Her Billionaire Toy Boy

Chapter 5

“So. I take it you’ve done a cooking class before, then,” whispered Mira to Sam as they stood in line at the cash register. A large sign at the entrance of L’Ecole Gustinaire had informed them that they had to check in before proceeding to the test kitchen where their class would take place.

“At least once,” said Sam, his eyes twinkling.

“And on top of that, you’re a foodie and a cook yourself,” said Mira, gauging him correctly. “This might be an embarrassing experience for me.”

“Never,” said Sam. “Embarrassment’s all perspective, anyway.”

“Wow,” said Mira. “I’m not sure that’s true.”

“I’ll just pretend to be bad at everything,” said Sam.

“Definitely don’t do that,” said Mira. “I think I might just sip wine and watch you cook. It’ll be educational for me, still, and you’ll get to show off.”

“Why would I show off?”

“It’s a traditional part of the first date experience.”

“Is it, now?”

“Of course. Time honored and tested,” Mira said, lightly. “Why, a past boyfriend I had decided it would be worthwhile to stop off at a playground on our way home from dinner, on our first date, and do eighteen pull-ups, just to show that he could.”

“He sounds like a real treat.”

“He was wonderful,” said Mira.

“But in the past,” said Sam.

“Very much in the past,” said Mira. Sam grinned. He held open the door for her as they walked to the classroom. Sam handed Mira the pack of name tags he had received when he checked the pair of them in. Mira unstuck her badge and carefully placed the sticker on her chest, and then removed Sam’s badge and stuck it on his shirt.

“Thanks,” said Sam.

“Anytime,” said Mira, struck by the firmness of the muscle she had just touched. Very firm, she thought, a bit distractedly.

They walked into the test kitchen and were greeted with a world of gleaming stainless steel. There were rows of butcher blocks set up with lots of tiny cups with colorful ingredients set in them, knives laid out, shining and parallel, and a teacher at the front who was busily scribbling a set of instructions out on a whiteboard at the head of the room. She turned as she heard Mira and Sam enter the classroom.

“French Bistro, Date Night?” The question came, rapid and brisk, as the teacher very pointedly did not cease what she was doing. She seemed to Mira like a very no-nonsense sort of woman, and Mira warmed to her instantly.

“Yes, that’s what we’re here for,” said Sam brightly.

“Anywhere you’d like, class will start in ten,” the instructor said. “My staff whipped up some snacks for you—over there, on the side; and if you’d like to pour yourselves a drink, please feel more than welcome.” With a bony arm she gestured to a side-table upon which there were ten small mugs heaped with whipped cream and fruits. Nearby, were several bottles of extremely nice-looking wine, if the labels were to be believed. Mira exclusively bought wine based on how pretty the label was. However, it occurred to her that her date–the sommelier–likely had a different metric for purchasing his beverages. She therefore stood to the side and observed attentively while he picked up the bottles and examined them intently, looking for one which would suit the meal which they were going to curate.

Sam paused in his investigation and glanced at Mira. “Which sorts of wine do you prefer,” he said, quietly. The other students in the class were beginning to walk into the room. “Red? Or white?”

“Red,” Mira said.

“Oh, yeah, that’s right,” said Sam. “I remember that from—eh—our non-date, the other evening.”

“Oh! Yes,” said Mira. She’d forgotten as well.

“That’s perfect,” said Sam. “I think red is the objectively better of the types, personally.” He went on to select a pretty-looking Cabernet. He deftly uncorked the bottle and splashed some of the dark liquid into two wineglasses, handing one mutely to Mira for her taste and approval before he went ahead and poured two full glasses of the stuff. When he took a sip, he swirled it, examined the legs, and took a quick, sharp sip. Mira could see him constantly evaluating the taste; the acidity, the sweetness—the strength—before he swallowed and beamed.

Being a sommelier was very evidently a part of who Sam was.

Mira took a sip herself, experimentally. It tasted like wine.

“Brilliant, isn’t it,” said Sam fervently. “Almost—jaunty—in its dryness, don’t you think?”

“Very jaunty,” said Mira, privately thinking that such an adjective was extremely misplaced as a food moniker. But Sam seemed to be very happy about the description, so she let it slide.

Other couples were beginning to come in, two by two, until there were about twenty or so people gathered in the kitchen area. Mira leaned into Sam, giving them both the thrill of a tiny amount of soft physical contact, and said, “Sam—they’re all couples, aren’t they?”

He looked down at her and smiled. “Yes, this is a date night cooking class—so, we have access to alcohol, the menu’s a little longer and more complicated, and everything’s perfectly sized for two. The place has cooking classes for families and such as well, along with more technical courses. I once took a class here on knife skills, and we just spent two hours dicing and julienning and learning how to sharpen our knives.”

“Sounds intense.”

“By which you mean ‘boring’, don’t you? It wasn’t the most arresting of hours,” Sam admitted. “But it made me ridiculously confident in the kitchen. You can’t imagine the difference between laboriously bashing an onion into randomly sized pieces, crying throughout, and using a small sharp knife to quickly dice it before you start to cry! It’s just like in the movies…”

“You’ll have to show me how, then,” said Mira, smiling.

“Show you how?”

“Yes. I want to know how to chop an onion just as fancy as you can,” said Mira.

Sam picked up a piece of paper at their workstation and peered at it. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to be working with any onions today, unfortunately…..”

“Hmm,” said Mira waspishly. “Such a pity that we’ll never again be in the proximity of knives or onions after this….”

Sam reddened and rolled his eyes at Mira. Mira smirked and took another sip of her jaunty, dry wine. She swirled it around her glass again and took another sip. She’d have to ask him at some point what made it so dry and jaunty; she literally had no idea that this wine was any different from the typical four dollar bottle of wine she’d pick up herself at the corner bodega on the way home from work.

The chef marched to the front of the classroom and waved her arms around, gesturing to each of the students.