Recipe for Love [TG] - Part 2

Oliver has spent his life coasting; sweet talking his way into relationships so that he never had to do more than his fair share. But when he is karmically changed into a woman, things change. He gets a job at a local restaurant and finds himself not only finally learning how to cook and look after himself, but falling in love with the chef as well.

Part 2

Anthony’s apartment was unlike any Oliver had crashed in. Neat as a pin; all themed in black, silver and red, with art deco images mounted to the walls and…no TV. What sort of modern home didn’t have a TV? The walls were stacked with bookshelves, and there was an old CD player in the corner, right next to a collection of CDs. Actual, physical CDs. Oliver couldn't even remember the last time he’d seen one. Did people still sell those? Oliver would have accused Anthony of being one of those hipster types putting on a front if it weren’t for the fact that he clearly lived alone and wasn't in the habit of having visitors.

“I only have one set of everything,” he said with a shrug. “So I borrowed a glass and some cutlery from the restaurant. You’re in charge of washing them up. I won’t do it for you.”

There was none of the softness Oliver was used to. No, ‘oh you poor thing, here let me fix you something’ attitude most people who took him in had. He also had a hard look in his eye; Oliver knew instantly that if he failed to clean up after himself he’d be out on his ass, woman or not. 

“This isn't a free ride.” Anthony added, “I know exactly how much you get paid, so I know you’ll be in a position to get yourself a place of your own in two months. Exactly. If you’re careful with your spending. Which you will be.”

“Oh, will I?”

The words slipped out before Oliver could stop them. 

“If you want to stay here, you will.”

Short, to the point. Why did Oliver feel like a teacher was speaking to him? And why did that make him feel so…weird? His stomach was suddenly full of butterflies. 

Anthony went searching for a spare blanket that might or might not exist in his aggressively single-person home, and Oliver tried to make a plan. Being a woman had its advantages. Anthony was being harsh now, but a bit of feminine charm would soften him up.

Anthony handed Oliver a blanket stiffly and then headed to the kitchen. 

Oliver glanced up at the doorway leading to the only bedroom. After a week of shelter beds, that double queen looked like utter Heaven. Oliver straightened his shoulders and thrust out his new chest; surely Anthony didn’t expect him to sleep on the couch. It was time to use these new feminine curves to his advantage. This outfit had to get him something. 

Unfortunately for Oliver, in Anthony, he had stumbled upon a true gentleman. Not the kind of gentleman most men claimed to be, which was essentially ‘I’ll treat you right until I get my reward’ gentleman. So when Oliver leaned back, pushing out his chest and pouting dramatically, Anthony didn’t even blush. 

“Thank you so much for taking me in.” Oliver simpered. “You’re so wonderful. Even a couch seems like such a luxury after those shelter beds.”  

“I’ll bet.”

“...Of course, a real bed will be the best thing ever.”

“You’ll be excited when you get one.”

Oliver deflated slightly; so far, this body had gotten him exactly nothing but trouble. 

Despite the late hour, neither of them had eaten dinner. Oliver had been so thrilled at he prospect of staying somewhere besides that filthy shelter that he hadn’t bothered to grab any leftovers like usual. 

Anthony butsled about the kitchen. He cooked for himself each night with the same mechanical precision he brought to his station at the restaurant. Oliver watched him from the couch, head tucked against the armrest, pretending not to care. He’d gotten used to others, friends, flings, girlfriends, tossing a plate his way when they made food. Not him. Anthony plated a single portion of food and didn’t glance in his direction. He sat at the counter, spoon in hand, and said, as if reading her mind: 

“There’s stuff in the fridge. You can make your own.”

Oliver blinked. 

“Oh. Right.”

He sat there for a beat too long, expecting…what? For him to change his mind? Offer him a share of the steaming bowl of pasta he was twirling with methodical grace?

He didn’t. He ate.

Normally, he would think of some lie, some smooth words to charm the food off his plate and onto Oliver's. He was female now, media told him all it would take was a bat of his eyelashes. And yet, Oliver felt pride flare in his chest and to his shock, he made his way over to the fridge. 

It was neat, just like the rest of the apartment: eggs, vegetables stacked like soldiers, cheeses wrapped tightly, containers labelled with tape and marker. Nothing with instructions. Nothing easy, because of course there wasn’t. Anthony was a chef. What was Oliver expecting, instant noodles? 

He pulled out a box of dry pasta and set it on the counter with a loud clack, as if slamming it down would summon the recipe from thin air. It wasn't even the type of pasta with an example recipe on the back. Oliver had always known he was bad at cooking, but only in that moment did he realise he had no idea how to even start. 

