The Last Dessert - Episode 1
22-09-25 (15:43)
**Episode 1**
Chef arrived just past seven, the
way he always did —one hand on
the strap of a heavy insulated tote
filled with fresh ingredients, the
other gripping a second, unfamiliar
bag. This one was smaller, sleek,
and intentional. He hadn’t even
knocked yet when the door swung
open. Sophie stood framed in the
warm hallway light, and for a
second, Chef forgot how to blink.
She’d gone all out. The dress was
black, tight, and slippery-looking.
Thin straps, a plunging neckline, and
a high slit up one side. It clung to
every dip and curve of her lithe
frame, and the way the fabric
caught the light made it clear there
wasn’t a bra beneath—her nipples
subtly visible, perfectly defined
against the satin. The cut of the
dress revealed nearly as much as it
concealed. Her heels were thin and
sharp. Her hair was pinned up in
soft, elegant twists that left her
neck bare. She wore dark red
lipstick. Smokey eyes. A single
silver chain glinting between her
collarbones. She looked expensive.
And a little sad.
Chef, for his part, had put in some
effort. He wore a charcoal button-
down. Slim black trousers. Fresh
shave. He looked damn good—just
... not *that*.
Sophie’s smile was bright but didn’t
reach her eyes. “Well, look at you,”
she said, trying for playful. “Dressed
up for me, huh?”
“I always dress for the occasion,”
he replied evenly, stepping inside.
“You clean up nice, Chef.” She shut
the door, then turned to face him.
“But I’m afraid I win.”
“Not a competition,” he said, eyeing
the dress.
She laughed. “That’s what people
say when they’re losing.”
There was a pause. Just long
enough to be uncomfortable. Then
Sophie wrapped her arms around
him. The hug wasn’t sexy. Not a
tease. Just warm and tight and
quiet. “Hey,” she murmured.
“Thanks for coming.”
“I always come when you call,” he
said gently, returning the embrace.
Sophie smiled into his shoulder.
“One last time.”
He pulled back slightly to look at
her. “Chicago, huh?”
She groaned. “I know, I know. But
I need to feel the seasons, Florida
just feels wrong to me.”
“You want me to visit?”
“I want you to move, but I know
you won’t.”
He shuddered. “Nope. Fuck that.
I’ve seen Chicago in January.”
She laughed and kissed his cheek.
“Fair. But yes. Visit.”
He set his bags down in the
kitchen. The second one —sleek,
dark, and zippered—he pushed
aside without comment. Don't forget to leave a Comment 
