Month of Sundays (13 page)

“See,” Griffin said with a self-satisfied smile. “I told you.”

Rachel replaced the mui powder on its shelf and reached for another container. This one she hid behind her back. “Is it true chefs are trained to recognize spices by smell and taste, not just by sight?”

Griffin nodded. “It’s one of the many taste tests in culinary school.”

“How did you do?”

Taking a page out of Rachel’s book, Griffin turned self-deprecating. “The first time I took the test or the second?”

Rachel walked over to her. “Close your eyes,” she said, standing between Griffin’s spread legs.

Griffin took a sip of beer to cleanse her palate. Her eyelids fluttered shut. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Test you.” When Rachel brought her hands up, Griffin opened one eye. “Don’t cheat.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll play it straight.”

Rachel couldn’t resist teasing her. “Don’t do that, either.”

Griffin opened her eyes again. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

After Griffin closed her eyes a second time, Rachel tied a dish towel around her head and fashioned it into a makeshift blindfold.

Griffin wrapped her legs around Rachel’s waist and pulled her closer. Rachel didn’t pull away as she felt their relationship begin to make the wide turn from platonic to something undefined but decidedly different.

“You’re not turning all
9½ Weeks
on me already, are you?” Griffin asked.

“Maybe,” Rachel said as the heat from Griffin’s body blended with hers. “Would you like that?”

Griffin reached inside Rachel’s jacket and rubbed her hands up and down her sides. “Only if we leave Mickey Rourke at home and both of us get to be Kim Basinger.”

“I’ll start practicing my Southern accent.” Rachel uncapped the jar in her hand and waved it under Griffin’s nose.

“Hold on. I wasn’t ready.”

Griffin’s hands stopped moving and Rachel could tell she was frowning underneath her blindfold. Griffin was taking the challenge more seriously than she had anticipated.

She reached into the jar with two fingers and pulled out some of its contents. “Open wide.”

Griffin’s lips twitched as desire crossed her features. Her legs tightened around Rachel’s waist, drawing her even closer.

Rachel placed the mystery ingredient on Griffin’s tongue. Griffin worked it around the inside of her mouth, took a couple of tentative crunches, and swallowed it down.

“When Tucker told me to shove something in your mouth,” Rachel whispered in her ear, “I don’t think this is what he meant.”

“Tuck’s had worse things in his mouth than a roasted cacao nib.” Griffin had passed her test. Her hands, meanwhile, moved toward the final exam. One headed north, the other south. “What time is it?” she asked, nuzzling the side of Rachel’s neck.

“Almost midnight.” Rachel could hear the countdown beginning in the living room. Griffin’s lips brushed her skin, causing the fine hairs on the nape of her neck to stand on end. “If you’re serious about kissing someone who counts, you’d better find her in a hurry.”

Griffin reached up and removed her blindfold. “I already did.” She drew a finger across Rachel’s lips. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been wondering how it would feel to kiss you.”

Rachel had been having similar thoughts.

In the living room, the countdown reached one, the guests roared, and the DJ started blasting “Auld Lang Syne.”

“Happy New Year, Puddles.”

Griffin bridged the short distance between them and pressed her lips to Rachel’s. Her lips were impossibly soft, her tongue the best thing Rachel had tasted all night. Griffin kissed the way she cooked. Freely. Passionately. Expertly. Rachel was breathless when she finally broke free.

“Same time next year?” Griffin asked.

“It’s a date.” Rachel rested her forehead against Griffin’s. “Speaking of which, I’ve decided where I’d like to go for the first of the thirty you promised me.”

“Yeah? Where?” Griffin’s hands slid down Rachel’s back and over the curve of her ass. Rachel’s nipples grew even more rigid as she imagined Griffin’s hands moving that deliberately over her bare skin.

“How’s your French?”

Griffin flashed a cocky grin. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

She kissed Rachel again and slowly slipped her tongue between Rachel’s parted lips. Their tongues slid against each other’s in a slow and torturous dance that kept pace with the sinuous rhythm their bodies had unconsciously assumed.