Feeling self-conscious, he grabbed the clean pot Anthony had just put away, filled it with water and then filled it with the dry pasta. 

“You should boil it first,” Anthony said simply. “And don't forget the salt.”

“Of course…”

The pasta was already in the cold water; no way to fix that now. He tried chopping garlic, but the pieces came out all different sizes. How had Anthony diced his own clove so neatly, not to mention fast? He increased his grip, feeling the rubber dig into his now soft palm and moved on to a tomato. Despite the sharpness of the knife, the fruit squashed under it, spilling juice and seeds all over the board, much to his irritation. 

There was a sudden scraping sound, and suddenly, Anthony was beside him. 

“Use a serrated knife to cut tomatoes,” he said flatly. “Your grip is all wrong too. Hold it like this.”

He took the knife, demonstrating with precision, somehow making several perfectly diced cubes of tomato. 

“I knew that.” Oliver pouted.

“No, you didn’t.”

How was he supposed to argue with that? 

“Your pasta is overcooking.” 

“Pasta’s done when it sticks to the wall,” she muttered.

“Pasta’s done when it’s al dente,” Anthony corrected.

From there, he didn’t take over. He guided. Pointed to a pan. Told her when the oil was too hot, when to add the garlic, when to turn the heat down. She burned the first round. He said nothing. She tried again, mostly because walking away would be too awkward. Eventually, he had a much rougher, simpler version of the same meal Anthony had made himself. 

Oliver took a bite. And blinked. It was good. Simple, sure. But rich, salty, warm in a way that felt like a hand on her back. 

“Good effort. Tomorrow, find a recipe before you start.”

Anthony took his own bowl, finished the last few mouthfuls, and washed up in silence, leaving Oliver with his food. He looked down at the food in wonder. Some of the garlic had a burnt edge to it, but…he’d actually cooked for himself. A strange feeling swirled in his stomach; it took a while to realise the feeling was pride. 

~

Living with Anthony was unlike anything he’d experienced before. Anthony didn’t pick up after him, didn’t wash his bowl when he left it in the sink, didn't even offer him a lift to work most days. No matter how often he batted his eyes. The only thing that seemed to get Anthony’s attention was…work. 

When he finished all the dishes on time, there was an extra serving of staff dinner waiting for Oliver to take home. When he actually did his own washing up, Anthony would pour his juice in the morning, which was about as grand a gesture as he was capable of. Oliver had never worked so hard in his life;  it was exhausting. The worst part was scrubbing dishes all day and then coming home and doing it all again. Cooking at the end of a long day was exhausting. 

“There has to be a way to get him to look after me,” Olive muttered as he sat in the corner of the shower, letting the water soak him. “I’m a damsel in distress! He has to give some time.”

He looked down at his naked body, slick from the water. Little droplets raced down his breasts before dripping off the ends of his nipples. An idea formed, one that made him slightly nervous. His approach may have been too subtle; stories always spoke of feminine wiles. Perhaps he needed to reward Anthony in that way only a woman could.

~

It was supposed to be temporary. Anthony had made that very clear and as time ticked away the idea of having to do all this, plus clean and pay rent made Oliver want to throw up. No, he had to find a way to charm Anthony into extending his stay. Maybe even making it permanent. Even if that cost him some masculine pride. 

They’d just gotten home after a stressful shift. They’d been overbooked, and the kitchen had barely kept up. Oliver could see the tension in Anthony’s shoulders as they walked into the apartment. He desperately needed a wind-down. It was the perfect time to strike. 

“Hey,” he said, softer than normal.

“Yeah?”

“Can we talk for a sec?”

The chef looked him up and down, expression unreadable. A good start, at least Oliver hoped. 

“Sure.”

The words were in his throat, but they tasted like metal. Still, he pushed them out. 

“I was thinking,” he said, keeping his eyes lidded. “If it’d make things easier… I mean, if you want something in return for letting me stay…maybe I could do something extra around here.”

Anthony’s brow furrowed, and Olive swallowed. Now or never. He stepped forward, pressing his breasts to Anthony’s chest. He could feel warm skin beneath the shirt. It made those butterflies dance in his stomach. Olive let his eyes flutter closed as he leaned in. Any second now, Anthony would kiss him, he would moan, and wrap his legs around the man's waist. They’d fall to the floor, and Oliver would let the chef take him. He would wail and cry out his name, make it the performance of a lifetime. 

