Mirepoix (A Recipe Of Love Book 1) (3 page)

“So have you settled on the ribeye this time sprout?”

“I’m 5’3” definitely taller than a sprout!”

“Nope definitely a sprout.” He ruffles my hair as he says this

“Yes, you big bully, I want some ribeye.” Anthony is even bigger than Joe at 6’6” and has a big bushy beard and a fade cut pompadour. His brown eyes dance with merriment as he antagonizes me. He’s like the big brother I never wanted and wish I could return. My mind drifts as I imagine auctioning him off to the women that would flock if they saw him in the main shop. He likes to hide in the back and let his dad stay the face of the business.

He looks between me and Joe with an evil expression on his face, “So am I giving you enough to feed 3 grown men, since you eat 1 of our date night specials by yourself?”

I pull back and look at Joe from inches away. “Wanna come to dinner?”

“Yes if for no other reason than to see you eat that much steak. You’re tiny and I don’t think it’s possible.”

I pat his arm and lean back around him to look at Anthony, I may need to invest in a pair of stilts around these giants. “Okay 2 monster ribeyes and full chicken. Remember to have my butt ready for me to pick up on Friday!”

As Anthony walks around the counter to the back to get my meat I hear “Your butt?” hissed in my ear.

“Yeah, my Boston butt. I’m going to do up a massive amount of pulled pork this weekend and don’t have the room in my fridge for it. Luckily Anthony has a massive fridge at his house and agreed to take it home with him. He has to remember to put my rub on it Thursday so I can put it directly into the smoker when I get home on Friday.”

“Wait, I’ve been in your apartment, there’s no smoker in it.”

“No, the smoker is behind the building, on the patio. I wanted to put it on the roof but I’m pretty sure it would violate some fire code or another.” I’m still standing inches away and all I want to do is pet his t-shirt. I’m a very tactile person and it looks incredibly soft, add in that he smells like cedarwood again, which means the shirt likely does too and it’s like catnip for me. I’m so wrapped up in ideas on how I can get the shirt off of him to steal it I’m not really paying attention to the conversation.

“I didn’t know there was a patio behind your building. Do you share it with the other residents? How do you know they won’t mess with your smoker?”

“The only other resident is Lindsay and she won’t touch my smoker or she won’t get nummies! She knows the rules!” I’m now thinking of how he’s so big and I’m fun sized so I could definitely make the shirt into a dress. It would lose that amazing scent the first time I wash it but would still be soft. At least I assume it’s soft. It looks really soft. I should touch it just to be sure.

“Wait that’s a five story building and I know there’s an office for a PR firm on the first floor, do you have two floor apartments? There’s no way there’s a vacancy in a building like yours in South Philly.”

“No, they’re single floor apartments. Her PR firm is on the 1st. I live on the 2nd. She lives on the 3rd. The 4th is packing and storage. The 5th is manufacturing.” I’m trying to figure out how to touch his shirt without giving him any weird ideas. He is looking rather tall, broody and gorgeous today though. He also has been a good sport and made conversation with all the shopkeepers and didn’t roll his eyes at anything other than my oddball behavior. Maybe I could accidentally trip over my own feet and have to catch myself using his chest to stop my fall…

“Wait, I thought you didn’t make and sell your food? How can you afford the rent on a place that size in the city?”

“I don’t rent it either. I own it outright.” Must touch the shirt. I start sneaking my right hand up to brush the bottom of the shirt. He probably won’t even notice if I just touch the bottom of his shirt. He’ll think it’s the wind blowing it. Wait, we’re inside. Wind from the door opening that might work.

“You’re what 25? How do you own an entire building in one of the most expensive cities in the country? If you’re not making food what do you need to manufacture and store?”