Rachel closed her lips around Griffin’s tongue and exerted gentle pressure as she drew it deeper inside. She groaned deep in her throat as she felt her body become infused with warmth.

“It seems to me,” she began in a hoarse whisper, “your French is pretty damn good.”

Griffin kissed the tip of Rachel’s nose. “You should hear my Spanish.”

For their first date, Griffin took Rachel to France via Harlem. The venerable borough, home to the Harlem Renaissance in the ’20s and ’30s, had fallen on hard times over the years but seemed to be on the upswing. New businesses were popping up everywhere in order to accommodate the influx of Yuppies who had taken up residence in the area. Drawn by the hip multicultural vibe, lower rent, and the best soul food north of the Mason-Dixon Line, thousands of New Yorkers had abandoned Manhattan for Harlem. Griffin couldn’t blame them. Navigating the streets was like walking with one foot in the past and one in the future. It was the best of both worlds.

Walking arm in arm, she and Rachel window shopped at half a dozen stores and visited several art galleries. She wanted to buy one of everything, but she limited herself to a Big Mama Thornton/Muddy Waters album she unearthed at a locally-owned record store on Lexington Avenue. Jazz was the perfect background music for the beginning of a romantic evening, but the blues provided her preferred soundtrack for the end of the night—when sweet nothings were replaced by impassioned pleas.

After a productive hour perusing the stacks at Hot Wax, she took Rachel to Bordeaux, a tiny restaurant that seated ten—if that. Located a stone’s throw from the historic Apollo Theater, Bordeaux looked more like a home than a place of business. It felt like one, too. Instead of individual tables interspersed throughout the restaurant, one long dining table occupied the center of the room. Patrons shared it as if they were all attending the same dinner party or family reunion.

The owner, Aravane De Montbrai, was a striking beauty of French-Algerian descent. She and Griffin greeted each other effusively, kissing each other’s cheeks the Continental way.

“It’s good to see you, my friend,” Aravane said in French.

“You, too,” Griffin responded in kind.

“How long has it been?”

“Five years? Six?” Griffin wracked her brain for the answer. She hadn’t seen Aravane since they had spent nine months learning the fine art of French cooking at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris.

“Longer than I care to remember.”

Griffin indicated the crowded restaurant. “You’re certainly doing well for yourself.”

“But not as well as you.” Aravane glanced at Rachel. “She’s adorable.”

“Keep that sexy accent to yourself. I saw her first.”

Aravane seated Griffin and Rachel in two recently vacated spaces at the communal table. Next to them were two couples having a spirited conversation about the Giants’ chances of winning another Super Bowl. According to the men, the team’s fortunes rested on the starting quarterback’s shoulders. The women, on the other hand, argued defense was the key. Griffin thought both were right. The quartet could have been perfect strangers at the start of the evening but, given the close quarters, that was no longer the case.

“Would you like to see the menu or will you give me the honor of crafting one for you?” Aravane asked in the delightful French-accented English that had been making women swoon for years. Her appearance was as captivating as her voice. She was tall and olive-skinned with hazel eyes, an aquiline nose, and pert Cupid’s bow lips framed by a curly mane of coal black hair.

“We’re in your capable hands,” Griffin said.

“Then please allow me to start you off with Salade Niçoise with a Dijon vinaigrette dressing, followed by an entrée of
coq au vin
and, to finish, chocolate mousse with white chocolate drizzle.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“I think you mean decadent,” Rachel said after Aravane took her leave.

“Do me a favor. Stop worrying about how many crunches you’re going to have to do to work off the mousse and just enjoy it, okay?”

“I’ll try. But, just so you know, the answer is fifty for the mousse and another fifty for the rest of the meal.”

“Rach, as far as I’m concerned, you’re the most beautiful woman in here. How many times do I have to say it before it sinks in?”

“I’m guessing thirty. Maybe more, depending on my mood.”