He was nervous as hell, but if this is what it took to get him a new home, he’d do it. If the universe had made him a woman, he was damnwell going to turn that lemon into lemonade. 

There was a pause. Long enough to make Oliver’s cheeks burn. Then Anthony spoke, quiet but sharp: 

“Olive… what are you doing?”

Oliver’s eyes snapped open, and he swallowed, throat tight. 

“I thought maybe it was what you wanted. After all, most guys…I’m willing! Like, you’re not forcing me!”

Anthony stared at him like he’d just confessed to murder.

“You think I let you stay at my place because I wanted something from you?” he said, voice hardening.

“Well, I can't pay rent.”

“So you’d pay me with your body.”

“...Yes.”

Olive was so confused; this wasn't how it was supposed to go. Anthony didn’t even look slightly tempted; in fact, he looked angry. Something about that made Oliver’s blood boil. What, was he not good enough for the fancy chef?

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked, “You think I’d take advantage of you like that? That I’d expect you to sell yourself to me just to keep sleeping on my goddamn couch?”

“Well…yes.” Oliver replied, “Any guy would, why else would you help? What guy just takes in a hot woman off the street and doesn’t expect any sugar in return! I know I would.”

“Well, thank goodness you’re not a man,” Anthony muttered, grabbing his coat and storming out the door. 

Oliver flinched as it slammed shut. There was no way for Anthony to know how hurtful those words were. After all, how was he to know that Oliver had been a man only a few weeks ago? He sat back on the couch, the apartment was oddly quiet. It felt wrong being here without Anthony, like he was trespassing. That had never happened before; Oliver had never struggled to make himself at home anywhere. Why was it different now? 

He groaned and closed his eyes, flopping down on the cushions dramatically. He had no idea what this strange sensation in his gut was; disappointment? Guilt? Despite appearances, Oliver was still a man; he hadn't actually wanted Anthony to have sex with him. It was just a means to an end. His disappointment was just because the plan hadn’t worked, not because a part of him actually found the chef attractive. 

“Who does he think he is?” Oliver muttered, “Turning me down like he’s above it all, no man is. I would have taken a woman up on this. Every guy would! There is nothing wrong with that!”

Even as he said it, shame curled in the back of his mind. He buried the feeling, along with the arousal he refused to acknowledge, before curling up on the couch and forcing himself to sleep. 

~

There was a crashing sound as Anthony fell back through the door, and Oliver almost fell off the couch in surprise as the Chef plopped down next to him, almost crushing his legs as he collapsed. 

“Sorry,” he growled, “Forgot you were sleepn’ here.”

“It’s fine, I’ve been worried, are you alright?”

“‘Course.”

“You smell like a bar.”

“Because I was in one.”

Oliver squirmed slightly, unsure of what to do. Suddenly, Anthony turned to him seriously. 

“It’s not because you’re ugly.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re very pretty, Olive.” Anthony said, “I just don’t want to take advantage.”

Oliver blinked. Most people in this world assume their point of view is the default for everybody else. A scam artist doesn't feel bad for scamming because, in their eyes, their victim would do the same in their position. This was part of why Oliver never felt guilty for the way he treated people; it was a dog-eat-dog world after all. 

Having your entire worldview confronted is difficult and there are two options. Deflect or self-reflect. People rarely choose the latter. Especially not lazy people like Oliver. And Especially, especially not at 3 am after being woken up by a drunken roommate. But as has been stated, the universe works in mysterious ways. 

Perhaps it was the pasta, or the fact that Anthony had been forcing Oliver to fend for himself somewhat, maybe it was the hard work, or maybe it was the way Anthony got to his feet and stumbled off to his bedroom, not even allowing alcohol to spur any untoward actions on. But instead of deflecting, Oliver thought about what he would have done in Anthony’s place even a few months ago, and felt nothing but shame. 

~

The next day was awkward. So was the day after that. Oliver spent his days elbows deep in soapy water at the restaurant, watching as the calendar slowly counted down to the final day. Anthony had given him a strict time limit to find a place, and judging by how quickly he’d rejected him, that date wouldn’t be moving any time soon. 

Oliver had never worried about this sort of thing before, he’d never struggled to find a new place to crash when one fell through, but the memories of that shelter made him shudder. He had to find a place and fast. If only he had any idea how to do that. When you’ve spent your life coasting, suddenly being forced to understand how the world worked was difficult to say the least. 

It turns out that being a single woman with barely any ID and no housing history or references made getting an apartment quite tricky. Even a cheap, shit house one. So Oliver did what he always did when confronted with something difficult: he looked for the easy way out. 

