What Love Tastes Like (11 page)

It was Labor Day weekend, the official opening for Hotel Le Sol. It had enjoyed a soft opening one week earlier, and select guests had enjoyed the hotel's ambience, spa, professionally equipped gym, and other facilities. But today was when Taste would open its doors. Nick was nervous, but could hardly wait.

Inside, the kitchen was a zoo. Chef Wang barked orders as the kitchen staff chopped, diced, sliced, seared, and stirred. From the moment the first order was taken until the last dessert was served, there was not a spare second. For ten hours straight, the cooks toiled over their assigned tasks, turning out perfection in dish after dish. At the end of the night, which was actually two in the morning, Chef Wang had given Tiffany a brief head nod as she stumbled out of the kitchen. She was too tired to smile, or to join the rest of the kitchen crew for a celebratory cocktail.

“You're gonna miss out,” Roger said, after her initial refusal. “We're going to a fancy schmancy place—”

“I don't care if you're going to the moon,” Tiffany interrupted. “All I want is my bed.”

She reached her car and slumped inside. The only thing on her mind was a hot shower and a soft mattress. Tomorrow would demand a repeat performance. Tiffany wondered where she'd find the energy. Her phone vibrated. She ignored it. But just before she started the car, she changed her mind and read her text messages. There were three. The first was from Joy, wishing her good luck. The second one, from Nick:

Anger and irritation quickly replaced Tiffany's exhaustion. “Who does this asshole think he is?” She had absolutely no intention of dignifying his presumptive message with a response. Didn't he hear her when she said their little tryst was over? What part of professional relationship didn't he understand? When she saw that the third message was also from Nick, she almost ignored it. But curiosity won out. She opened the text message, and poised her thumb over the Delete button.

Just as her blood started to boil, Tiffany remembered Roger's comment.
So this is the fancy schmancy place he was talking about. Nick decided to throw a little get together for the kitchen crew.
“How nice.” Even though this statement was said sarcastically, Tiffany actually admired Nick's kind gesture. He knew how hard they'd worked, and how common it was for crews to share a drink, even after pulling long, hard shifts. “So why didn't you just say that, Nick Rollins?” Tiffany asked aloud as she started the car and shifted into drive.
Probably just to piss me off,
she reasoned.

Less than ten minutes later, Tiffany pulled into Nick's spacious driveway. She yawned, the sleepiness that anger had pushed away now coming back full force. But only for a moment. As soon as Tiffany stepped out of her car, she was on full alert again.
What's wrong with this picture?
There was only one other car in the driveway. And it wasn't Nick's.
His is probably in the garage.
So who was the other guest?

There was only one way to find out. Tiffany steeled herself against the range of emotions she knew would come upon seeing Nick in his home setting, and marched toward the front door. She'd barely rung the doorbell when a strange man opened the door and greeted her.

“Ms. Matthews,” the man said, bowing low. “It is my pleasure to meet you.”

Tiffany frowned. “Where's Nick?”

The stranger, a slight, dark-skinned man with a wiry build, shock of black hair and angular face, offered a wisp of a smile. “Come.” He bowed again, and opened the door wider as he stepped aside.

Tiffany cautiously stepped inside the door. She immediately detected an odor that wasn't food. “Where's Nick?” she asked again.

“He's not here. My name is Picchu, and I am a masseur. He has employed my services for your pleasure and well-being. Please, right this way.”

Tiffany's mind whirled as she followed the man down an unfamiliar hallway. They'd walked the opposite direction from Nick's master suite to a set of guest rooms. The scent she'd smelled in the foyer grew stronger as they came to the end of the hall. Her eyes widened when they entered the room.

The setting was like a fairyland, with dozens of white, pink, and green candles covering every inch of available space. New Age music mixed with the smoke that wafted from oil burners placed on a long table—the source of the floral, earthy aroma. Also on this table were a variety of smooth stones, several bottles of oil, and several large, fluffy white towels.

“What's all this?” she whispered.

“Please. I will give you a moment. Remove your clothes, and your jewelry. Lie on the table and cover yourself with a towel. When I return, I'll explain.”

Moments later, Tiffany felt as if she'd died and gone to heaven. In between Picchu's firm kneading, gentle prodding, and light tapping, he informed her that he was from Peru, and had been a masseur and spiritual healer for twenty years. The blend of flowers and spices, he explained, served to relax, while stimulating the soul toward peace and positive expectation. The heated rocks he placed on various points of her back, stomach and legs were Basalt stones, designed to aid blood circulation while eliminating pain and stress. If Picchu said more, Tiffany didn't remember. She fell asleep on the massage table and woke up with a start—in Nick's bed.

A ringing phone is what had awakened her. Tiffany threw back the covers, puzzled yet thankful to see that she was wearing a long, cotton nightgown. “Nick?” she called out, even though his side of the bed was unruffled. She'd obviously slept alone.
Where is he?

