The Way to His Heart

Chapter 1Elliot slumped on the couch as he scrolled on his computer through the job site’s list of openings that “matched” his search. A hundred hits, with only a few that met his qualifications—hell, matched his field—but he saved each remotely possible one. It did nothing to improve his mood. He pulled the blanket on his lap a little higher, trying to delay the cold from setting in. He’d lowered the thermostat to fifty-five, the lowest his landlord recommended to avoid bursting the pipes, and the apartment was miserable, but it was better than the alternative of not being able to pay the bills. He switched windows on the computer, to where a message from Tom—his lone friend from back home—waited. Tom: How’s the job treating you? My office scheduled what feels like a holiday party every week now. As if we need more reason to be unfocused and unruly! Elliot grimaced. His job was treating him rather poorly, considering he’d moved here for the position. They’d rewarded him by downsizing a year later and letting him go. The only positive was it hadn’t just been him—good for his spirit, if not for the other unlucky souls who were laid off—and at least he’d had a little unemployment to collect. But after two months without any successful hits on his résumé and with a frankly depressing Thanksgiving alone in his shabby apartment eating turkey sandwiches and canned cranberry sauce, those positives were wearing thin. As was his bank account. Elliot: Oh, you know how work is, never a day’s peace. Not as fanatic about the holidays as your place. Too busy meeting deadlines. At least, that was how it had been last year, when he’d been gainfully employed as a junior graphics designer in a marketing company. Elliot: But I have to go—I decided to take a cooking class to learn to make something other than ramen. Tom: Have fun. I’m going on a date with Liz Elliot: You better treat her right! Tom: Hey, I put a ring on it for a reason ;) The tender ache in his chest gave a mournful throb at that. He’d not been able to get back home for Tom’s wedding over the summer. Tom had understood money was tight for him without his parents to help pay for a flight or give him a place to stay, and Tom’s own place was packed to the gills with relatives. Plus, a good number of Tom’s friends were ones who had used Elliot’s move as an excuse to cut ties. He swallowed hard against the memories. Elliot: Well, have fun. Talk to you later. He closed the chat and his laptop, and unburrowed from the pile of blankets—he did have a class to get to, and it was a cooking class, although it was slightly less about making something other than ramen and more about the class being free. Promise of a hot room and maybe eating what they made? Yes, please. He stripped out of his grungy sweats and hoodie and into jeans and a T-shirt, layered with a fresh hoodie and his coat, because while it might only be Black Friday, it was already colder than with proverbial witch’s. He hoped it wasn’t a harbinger of the winter to come. The blast of cold air as he stepped outside didn’t make him optimistic, but he lowered his head and made the thankfully short trek to the bus stop that would take him to the community center, where the classes were being held. A five-week session starting tonight and lasting until Christmas Eve, touted as “Making Merry on a Budget.” Elliot could use some merry right now. Especially on a budget. From the outside, the community center looked like it could use some merry, too: a dreary gray concrete block that sat like a domino among the surrounding buildings. The only difference from its brethren was the children’s playground that peeked out down the alleyway, the lights glowing in the windows, and the tiny rainbow-flag sticker by the front door, quietly proclaiming this to be a safe space. Inside, the cheer was a little more present. A few seasonal decorations, bright lights, and warmth. He shook off the chill and opened his coat to let in the heat as he approached the front desk where a young woman (okay, not that much younger than him), sat, clattering away on an old desktop computer. She looked up, a smile lighting her face that he suspected not everyone got. “Hi! How can I help you?” This was somehow more embarrassing to admit to someone his own age than if it had been a grandmotherly old woman. “I’m looking for the, uh, cooking class?” “Oh, cool. Is it like a how-to?” “Well, it’s ‘Making Merry on a Budget’ so I don’t think it’ll cover basics.” He shrugged in the face of her rapt attention. “Nice. You handling all the cooking for your family this year?” It took all his effort not to wince and blurt out that he didn’t have any