The Private Chef's Appetite
"Chef Lorraine cooks for the elite but eats alone. When her widowed employer starts joining her in the kitchen, she discovers some meals feed the soul."
Cooking for one is lonely.
Twenty years as a private chef, feeding families, eating alone. I'm Lorraine—fifty-six, master of kitchens, never the one at the table.
"Join me tonight."
Mr. Webb stands in the kitchen doorway. Widowed six months now, he's been eating alone too.
"That's not appropriate, sir—"
"Marcus." He pulls out a chair. "And appropriate stopped mattering when my wife died. I'm tired of empty tables."
Dinner together changes things.
Conversation, laughter, two people sharing what I created.
"You're remarkable," Marcus says.
"I'm your employee."
"You're the person who makes this house feel alive." His eyes hold mine. "Don't diminish that."
Kitchens become collaborative.
He helps—learning, asking, standing close while I teach.
"Your hands," he observes.
"What about them?"
"They create miracles." He catches one. "I wonder what else they can do."
"Marcus—"
"I know the complications." He doesn't release my hand. "I don't care about them. Do you?"
"I care about propriety—"
"Propriety is for people who have something to prove." He steps closer. "I just want to feel something again. With you."
The kiss happens over the stove.
Soup simmering, heat rising, his mouth finding mine.
"This is—"
"Delicious." He smiles against my lips. "Everything you make is."
His bedroom has felt empty for years.
Tonight, with me in it, that changes.
"I haven't," he admits.
"Neither have I." I touch his face. "We'll learn together."
He undresses me reverently.
"You're everything," he breathes.
"I'm your chef—"
"You're the woman who's kept me alive." He kisses my shoulder. "Let me return the favor."
His mouth explores.
Tentative at first, then hungry. Finding flavors he didn't know he craved.
"Lorraine—"
"Don't stop." I pull him closer. "I've been starving too."
When he enters me, we're both fed.
"So good," he groans.
"More. I need more of this."
"Every night. Every meal. Every moment."
Afterward, in his bed that's ours now, he holds me.
"Marry me."
"I work for you—"
"Retire." He laughs. "Or keep cooking. I don't care. Just stay here, with me, eating what we make together."
"Marcus—"
"I lost twenty years to proper. I won't lose whatever time I have left." He kisses my forehead. "Say yes, Lorraine."
The staff congratulates us.
No one is surprised—they saw what we pretended to hide.
"To the woman who fed my hunger," Marcus toasts at the announcement.
"To the man who finally sat at my table," I counter.
The wedding is in the kitchen.
Where we fell, where we learned, where everything changed.
We kiss while the timer dings.
Some chefs cook for others.
Some finally cook for love.
And some appetites are only satisfied when you share the table with someone who sees you.
Full plate.
Full heart.
Forever home.