Her phone had stopped ringing but now rang again. This time Tiffany reached for the BlackBerry, which had been conveniently placed on the nightstand beside her. She eyed the clock also sitting on the stand and breathed a sigh of relief. It was only nine o'clock and she wasn't due at work until ten. Her sleep had been so deep and uninterrupted, however, she felt she'd slept ten hours instead of five.

Tiffany glanced at the Caller ID. “Hello, Nick.”

“Good morning, brown sugar, how'd you sleep?”

“Like a baby. You shouldn't have gone to all this trouble, but I appreciate it.”

“It was no trouble, but my pleasure. Picchu has been my masseur for years—”

“He's amazing.”

“I knew you'd think so, which is why I had to pull the boss card in my texts earlier. Forgive me?”

“Where are you?” As soon as the question was out, Tiffany wished she could take it back. Where Nick spent the night was of no concern to her.

“At the hotel, where I spent the night. I wanted to experience what our guests enjoy. But I wish I were there. With you.”

“Nick, listen—”

“Shh. I know. But what you think doesn't stop how a brothah feels about you.” Nick paused. When he spoke again, his tone was professional. “You did great work last night, Tiffany. The guests raved and the
LA Times
gave us a good review. The kitchen should be proud.”

“Thanks, Nick,” Tiffany responded, already missing his flirtatious tone. But it was for the best.

“You're welcome, Tiffany. I'll see you later. At work.”

“Right. At work. Goodbye.”

Tiffany walked through the dressing room on the way to the master bath and was surprised yet again. Her uniform had been washed, and hung pressed and ready on an end hanger. Her shoes were beneath it, shiny and clean.
Who washed my clothes? Picchu? Is that who clothed me and put me to bed?
This thought brought only mild embarrassment. Something about the masseur's almost divine countenance separated him from the average man. She doubted he'd had an untoward thought at seeing her body, if he'd even looked at all.

Nick had thought of everything, had had her pampered like a princess. With all their similarities, Keith Bronson had never treated Tiffany like this.
What if Nick really is my prince?
Tiffany shrugged, knowing the answer to that question. Last night may have felt like a dream but today, in the real world, life was not a fairy tale.

By the time Monday after Labor Day rolled around, Tiffany was beyond tired. She hadn't had a day off in two weeks, and what little time she should have been sleeping was spent tossing and turning with thoughts of Nick. She'd only seen him twice since opening night and Picchu's massage. The first time he was talking to Chef. He'd looked up and smiled. The second time was after a bathroom break, when she encountered a group of important-looking men standing in the hallway that led to the kitchen. Nick was among them, listening to another man. He looked up as she muttered an “excuse me,” before passing, but didn't acknowledge her. His focus zoomed right back in on the man who was speaking. All business, like she wanted.

I don't want to think about him.
Tiffany reached for the stereo knob just as her phone rang. “Hey chick.”

“Hey yourself. You'd better not tell me your butt is still at home.”

“Okay, so I won't tell you.”

“Tiffany Alana!”

“Joy Lynn! Ha! Chill out, girl, I'm on my way.”

“You'd better be. You know what they say about all work and no play…”

“Yeah, well, my name ain't Jack.”

“It ain't Jill either. And you might not be going up the hill with a pail, but you're still in the kitchen fetching water.”

“Joy…you are ig-no-rant, you hear me?” Tiffany said, laughing.

“You know I've got a screw loose. Girl, Randall's been calling me for the past five minutes. Let me go in there and see what he wants.”

“Later.” Tiffany continued smiling as she hung up the phone, thankful that she had a friend like Joy. She thought about Joy and Randall's relationship, how it seemed to come so natural, how they'd gelled from the beginning. The opposite appeared to be true for Tiffany, where finding love was like finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.

There'd been her first love, Tony, whom she'd met her senior year of high school. He'd transferred to her school from Georgia, and she'd immediately been taken with his manners and gentle spirit. She gave him her virginity the night of graduation, the same night she'd had a terrible row with her father. She'd had only two serious relationships since then. The last one had ended when her culinary classmate decided to move to New York without her.

Within seconds of arriving at the Parsons residence, all thoughts of ex-boyfriends, and Nick, were forgotten—replaced by the noise and chaos that typified Joy's household. Tiffany had initially tried to get out of Joy's invite for dinner, but Joy wouldn't take no for an answer. Now, sitting in their living room, talking to the kids and munching on potato chips, she was glad Joy had “gone Leo” on her. For almost a month there had only been Nick and work. She'd rarely talked to her mother and hadn't been by Grand's house. Until now, Tiffany hadn't realized that she missed the rest of her life.

“Okay, it's not bourgie, but it's ready,” Joy yelled from the kitchen. “Lecia, I thought I told you to set the table.”

