Forfeit (Original Edit)

Chapter Seventeen

For Xander's twenty-third birthday, I'd offered him a dirty weekend in Paris but he'd shook his head, thanking me but declining. What he really wanted was to cook in the new kitchen. Mental. But, it was a romantic dinner for two and from the smile on his face, as he effortlessly produced a three course meal, I knew this really was the perfect way for him to spend his birthday.

And it wasn't all going to be slaving over a hot stove. Underneath my innocent-looking, grey jersey dress, hid some ludicrously seductive scarlet underwear. All part of his birthday treat. That boy was so getting me wrapped in a big red bow after dinner.

'Have I told you how much I love this kitchen?' he'd said as he grabbed a rolling pin out of the drawer next to him. 'Everything is exactly where it should be.'

The elegant plates of food he produced were nothing like the relaxed, bistro style dishes he knocked up on a nightly basis, and when he put the first plate in front of me, I stared, first at the food then at him. The mini red onion and goats' cheese tarte tatin sat amongst a dainty scattering of baby salad leaves I didn't recognise, and he'd splattered the pear jus in a Pollock-esque manner across the plate. For a plate of sustenance, it looked beautiful - as a work of art, it looked edible.

He placed the main course in front of me and I mouthed, OMG, making him smile as if I'd told him I loved him. This food thing really did mean the world to him. I had to find him a restaurant and soon.

'You should so be a celebrity chef. The TV people would die for you.'

Xander blushed, running a hand through his hair.

'What?' I asked. 'You've got the pretty... you look the part and this...' I waved my hands over the ballotine of chicken with pomme puree, chanterelle mushrooms and a Madeira sauce. 'Even I know this is stupidly fantastic.'

'Been there, done that and it didn't go well.' Xander sat back in his chair, nursing his wine. 'Cooking under the scrutiny of very scary chefs and several cameras did not bring out the best in me. The only good thing about the entire, horrific experience was that I was so bad, none of it appeared on TV. Professional Masterchef, I was nineteen.'

Later, he ducked out to compile dessert, and I followed, loving watching him work.

'Do you remember what you first cooked?' I hopped up to sit on the worktop.

'Off.' He backed up the order with a sideways nod of his head.

Since he'd moved in, we'd agreed to a few rules. I wasn't allowed to smoke in the kitchen while he was cooking or in the house while anyone was eating, but he had to always put the toilet seat down. He was solely responsible for buying food, but even if we both cooked, I had to do the clearing up. If he ever expected me to do his laundry, he had to put dirty clothes in the washing basket not leave them on the floor. Oh, and kitchen worktops were for food, not my arse. The only point still under contention was the last one - I'd formed quite a habit of sitting near the cooker after the Aga days. Still it was his birthday, so I hopped down.

'Thank you.' He kissed me. 'Macaroni cheese.'

'Really?' I laughed.

Lately, Xander had become the most appalling food snob. He mocked me on a daily basis for eating Hobnobs but I'd discovered he had three guilty pleasures: lager, mint Aeros and macaroni cheese.

'I was sitting over there,' he said, nodding to the steps between the kitchen and living room, 'in a sulk because Grandpa wouldn't let me have tinned macaroni cheese. I was five. He said I could have it but only if I learned to make it from scratch.'

'What?' I asked. 'You were here?'

Xander nodded with a guilty smile. 'This is where I had my first cooking lesson.'