Breaking the Beast by Nicole Casey
Isabel
Okay,I was definitely lost.
I rounded another corner and found yet another identical hallway. I sighed. There was no way I was going to find my way back to my bedroom on my own. My only hope was to keep wandering until I found someone who could get me back on track.
I hadn’t wandered very far when I began to notice the delicious scent of simmering garlic and onions. Following my nose, I found myself in an ornate kitchen. Distracted as I was by the spotless countertops and gleaming appliances, I almost didn’t notice the man at the stove. As the heavy door slammed behind me, he turned toward me, a tall, thin black man with a wooden spoon in his hand.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to intrude, it just smelled so good … ”
The man smiled gently. “Never apologize to a chef for appreciating his work,” he said. He came towards me, wiping his hands on his apron. “You must be Isabel, I am Isiah Boucher.” He held his hand out to shake.
“You left me the tea and sandwiches in my room,” I said. “They were wonderful; thank you so much.”
Isiah beamed. “De rien, it was nothing.”
“What are you making now?” I asked, taking a step towards the stove.
“Our main course for tonight, boeuf bourguignon,” Isiah said. “Have you had it?” I shook my head. “A beef stew made with red wine, a perfect dish for when the weather starts to turn chilly, like tonight.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“Ah, are you a chef, yourself?” Isiah asked.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I said, “but I do like to bake, when I have the time.”
Isiah’s face lit up, revealing deep dimples in either cheek. “A baker!” he said. “Well then, I must have you try something.” With that, he disappeared into what turned out to be, on closer inspection, an enormous walk-in refrigerator, emerging a moment later balancing a tray of ramekins on one arm. “Un moment,” he said, picking up a small kitchen torch and expertly caramelizing the tops of two of the puddings.
“Bon appétit,” he said, pushing one of the dishes of crème brûlée across the counter towards me.
“Oh my,” I breathed, entranced by the perfect golden-brown crust and the scent of caramelized sugar. Isiah handed me a spoon, which I tapped against the crust of the pudding with a satisfying crack. He watched proudly as my eyes widened at the first taste. “This is wonderful,” I said, quickly returning for a second bite.
“My own recipe,” Isiah said. “But it is not quite perfect yet.”
I had to disagree; the caramelized sugar melted on my tongue, leaving the rich flavor of the custard to linger. Still, I thought back on the baking lessons my mother had given me as a child. “Have you tried using whole vanilla beans, instead of extract?” I asked. Isiah’s eyes widened.
“Brilliant,” he said, scribbling a note on a pad on the counter. “I shall have to try that with my next batch,” he added appreciatively.
“My mother was an excellent baker,” I said. “She taught me a few tricks when I was younger.” I changed the subject. “Have you also been working here for five years?”
“Oui,” Isiah said, returning the tray of crème brûlée to the fridge. “Before that, I worked as Jacques’ personal chef and nutritionist, before his retirement.” Taking up a spoon, Isiah cracked into his own pudding.
“So you’ve been cooking for a long time,” I said.
“All my life,” Isiah said. “It is my favorite thing: to feed people. What better way is there to care for those you love than to give them delicious food that makes them happy?”
I smiled. He sounded so much like my mother, who often spent whole days in the kitchen, cooking up elaborate meals to feed her large family.
“It must have been a blessing to learn to cook in France,” I said.
“Bien sur,” Isiah said. “There is no better place in the world to learn about food. Have you been to Paris, Isabel?”
“Once, but I was very young,” I said. “My class went on a school trip. I’ve always wanted to go back.”
“It is a beautiful city,” Isiah agreed. “What was your favorite part?”
“The chocolate,” I answered instantly, and we both laughed. “I found this tiny chocolatier tucked away in a back street, and I could have happily spent the rest of my life there.”
“I see we share a sweet tooth,” Isiah said. “I’ve been working on perfecting that crème brûlée recipe for a few years now. I feel I am much closer now with your help.”
“It’s the best crème brûlée I’ve ever had,” I assured him truthfully. “You should publish a cookbook.”
Isiah beamed. “I have been working on a book,” he confessed. “The recipes are easy, but the introductions are proving harder to write.”
“I’d be happy to take a look at it,” I offered. “That is, if you want.”
“That would be lovely,” Isiah said. “I have read your articles . You are an excellent writer.”
I felt my face color slightly at the praise. “That’s very kind of you to say,” I said. “But I should let you get back to work. Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
Isiah considered. “The carrots need to be chopped,” he said. “Here, go wash your hands, and I will prepare them for you.”
I followed his instructions and returned to where Isiah had laid out a cutting board, a bunch of freshly washed carrots, and a sharp knife. He watched me at work for a few moments before speaking up.
“If you hold the knife in one place and use your other hand to move the carrots, you will get a more even cut.” He positioned himself behind me. “May I?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had so much male attention. Gently, Isiah reached his arms around me and placed his hands over mine.
“I guess I’m out of practice,” I said, a little breathlessly. “I haven’t had much time to spend in the kitchen the last few years, since my mother died.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said softly, his breath tickling my ear. His hands shifted over mine, arranging them where he wanted.“Hold your knife hand steady, like so, and move the carrots toward the knife as you chop. You see how this saves time and effort?”
“Yes,” I breathed, entranced by the sight of his large, dark hands over my smaller ones. They almost felt separate from my body. He pressed closer to me, and I gasped as I felt the hard length of him against me. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one affected by our proximity.
“Is this okay?” he asked and I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady if I tried to speak. “Good.” Gently, he set the knife down on the countertop and spun me around, making me gasp.
His dark eyes met mine, questioning. If I were going to break away, this would be the time to do so. I considered pulling away. That would be the professional thing to do. But his eyes drew me, and the gentle stroke of his thumb against my hip was my undoing. I nodded again.
Before I had a chance to second-guess, he was kissing me, his lips firm but gentle against mine. I tensed for a moment before I relaxed into him, his hands roaming along my sides and back before cupping my ass and pulling me tight against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck and felt more than heard his responding moan. He backed me up until I was pressed against the counter behind me, and I was trapped between the cold marble and the firm heat of his body.
I don’t know how long we stayed that way before he pulled away, breathing heavily. “You should go,” he said, nipping gently at my earlobe and making me squirm against him. “I’ll never finish dinner with you here, and there are a lot of hungry men out there who will be very disappointed if they don’t get dinner promptly at seven.”
The mention of the other men had an instant cooling effect on me, and I pulled away, blushing furiously. “Please don’t tell them,” I stammered, before turning and fleeing the kitchen.
This time, I found my room right away.