“I’m 29, so thanks. I inherited it from Gram. Soaps and lotions mostly, I make some random clothes and sell them but that’s more of a hobby than anything.” Someone bumps into me from the side and I finally get my chance and catch myself with my left hand spread on his chest. It is just as soft as I imagined. The chest under it is rock solid and unyielding against my hand, I can’t help petting him a few times. The combination of soft fabric over hard muscles and the scent of him has hypnotized me, at least that’s the excuse I’m giving if he starts asking uncomfortable questions like ‘Why are you petting me weirdo?’.

Luckily I am saved from any awkward questions by Anthony popping up beside us, with my neatly stacked white butcher paper wrapped packages, shouting “Stop molesting the man Frankie!”

I react with my normal grace and poise by jumping so high I’m shocked I don’t hit Joe’s chin with my head, while shrieking loud enough I expect to hear car alarms going off and dogs barking. I glare at Anthony for making me look like an idiot, I can do a grand job on my own thank you very much! I snatch my packages out of his hands and shove them in my tote, moving stuff around attempting to find my wallet I’m interrupted with a hand on my arm and Joe’s deep voice.

“I’ve got this Pixie,” he says as he hands folded bills to Anthony waving off the change “now where to next?”

“Salt bar! I almost forgot! Let’s go!” I’m nearly bouncing in my excitement and drag him to and out of the door rambling about different salts and herbs I need to buy today. Totally blaming it on the cedarwood and t-shirt/chest combo.

4

Running around my apartment I make sure there’s nothing embarrassing laying out, I don’t want Joe to find one of my bodice ripper romance novels or a comic book to give him further ammunition to poke at me about. After introducing him to the wonder of the salt bar where you can purchase different fancy salts from all around the world, I promised him I would answer his questions about my Grandma and my building when he came over for dinner. While I wanted to take him to the market this morning and invited him to have dinner with me, kind of, I wasn’t up for spending all day with him.

I had plenty to fill my Monday as it was. It might have been Joe’s day off, but it was another work day for me, luckily my work day is fluid and as long as I got the work I needed to done, it didn’t matter when I did it or how long it took. After Joe dropped me off at my building and I stashed my purchases away I dealt with the boring details of my work first. I got all my orders that needed to go out today boxed up and shipped out first. Thank god for delivery companies that do pickups since I don’t drive it would be a nightmare getting the big heavy boxes of soap to a post office or delivery shop. After dealing with the boring administration stuff that goes with a small business I got to go up and play in my secret laboratory as it has been deemed.

I love my manufacturing floor. I have everything set up perfectly, all my ingredients are organized in a way that makes sense to me but probably no one else. I
want to have the ingredients I need close at hand in case in the middle of a batch I change my mind, which happens more often than I care to admit. Sometimes I’ll get halfway through a batch and decide I want a different color because the scent leads me in a different direction.  I got caught up
like I always do, which is what lead to my frantic dash around my apartment. I planned on making a batch of soap and then cleaning and giving myself plenty of time to get ready so I looked amazing but didn’t look like I actually made an effort.

As I finish checking my throw pillows for unidentified food type stains, I realize what I’m doing. I don’t want him to see the mess that is my normal state of being. I’m not going to let myself acknowledge what that might mean. I’m going to blame it on the soft t-shirt and cedarwood haze from this morning.

I pull a chrome and black barstool out from beside the island and sink down relaxing for a minute. I allow myself to look around my apartment and wonder how Joe will interpret it. His first time here I don’t think he allowed himself to be distracted from his mission of figuring out how he was defeated, which wouldn’t have permitted himself to analyze my space. The loft itself as well as the entire building is narrow but deep. When you walk in the door, the kitchen is to the left with the fridge and sink against the front wall and the stove on the far left. My island I had installed to give me more counter space serves to divide the kitchen space from the living room but maintain the open floor plan. There’s track lighting in the kitchen but no overhead lighting anywhere else in the loft. Moving into the living room there’s the dining area on the right with my long table and chairs in black with clean lines. More often than not when I get invaded we eat at the island so the table collects all the flotsam of my life, one of the things I made myself deal with during my cleaning spree.