So now, he had a new plan. His break was fifteen minutes long. Fifteen minutes to sell himself with a smile. Just because Anthony thought he was too good for her didn’t mean somebody else wouldn't take the offer. 

The alley behind the restaurant was where the smokers loitered; it was his best chance. He ‘borrowed’ some lipstick from one of the waitress’s purses and tied a too-tight cardigan that emphasised what he had to gamble with. He watched the alley like a hawk until he spotted something familiar. Late thirties, suit without a tie, the slight stagger of someone with an expensive wine buzz and no one waiting for him at home. Perfect. 

There was also something…familiar about him. It took him a moment, but Oliver realised that aside from the suit, the man reminded him of who he used to be. That made his stomach tie in knots for reasons obvious to all but him.

“At least it means I know what to say…”

He approached with a smile. Laughed at the man’s joke before he even finished telling them. He liked that. Men like him always did. He leaned in. Oliver leaned closer. It confirmed Oliver’s suspicions. That strange attraction he felt for Anthony while trying to seduce him had been a mistake. He felt nothing but revulsion for this man. But he’d do whatever it took to find somebody to mooch off. He just wanted things to be easy again. 

Things were going so well. Suddenly, the back door crashed open. Heavy, rusted metal against brick. A shadow loomed out of the kitchen, broad shoulders surrounded by steam and smoke from the busy kitchen in the background. 

Anthony.

Six feet of silence and fury as he stared down Oliver and this latest catch. The patron froze, hand still hovering halfway between his side and Oliver’s hip. Anthony said nothing. He didn’t need to. The man muttered something, half-laugh, half-apology. 

“I thought this was the way out.”

He scurried off, but rudely left the tension in the air behind with Oliver. Oliver watched his easy life walk away, and Oliver’s blood boiled. 

“What the hell is your problem?” he snapped.

Anthony stared, expressionless. 

“Your break’s over,” he said.

Oliver wanted to scream.

“That was my ticket out! Why did you have to ruin it!?”

“Ruin what? You prostituting yourself? Is staying on my couch that terrible?”

“You said it yourself, I only had two months and finding a place is too hard!”

Anthony shook his head.

“Life is hard; the sooner you learn to deal with it, the better.”

He turned on his heels and stormed back inside, and Oliver followed. The tension didn’t leave, though. The dinner rush had only just begun, and the hard work only made it worse. Oliver scrubbed dishes so hard his knuckles went white. He could hear Anthony’s knife across the kitchen as it slammed down on the chopping board. By the time their shift was over, Oliver’s hands were red and raw; the soft palms were growing calluses from the hard work and it made him grimace. Soon, he wouldn’t even have the advantage of being pretty. 

“See what you can accomplish when you actually try.”

Oliver didn't bother turning around when Anthony spoke. He stared at the piles of clean dishes; it was pretty impressive that he managed to do them all himself. But it didn’t make him feel any better.

“They’ll be dirty again tomorrow.”

“But they couldn’t be, if you didn’t clean them. People would go hungry.”

“Somebody else would do it.”

Oliver didn’t wait around to hear Anthony’s retort. Instead, he stormed away, idly wondering if it was even worth going back to the man's apartment tonight. Anger has a way of burning out, though, especially on a cold night when you’re all alone. SO it didn’t take long for Oliver to regret his decision. Hungry, cold and frustrated, he stared at the convenience store, fantasising about the hot coffee machine in the back. Out of habit, he opened up his phone to stare at his empty bank account total, but instead saw something new. Green. 

Humans are creatures of habit. A person used to having nothing often doesn't realise things are changing, at least not if they’re stubborn. So even though Oliver had been working his ass off for weeks, it hadn't occured to him that there would be money in his account. He stared for a moment, then walked inside. 

It wasn't that he was rich, but a few weeks of work with no rent or overhead meant he had more than enough to buy a hot coffee. More than that, he could buy a few things to eat as well. As he stuffed a plastic bag with instant noodles, his stomach began to clench strangely. All this time, he’d been annoyed. He’d been trying to trick Anthony into looking after him and failing, but…now that he thought about it, even though Anthony insisted he cook and clean for himself, he’d never asked for grocery money. 

It shouldn't have been a big deal. But it occurred to him that every other person he’d mooched off, girlfriend or friend, had started asking for him to contribute by this time. Anthony hadn’t. 

“Ma’am, do you need help?” The cashier called from behind the counter. “You’ve been staring at those noodles for a while.”

“No, I was just putting them back,” Oliver heard himself say, then to his shock he added, “Is there a late night grocery store around here?”