family to cook for. Instead, he tried to keep the smile in place. “Just trying to cook better. And on a budget.” “Right? I go grocery shopping with my mom because she insists I learn how to run a household, and I never realized how much food costs. I mean, I thought it was expensive when we ate out, but I have a new appreciation for why we eat pasta so much!” She grinned up at him, welcoming him to share the joke. He smiled shyly. “Pasta is a good go-to. Hopefully, the class will have more suggestions than that.” He cleared his throat. “Where is the class at?” “Oh!” She laughed, doing a full head-toss that sent her straight blonde hair into a rippling wave. “Sorry! All the cooking classes are held at the end of the hall.” She gestured behind herself. “There’s two sets of double doors, go in the one to the left.” “Thanks.” He headed the direction she’d indicated. The room was easy to find, and his moment of panic (did she say doors on the left or the right?) was answered by a burst of chatter from the room on the left. He pushed open the door and stepped into a large room with several small kitchenettes built along the walls with prep tables cordoning them off from folding tables that could serve as eating or teaching space. The kitchenette at the front of the room was larger and had a blackboard beside it (wow, it had been a long time since he’d seen one of those!), with a recipe already printed neatly on it in chalk. He didn’t notice much after that because his eyes landed on the man setting out pots and pans in the front kitchen. Fit was the first word to come to mind, followed quickly by That ass as the guy bent down to pull something from a box and Jeeesus when the guy’s muscles flexed as he straightened, lifting a slow cooker onto the counter. Elliot was glad to no longer be a hormonal teenager who popped wood at the slightest thing, because that man definitely would have caused a reaction. Hell, there was almost a reaction without the teenage hormones. Shaking his head clear, Elliot yanked his attention to the rest of the room, which was mostly filled with women in their thirties and forties, a few a bit older, and two old men who were sitting beside each other and not talking. Elliot was the youngest by a few years, and probably one of the few without kids who were stretching his dollars. His cheeks warmed with the distinct sense of being out of place, but he forced himself to shuffle into a free seat (all of which were in the front of the room). As soon as Elliot’s butt landed, the man at the front turned from whatever he’d been fussing with, glanced at his watch, and flashed the class a smile. A white-toothed smile that gleamed in his dark face under his soft-brown eyes. Congenial and pleasant, and yet with his short-cropped black hair and light blue sweater over khakis, he radiated professionalism. And s*x appeal, although that might not have been on purpose. Elliot was sure he wasn’t the only one in the room swooning, though. “Hello, everyone. It’s six o’clock, so I’m going to go ahead and start. I hope you’re all here for ‘Making Merry on a Budget’—or else snuck in to sample what we’ll be making today.” A quiet ripple of laughter answered him. “Great! Well, my name’s Micah Dougherty, and I’ll be your instructor for the next five weeks. I’m going to try to cover the basics for anyone less familiar with the kitchen, but hopefully offer some tips for more advanced cooks as well. My goal is to share ways to save money in the kitchen, especially when cooking for Christmas, but also for the whole year. Each week we’ll cook one of the recipes using my tips, so you’ll get to experience the food yourself before going out and buying the ingredients. “Speaking of which, I want to give a huge shout-out to Jumbo Food Stores for donating the ingredients to this class. I also want to clarify that I’m not a professional chef—I’m a home cook like you, although I own Bake to You, a home kitchen supply store that I’m obligated to recommend everyone check out.” Another flashy smile and Elliot planned to take his nonexistent funds to check out the store. “Now, let’s get started!” Micah made the idea of cooking sound exciting and the thought of using all those cooking utensils seem possible. And he only name-dropped his store when it was appropriate to what he was saying. Once he’d done a quick and dirty of tools of the trade, he shifted to the night’s recipe. After providing shopping tips and instructions, he broke the class into groups so each had their own kitchen, with a mix of experienced and inexperienced cooks. Elliot’s team consisted of himself, a grandmotherly woman who introduced herself as Gracie, and a harried