But Martin is not referring to this kind of backing out. He means real treachery. And he’s accusing Erik of his own crime.
My face heats up. “You left him, Martin.”
There is so much more I want to say. None of it would be pretty. I must remind myself I don’t swear. Or shout at people at work. I’ll still need to face him in this office every single day.
“Have you asked him why?” Martin lifts one eyebrow, gazing at me. “But I guess it won’t matter. You’ll always know his version. And what do I care, honestly?”
He turns to walk away, but I can’t let him end it here. I hate the guy, but he’s giving me a different angle on the facts. Shouldn’t I listen to his warnings? “What are you trying to say?” I ask and hate myself a little for taking Martin’s bait.
“If you ever think about working with Erik Storm, don’t. That’s all I can say.” Martin chuckles and walks away, enjoying himself for leaving me rooted to the kitchen floor with a cup of overly sweet espresso in my trembling hands.
Just when I find the strength to move, Lars shows up at the sink to get a glass of water.
“Everything okay, Sol?” he asks, not too concerned, as usual.
No. I’ve told Erik I don’t need him anymore, and Martin is being an even bigger *beep* than I thought he could be.
I have the impression that it doesn’t matter to Lars if I answer or not, but I say, “All good.”
“Good. It was nice seeing Storm again. The two of you are...something rare.”
I smile wider, laughing and crying a little inside. Is it wrong to want him to be right?
“I must say I’m a big fan of Team Sol & Storm. By the way, the third event is not this Saturday but the next,” he says. “A cooking contest. You’ll get an email soon.”
“Cool. I love food.”
Lars laughs. “Perfect. See you and Storm there!”
As soon as he turns around, I exhale heavily. I can’t do this without Erik after all. I’ll need to get him back onboard. While I’m a great eater, I won’t win without a chef.
When I get home, Erik is already cooking his dinner. The smell of fried garlic and mushrooms hits me with full power when I enter the kitchen. My stomach growls, hungry to taste whatever is being made in Erik’s expensive frying pan.
Don’t get your hopes up, I tell my stomach. We’ll have to settle for a frozen meal as usual.
“What are you making?” I ask after placing my water glass in the dishwasher. “It smells wonderful.”
“Beef stroganoff,” he answers, his mood unreadable.
“Mmmm... Stroganoff is my favorite dish,” I tell him. “Well, at least the Brazilian version. My mom’s, especially.” I tiptoe closer and sneak a look over his shoulder, spotting a pot with bubbling water. “Pasta though? We usually eat it with rice.”
“Hmm, I never thought of that. I guess you’ll have to make me your version one day.”
His comment makes my heartbeat rise. Are we at the point where we can eat each other’s food? “Does that mean I can try yours?”
He looks at me, and I close the dishwasher, giving him my best hungry-puppy eyes.
“Lucky for you, I’m making enough for two today.” He smiles at me, stirring crème fraîche into the pan. I smile back, delighted, and stand by his side, watching him work with speed and skill.
“The next event in the Fun Season is a cooking contest,” I tell him in a casual tone, but my body is tense, full of anticipation. “Not this Saturday, but the next. I hope you can make it.”
He looks at me, eyebrows lifted, and my stomach quavers with a mix of hunger and anxiety. “I thought you didn’t need my services anymore,” his deep, rough voice utters.
A shiver runs through me as I recall our last exchange. How I almost pulled him by the collar for an ardent kiss like my cousins kept suggesting. Me saying he was discharged, and his smirk as he told me something in Danish I didn’t understand.
Maybe he hadn’t taken me seriously. That smile, the light tone as he said goodnight... The cocky bastard knew I’d come crawling back to him.
Ugh, I can’t let him think I need him that much.
“Lars would like you to be there,” I say to the counter, as indifferent as I can.
“Lars. Of course.”
When I glance in his direction, I see an expression of disappointment. Not like he is disapproving, but like he is...sad?
“Besides, you’re a better cook than me,” I add. “I’d never win without you.”
Erik nods to himself, stirring his dish. It looks done. I wonder if he’s overcooking it in his distraction.
“I’ll be there, then,” his statement is emotionless.
Is he sad because he thought I wanted him to go?
But no...of course not. He’s just being the usual moody Erik. So I keep speaking. I’m happy he said yes, regardless of his level of excitement.
“Oh, I had the most dreadful conversation with Martin today,” I tell him, now with my back to the counter. Erik’s alarm rings, and he hurries to drain the pasta before it overcooks. For a perfectionist like him, one second more ruins an al dente pasta.
“What did he say?” he asks while pouring the pappardelle into the colander.