Shaking her head, Griffin reached for a slice of rustic homemade bread and covered it with a liberal helping of strawberry preserves. “I’ve never dated anyone who’s as into numbers as you are.”

“What type of women do you normally date? Besides temperamental chefs, that is.”

“I don’t have a type. I love women, plain and simple.”

“So I’ve noticed.” Rachel glanced toward the kitchen, where Aravane was presumably whipping up their first course. “I Googled you,” she said after Griffin followed her line of sight.

“What did you find?”

“Let’s just say you enjoy women.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not as much as you do. I didn’t do much more than a cursory image search and I uncovered a treasure trove of pictures of you out on the town with a string of women on your arm.”

“Not at the same time, I hope.” Griffin took a bite of her appetizer and licked preserves off her fingers. “As my brother the cop would say, I’ve had motive and opportunity. But that doesn’t make me a criminal, does it?”

“No, it makes you
very
popular.”

“Is this the point where you run screaming for the hills?”

Rachel flashed a coquettish smile. “Why don’t you give me a reason to stay?”

“I could give you several.”

“I’ll settle for one.”

“Okay.” Griffin thought for a moment. “None of those other women were you. They either wanted to be seen with me or wanted something from me. You want me. Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.” She leaned back in her chair as Aravane served the salads. “I’m not going to lie. I’ve had my share of relationships. Some good, some bad. One long-term, some just for the night. I’m not going to apologize for anything I’ve done. I didn’t do anything that wasn’t consensual, and I didn’t leave a trail of broken hearts behind me.”

“More like a sea of happy faces.”

Griffin took a sip of wine to break the rhythm of the conversation. Or was it an interrogation? First the questions about Aggie on New Year’s Eve and now the ones today about women who, in some cases, hadn’t been in her life in years. She couldn’t tell if Rachel was being inquisitive or paranoid. “I hope my past isn’t going to be a problem for you. Because my only two concerns right now are my present and my future.”

“I’m not brave enough to ask you if you see me in your future so I’ll ask about your past instead. Tell me about your first kiss.”

Griffin let loose with a throaty laugh. The experience—and the story behind it—was the stuff of family legend.

“I was nine. For my brother Duncan’s thirteenth birthday, my parents threw him a surf party on the beach. While the adults grilled burgers and hot dogs, the kids took turns riding the waves. I spent more time on the water than on the sand. In my dreams, I was Kelly Slater, one of the greatest surfers of all time. In reality, I was anything but. Still dreaming, I tried to impress all the girls with my picture-perfect form. I impressed them all right, but in the wrong way. I had a spectacular wipeout and everyone saw it. I could hear their collective groan when my body went one direction and my board the other. The wave drove me so deep under the water I felt like a sailor being buried at sea. I clawed my way to the surface coughing and sputtering and happy as hell to be alive. By the time I dog paddled to the beach, my brothers had had plenty of time to fashion homemade scorecards.”

“I’m assuming you didn’t earn any perfect tens.”

“Far from it. If I remember correctly, my combined score was a minus two. I spent the rest of the afternoon hiding under the pier hanging my head in shame. Eventually, Tara Marshall took pity on me and sought me out. Even though we went to the same school, Tara and I didn’t hang out because she was one of the cool kids and I was the nerd who swapped recipes with the lunch ladies in the cafeteria. She brought me a plate of food, told me my wipeout was the most awesome thing she had ever seen, and kissed me right on the mouth. To this day, whenever I hear seagulls screeching overhead or smell the smoke from a grill, it takes me back to that moment. I can feel the sand between my toes and taste Tara’s bubble gum lip gloss on my tongue. Too bad she ended up dating Duncan instead of me.”

“Where did you go to school, Sweet Valley High?” Rachel asked, referring to the titular institution that served as the locale for a series of ’80s-era teen novels. A school populated by beautiful girls and handsome boys who never seemed to have any problems that couldn’t be neatly resolved in just under two hundred pages.