woman in her thirties named Sara. Gracie said she was taking the class to better live on a budget now that her dear Harold was gone, but she gave the impression she wanted to get out of the house. Sara was a mother of two struggling to keep the holidays from being too strapped for options and was able to get out of the house using the center-provided childcare. She looked like she could use all of it. “What about you?” Gracie asked, all care and concern. “I’m surprised to see a young man like you spending your Friday nights learning to cook.” “Well, I do know how to cook,” he said, trying not to bristle. “But the bare basics. So I thought it’d be a good time to learn more.” He attempted a wholesome-boy-next-door smile. “Good for you! My Harold never did learn to cook, and let me tell you—” She seemed to be winding up for a long tirade when Sara cleared her throat and interrupted: “We should get started on the recipe.” Elliot gave her a thankful smile. “You’re right. What should I do?” They divvied up the tasks under Gracie’s guidance, and Elliot was set to cubing the bread. “Nice and even, all the same size. Very good,” a deep, smooth voice said. Elliot startled and looked up, wide eyes landing on a kind smile set in a handsome face. Micah’s smile widened when their gazes met, and a little tremor of intense pleasure fluttered in Elliot’s chest. Just before the pain struck his hand. “f**k!” He jerked back, knife in one hand, a thin slice in the skin of the other. “Ouch, motherfucker.” Some part of his brain rationalized that he shouldn’t be cursing so much in front of women the age of his grandma and a sexy business owner, but it hurt. The cut was a clean, thin line across the back of his pointer finger and the blood was starting to creep out, as delayed as his own reaction had been. Before panic could set in and before the blood made a flashier appearance, blue-clad hands pressed a paper towel to the cut and firmly held it in place. Elliot blinked, and met Micah’s eyes again, the other man’s expression more apologetic this time. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have distracted you while you were slicing food.” “The knife was sharp,” Elliot blurted, then he wished he could take his hand back to cover his face, because no s**t. Heat rushed up his neck and landed in his cheeks. “I mean, I should have been paying attention to what I was doing.” “And I shouldn’t have snuck up on you.” Using his grip on Elliot’s finger, Micah pulled them away from the food-prep area and gingerly opened the paper towel. Still bleeding, but at a glance it didn’t look like something that needed stitches. Micah nodded. “Let’s wrap this up so you can get back to your group.” “Thanks.” The heat in Elliot’s face increased, and he was about to offer to keep the pressure on the finger himself, when he realized he still had the knife in his hand, like a nitwit. So instead, he let himself be led, Micah still holding onto his finger, over to the tiny first aid station in the corner of the room, where Micah proceeded to rinse out the cut. Elliot flinched at the first sting of cleanser. “Wow, I’m doing stellar at this cooking thing.” Micah laughed softly as he worked. “You’re doing fine. We’ve all cut ourselves, and I should have warned you that I was approaching. Though you might want to stop what you’re doing if you’re going to look away from a sharp knife near your fingers.” “I think I’ve learned that lesson.” Although, as the embarrassment faded—or at least settled down—a different heat stirred. Micah’s touch was gentle and considerate, and probably completely professional, but it was nice. The last person to touch him—not counting the jostle of bodies on the bus—had been his boss shaking his hand goodbye. Fuck, that had been so long ago. And even though the hands on him now were no more intimate than his boss’s touch, they made him wish they were. “Are you feeling lightheaded?” “What?” Elliot shook his head to clear his thoughts. “No. I’m fine. Sorry.” “If you are, that’s okay, let me know,” Micah said reasonably. “Pain and the sight of blood affect everyone differently. Don’t push yourself if you’re not feeling well.” Rather than explain that he’d been having dirty thoughts about Micah’s hands touching him all over, and embarrass himself further, Elliot said, “Nope, fine. Just wondering when you grabbed those disposable gloves.” “Oh, I always carry a pair or two with me for this exact reason. Best to be prepared.” All too soon Micah was firmly wrapping Elliot’s injury in a water-resistant bandage and sending him back to his group, knife left with Micah because obviously Elliot couldn’t be trusted with it. Nice first impression.