The big u-shaped microfiber couch dominates the rest of the living room. It sits facing my large flat screen television mounted between large industrial looking windows with frosted glass. Since the frosted glass protects my privacy I didn’t bother with blinds or curtains to block out the light that trickles in. Philadelphia row homes are typically side by side so I lucked out with the few feet separating mine from the one on the left side which allows me to have windows. I have small end tables scattered everywhere holding plants and lamps, and 2 massive ottomans in lieu of a coffee table. On the back wall of the living room the hallway leads to the bathroom and bedrooms, I have bookshelves on either side of it with books taking up every inch possible.

Not visible from where I’m sitting my bedroom on the right side of the hallway, with its giant bed.  I may be tiny but I need plenty of space to toss and turn so I bought myself a California king that takes up every inch of space on one end of the room. There’s
barely enough room beside the bed to walk so I got a headboard that has drawers and cubbies in it to hold all the stuff that is normally kept in night stands. I have a clamp on lamp anchored on the side since I can’t have a lamp next to the bed. At the other end I have my closet that necessitates an organizer due to how small it is, it has bars for my few dresses and clothes that need to hang up, the rest of it has shelves and cubbies for my shoes, shirts and leggings that are my everyday uniform.

My bathroom and office is on the left side of the hallway. A couple years ago I finally gave in to my urges and expanded the bathroom taking a few feet from the spare room and made it an office. I figured no one ever stayed over and if they do the ottomans can be shoved into the open u of the couch making it essentially a giant bed. I also had a service elevator installed on the back wall of the building that opens into my office, Lindsay’s office and the manufacturing and storage floors to help bring in supplies and move out deliveries. The only people who know about it are the people who put it in, ourselves, and the city people who approved its installation.

My office holds the basics of a modern desk, a computer, and more bookshelves. These shelves hold my soap making books. There’s always a new book coming out with exciting methods and recipes. The art is never stagnant and trying to keep up with new information is challenging. On the bottom shelf my own personal books on the subject are lined up like neat little soldiers. I drag them out and haul them with me any time I go to any craft fairs or expos since I always get asked about my process by well-meaning people who don’t understand the amount of math and science that goes into craft soap making.

I’m shaken from my mental perusal of my den by the buzzer sounding, I check my small video monitor
to see it’s Joe at the door.  He’s still in his jeans but has put a button up black shirt over the gray shirt that has been haunting me
all day. I go over and open the door waiting for him to get up the stairs to me. As he crests the stairs to my floor, he gives me a strangely angry look when he sees me in the open door.

“Please tell me you somehow knew it was me coming in and you don’t just open the door to random strangers like that.” Comes from clenched teeth.

“Oh! I had a video system installed when we updated the security last year! It’s pretty cool! It records all the time and when someone rings the buzzer we can check the monitor and see who it is and remotely unlock the doors! If it’s someone nefarious, we can also hit the panic lock and nothing short of the fire department or national guard can get in here.” His concern for my safety makes me feel warm and fuzzy and almost makes me forget his first visit here.

“Nefarious? Who uses nefarious in casual conversation?”

“People who read a lot?”

“Do you want to explain why you need a security system that allows you to go into lockdown?” He’s looking at me softly with concern now. I am willing to bet he’s a mama’s boy in the best sense. Most people use it as an insult meaning a weak man with an unhealthy dependence on his mother but I think the term should also
refer to the men who love and respect their mothers.  The respect and overprotectiveness
tends to overflow onto women in general, which is great at times but can lead to problems if a woman thinks she’s special when she’s not really. I have to remind myself that he would probably
react this way to any woman he thought was in danger. 

“It’s not me who needs it, and no I won’t tell you anymore since it’s not my story to tell. It works out well for me though with the amount of lye I have to keep upstairs as well as other expensive ingredients.” I wave him through the open door and shut it at our backs.