Willow stomped her foot and crossed her arms over her chest, a frown creasing her ordinarily cheerful face. Here she was again, knee deep in clothes strewn across the floor, not a thing to wear, her stomach a bundle of nerves, and potentially running late for another date with Robert Fortescue. She had reluctantly put on her only matching set of expensive lingerie again, thinking that it deserved another innings after the last rather short lived one.
Why do I do this to myself, she thought, sifting through dress after dress, trying to find the perfect one. She wanted her outfit to say ‘I’m gorgeous and glamorous and always dress like this, so don’t think that this outfit is for you. But it might be. So impress me.’
It wasn’t a big ask, was it?
As seemed to be her permanent countenance where this man was involved, she was irrationally cranky with Robert Fortescue. This time, it was residual annoyance from their last date. Why couldn’t he have just told her, straight off the bat, that the amazonian goddess who owned the bar where they had gone was a relative? Willow had become progressively jealous as the night wore on, getting very drunk and finally accusing Robert of flirting with another woman. He had laughed, telling that ‘the other woman’ was his cousin. He had bundled Willow into a cab and sent her off, as though she were a silly child incapable of looking after herself. The more she thought about it, the angrier she got.
Furious, she pulled open her dresser drawers and fished out her most plain underwear. She took off the lace set and replaced it with something Bridget Jones would have been proud of. She looked in the mirror and put her hands on her hips.
“Take that Robert Fortescue,” she said triumphantly to her dowdy reflection.
Her pleasure was only short lived. Take what, she thought. Some blue cotton knickers and a bra in a totally different hue? Yeah, that’d show him. No, what she needed to do was wear the good stuff, but not let him see it. Or, let him see it, but not let him near it. She grinned. Yep, that was the best plan. Definitely. Picking up the lacy number, she slipped it on once more.
Eventually, she was ready to go. Willow gave herself one last glance in the hall mirror as she headed towards the front door. Her hair was perfect, her makeup subtle, her dress flattering, and she knew that if a certain someone somehow managed to get past the outer layers they would be in for a very pleasant surprise. Until I cover it up again, she thought, and leave him wanting and sick with desire.
She paused.
Deja vu.
Hadn’t she been down this road before? Given prior experiences, her evening would end, not with him trying to passionately embrace her but rather, in a heated argument with her leaving, furious with him.
“Oh fuck this,” she said turning around, slamming the front door and storming back to her room. She pulled the dress roughly over her head and ripped off the underwear.
“You’re nothing but a cantankerous, self-righteous man,” she said between clenched teeth. She pulled her stockings off, “and you don’t deserve the good stuff.”
***
Four minutes and thirty-three seconds later she was back at the front door dressed casually in jeans and a long sleeved top. Underneath, her underwear was practical and droll. And it didn’t match. She smirked as she closed the door and wandered into the street to find a cab.
***
“Welcome,” Robert Fortescue said, as he opened the door to his apartment.
Willow stepped inside cautiously. “Is…?”
He pre-empted her. “Samuel is staying at a friend’s place tonight.”
Willow breathed a sigh of relief. She didn’t particularly want to see one of her old students just as she was about to go on a date with his father.
“Can I get you something to drink,” he said, slipping her coat off her shoulders. “Champagne?”
“Won’t we be late for our dinner reservation?”
“Oh that,” said Robert. “I cancelled it. I thought we could eat here.”
Willow looked at him skeptically. “What, get takeaway or something?”
“Er, not exactly. I thought I would cook.”
Willow almost burst out laughing. She knew first hand that Robert knew nothing about cooking.
“I still owe you a homemade meal,” he continued, leading her into the kitchen. On the bench, the MoVida cookbook was lying open and bowls of pre-prepared ingredients were lined up neatly.
“You’re going to make something from that?” said Willow, pointing to the cookbook.
“I’ve adapted a few of the recipes,” said Robert slyly.
“Adapted?” said Willow incredulously. The recipes, as they were, required a certain amount of base knowledge. But adapting them…? For someone with Robert’s skill in the kitchen – or lack thereof – that could be a very dangerous thing. Particularly for those people who had to eat said creations. Namely, in this case, Willow.
He handed her a glass of champagne (real, of course). “Make yourself at home. I’ll do some squid for starters so we’ve got something to nibble on while the rest cooks.”
Willow groaned inwardly. There was nothing – literally nothing – worse than badly cooked squid. She sipped the glass of champagne and perused his book collection on the other side of the room, too terrified to watch as he undoubtedly butchered something that should have been a delicacy.
But when he served the seafood to her and she reluctantly bit into the flesh, she was amazed to find that it wasn’t rubbery at all. In fact, it was… perfect. The soft, delicate pieces of squid were coated in a rich sauce that tasted of sherry and saffron and had small flecks of – were they macadamias? – clinging to them.
“This is amazing,” she said, with more surprise than she had intended. “How did you get it so… succulent.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Robert chuckled. “I might have had a couple of cooking lessons.”
“With who?” said Willow. They must have been good if they taught him to cook like this.
“A buddy of mine. Frank.”
Willow nodded and put another piece of squid in her mouth. “Hang on a second,” she said suddenly, looking at the MoVida cookbook. “Not that Frank?” Frank Camorra was regarded as one of the top chefs in Australia.
“Yeah,” said Robert casually. “He owed me a favour.”
Willow did her best to try and not look too impressed. She didn’t want it to go to Robert’s head.
The rest of the evening was a culinary awakening as Robert produced a number of small and exquisite dishes, each one more wonderful and surprising than the last. When they had sopped up the last drop of sauce with light and tangy sourdough bread (“not homemade,” he had apologised) Willow sat back in her chair, a contented smile on her face.
“That was wonderful.”
“I’m so glad you liked it,” said Robert, his relief palpable. “I was terrified of cooking for you.”
“You’ve got friends who are famous chefs and you’re terrified of cooking for me?” she said incredulously.
“Frank thought it was hilarious that I wanted to learn to cook,” Robert said with a laugh. “But I told him that I needed to impress someone who was not easily impressed.”
Willow felt all warm and gooey inside. “You… you took cooking lessons to impress me?”
Robert nodded and looked down at his plate, embarrassed.
The anger she felt – which had been slowly evaporating all evening anyway – was suddenly completely gone. She stood up and walked to the other side of the table where Robert was sitting and gently put her hands on either side of his face. She leant down and kissed him softly on the lips.
“Thank you,” she said, smiling into his face.
He put his hands on back and pulled her down, until she was sitting on top of him, her legs wrapped around either side of his body.
“My pleasure,” he said softly, pulling her closer and returning the kiss, slow at first but quickly intensifying until they were each clutching at the others body. He slid his hands underneath her top and carefully ran them over her breasts. Willow groaned and lifted her arms so he could pull her shirt off.
“Dammit,” she murmured as his strong hands explored her torso.
“What?” he said, stopping and looking at her with a concerned expression.
“I should have put on nicer underwear,” said Willow apologetically.
Fortescue ran his gaze over her body. It was so intense she could almost feel its heat.
“No,” he said. “No, you don’t need any fancy wrapping. You’re perfect exactly as you are.” He kissed her again on the neck, murmuring into her ear, “but if it makes you more comfortable, we can just take it off?”
Willow uttered a throaty laugh and allowed him to unclasp her oldest and most sensible bra.