“She can do that?” Tiffany asked. “I'm impressed.”

“Girl, don't be. Lecia's setting the table consists of putting forks and napkins somewhere in the vicinity of everybody's plate. But she wants to
help Mommy
,” Joy continued, making air quotes. “So I let her.”

Joy allowed it, but Lecia's brother, Randall, Jr., nicknamed Deuce, made sure he contributed as well. He promptly went behind his little sister and knocked the napkins to the floor as soon as she placed them on the table.

“Mama! Deuce is messing up my places!”

“I ain't neither,” Deuce whispered, wanting to keep his taunting between the two of them. “Shut up, fool!”

“Mama, Deuce is pushing me. Tell him to stop!”

“Stop pushing her, Deuce,” Joy said without feeling.

“She pushed me earlier,” Deuce said.

“Don't push your brother,” Joy responded in the same dull tone.

“Ooh, you lying!”

“Stop lying, Deuce.” During this, their umpteenth fight of the day, Joy was answering by rote.

Deuce ran around the dining room table and shouted in Lecia's face. “I ain't lying. You lying!”

“Your breath stinks,” Lecia said calmly.

“Your breath smells like your booty,” Deuce yelled.

“All right, y'all, that's enough,” Randall drawled from in front of the stove. He was from Alabama, and everything he did was slow and easy: cook (which he, too, had learned from his grandmother), talk, walk, and according to Joy, make love. In all the years Tiffany had known him, she'd never once seen him lose his temper. Joy assured her it was a sight she didn't want to see. Watching them interact, Tiffany saw yet again how perfectly Randall's laid-back personality complemented Joy's fiery style. He was the “steady Eddie” to Joy's flightiness, and the family's solid rock. He was loyal and dependable, had worked at UPS for fifteen years.

After a simple yet delicious dinner of round steak, gravy, mashed potatoes, and garlic toast, the kids watched a movie in their parents' room while Randall, Joy, and Tiffany chilled out in the living room.

“Heard you got a man,” Randall said in his lazy verbal style. He flipped idly through the channels, but looked at Tiffany slyly with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yeah, well, your wife has a big mouth.”

“That she does.”

Joy jabbed him playfully. “You're not supposed to agree with her, fool.”

Randall looked at her incredulously. “Woman, it's the truth!”

“In-tee-ways,” Joy said, turning to her husband. “Things have changed. All is not perfect in paradise. If it were,” she continued, looking at Tiffany, “girlfriend would be wearing that glow on her face.”

“What glow?”

“The satisfied
pushy
glow.”

Tiffany's response was an open mouth and wide eyes. In the Parsons household, “pushy” referred to one's vagina, the word adopted after Lecia, then two years old, mispronounced what she'd heard her foulmouthed father say.

“Girl, please, Randall knows all about the pushy glow. Don't you, baby?”

“You wearing it, ain't cha?”

“Damn skippy, baby.” Joy's tone was sweet, but she turned to Tiffany and made a face.

“Well, all right then.” Randall went back to flipping channels, and put his arm around Joy's shoulders in a possessive fashion. Joy snuggled closer, and rested her head on his shoulder.

“I guess I probably should leave you two lovebirds,” Tiffany said, feeling a sudden pang of loneliness. “I only have this one day off. Tomorrow, it's back to the grind.”

“I thought you were supposed to get perks when you sleep with the boss?” Randall's eyes never left the television, convincing Tiffany that he could talk and listen at the same time.

“Even if I was sleeping with him, the last thing I'd want is to be treated differently. I want to get to the top of the culinary world on the basis of what I do in the kitchen, not in the bedroom.”

“Damn, girl, why you fucking him, then?”

“What a crass question, Mr. Parsons. You and Joy make the perfect couple,” Tiffany said dryly. “I guess after a while the two really do become one.”

Randall muted the television and gave Tiffany his undivided attention. “Look, he's getting more than being an employee out of you, you should get more than being a boss out of him. That just fair play right there.”

“Okay, that's it, I'm outtie.” Tiffany rose from the couch.

“Get a raise, an extra week's vacation or some shit.”

“Bye, Joy. Bye, Randall.”

“Don't be stuck on stupid, Tiff. Hit that rich mutha-fucka up for a car, a house, or somethin'!” Randall's rumbling laughter followed Tiffany and Joy down the hallway and out the door.

“Girl, don't pay him no mind. He's just jerking your chain.”

“I know.” Tiffany gave Joy a hug.

“I know y'all are having a little tiff, pun intended, but you do need that brothah to throw out some major ducketts…real talk.”

“Joy…”

“Aren't you ready to move to Malibu?”

“On that note…”

“At least let him hook you up with a pedicure. I noticed your feet tonight, and those toenails are not cute.”

“Forget you, heifah.”

“Bye, girl.”