sharp jaw and throat. "Neither," he says, eyes twinkling as he meets my gaze again. "It's on my ass. Right cheek."

I'm burning red in an instant, but a shout of laughter erupts from my throat anyway. "You're kidding," I accuse.

He's grinning huge, so huge I think his face might split. "Nope. The crustiest old line cook you can imagine told me it was tradition when you get your first job on the line. So the first thing I did when I finally made it out of the dishpit was make a tattoo appointment."

I cover my mouth with my hand to smother another giggle. "Wow," I choke out when I have the breath. "How old were you?"

"Seventeen. Had to go to three shops before I found a place that believed my fake ID." He's picking up the platter now. "Bring the granita? It's labeled, in the freezer."

I comply, grabbing our glasses and the wine from the fridge—which I notice with a hint of amusement is stacked with no less than three varieties of sparkling water. I don't know why, but I find it funny to picture him drinking Limoncello LaCroix.

I shut the fridge and turn to see him setting up the oysters in the little dining space.

"Seemed nicer to sit and consider than lean against the counter," he says by way of explanation.

"I don't mind." But it is pleasant, I realize, sitting in a chair and looking at him across the small round table. The room is more of a nook tucked in the corner between the living room and kitchen, with two walls of windows that let the sunshine in.

We taste the six varieties of oysters in turn, topping them with granita and alternating sips of the albariño. Edward uses an empty can and a funnel to spit his wine, giving me an apologetic glance.

"Sorry, I just don't like to drink while I'm working," he explains.

I wave it away, too focused on the flavors to care.

We've gone through four different oyster species when we get to the Shigokus the market employee said were her favorite. I pause before I pick one up, eyeing them; something in my lizard brain hisses at me not to like them.

Edward, it seems, has no such compunction. He slurps his down with neat efficiency—and then gives me a wide-eyed look.

"What?" I ask, somewhat irritably.

"Try it," he orders, then takes a sip of the wine. He smiles faintly as he swirls the liquid around in his mouth.

I look back down at the oysters. Three of the Shigokus left, thanks to Alt Shellfish Girl's little "gift," and two Kumamotos that I'd specifically requested we try. I can't help hoping the Kumamotos are better.

I pick up the Shigoku and flake some of the sorrel-cucumber granita over the top. Then, with a small sigh, I tip it into my mouth.

The flavor comes in waves: first, clean sea brine, followed by the hit of acid from the sorrel. Then, the subtler notes come to play: a stony, mineral taste that's an echo of the oyster shell. The grassy undertone that follows the lemon of the sorrel herb. And then, as I swallow, a mild, refreshing cucumber from both the granita and the oyster finish.

The granita has been good with the first four oysters I tried, but this is…another level.

I open my eyes—I hadn't realized I'd closed them—to see Edward watching me intently.

Silently, he pushes my glass of wine forward, eyes never wavering from my face.

I take a sip.

And I know there's no way the Kumamotos are winning this battle.

"Well, guess the granita wasn't the issue before," I say with exaggerated lightness.

Edward exhales sharply, not quite a snort. "No, guess not."

We try the final variety, but as I knew they would be, they're too sweet, with not enough brine to bring out the salinity in the wine. We return to the Shigokus, since we have the extra pair.

I think I'm going to choke on mine.

But I can't deny they're the right choice.

"So I'll order a dozen of those?"

The corner of his lip twitches, and for a horrible moment, I get the feeling that he knows. That he can see every wretched, irrational, jealous twist of my gut right there on my face. But he just says, "Yeah, that's perfect," in that off-hand way of his.

Edward pours the last of his glass in his makeshift spittoon, and I suddenly wonder if he straight-up didn't like it. He was right earlier; it is a somewhat simple wine. Not one that I would pick to impress someone.

I cut off that line of thinking quickly. His job was to take an economical, straightforward wine and pair it with a dish that brings out its best qualities; he's done that admirably. It doesn't matter if he's not impressed with my selection.

And anyway, I like that wine. It fits my vision.

There are a few drops of wine left in the bottle. I pour it into my glass and drink it in one slow sip, savoring the bright, refreshing taste.

Edward's already cleaning up. I watch him pick up the tray of empty shells thoughtfully.

I'd be lying to myself if I said I wasn't ready to hire him today. Why am I making him jump through all these hoops?

Carlisle, I remind myself sternly. He's the money. And I need to see how Edward acts in a pressure-filled situation. No matter how good he might seem on a sunny afternoon, it's the Friday night that worries me.

"Thanks for your help," he says as I carry the glasses and empty bottle to the kitchen. "I really do appreciate it."

"Where's your recycling?" I ask instead of acknowledging the thanks.

He mutely takes the bottle from me and I set the glasses by the sink.

"I'd better get going," I say, stepping back. "Gotta finish that trim."

He shoots me a smile, and I suddenly wish I was staying to help with more of his dishes.

"Send me your delivery list by tonight, ok?"

And then I'm gone, before he can offer to show me out.

Footnotes:

Mise-en-place, as Bella translates, means everything in place in French (often abbreviated as mise, pronounced meez). It's the concept of gathering and prepping your ingredients before starting to cook. In a restaurant kitchen, each chef on the line will have their own mise set-up that should NOT be fucked with, lest you incur wrath and rage and backed-up orders.

Olympias, Shigokus, and Kumamotos are all oyster varietals commonly found in the Pacific NW. Olympias are Washington's only native oyster, and have a "copper penny" kind of minerality. Kumamotos are native to Japan but thrive in a number of places in the PNW, and tend to be small and sweet. Shigokus are the Pacific oyster species cultivated in baskets that make them tumble in the tide, which affects how they grow, and are raised in Samish Bay, WA. They are clean, briny, and have a cucumber finish.