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“Fine. I’ll keep it like a sweet little secret. Just for me.”
“How are you liking it here? Working at Taste?”
“It’s amazing. I’m back home where my friends are. I’m helping do something to make Frosty Harbor just a little more special. I’m learning every day and overcoming challenges. And now these recipe tests are giving me a whole different layer to it all.” She turns around, hands wide on the counter as she shrugs and bites her lip. “Yeah. It’s perfect.”
“Yeah,” I say, staring at her lips, which are glistening and inviting. “Perfect.”
She swallows, cheeks going a shade of red to match her hair. “The sauces should be ready if you are.”
We both get back to the familiar rhythms of preparing the food. We’ve worked out a system of blind taste testing for our recipe experiments. We write the ingredients on a lid, place the food on the lid, and set it all on a lazy susan. Once it’s all set up, we blindfold ourselves, spin the food, and taste everything without knowing what variation we’re tasting.
It keeps us from letting any biases influence our thoughts. More often than not, we’re surprised to find the recipe we thought would taste best doesn’t win the blind taste test. It’s fun, and it’s effective.
Usually, we both blindfold ourselves at the same time. But I let Mia blindfold herself, then I take the spoon from her hands.
She laughs. “What are you doing?”
“You’re going to tell me what you think of each one,” I say.
“Okay, but isn’t that what we normally do?” she asks.
“Open,” I command, grinning even though she can’t see it. I spoon up some of the first sauce and lift it toward her face.
She hesitates, then parts her lips for me. I can’t help staring at the shape of her mouth and the pink of her tongue. I bite my lip, then gently lay the spoon on her tongue and watch as she laps her lips around it. I pull the spoon out, eyes locked on her mouth as she swallows.
“Well?” I ask, glad she’s blindfolded, because I’m not sure I could hide the fact that I’m enjoying this way, way too much.
“It’s… um. I think there might be a bit too much tallow in that one. It’s overpowering everything else. Or maybe it would be okay if we bumped up the acidity.”
I nod, doing my best to ignore the growing pressure between my legs from feeding her the spoonful of sauce. “I agree.” I taste the next sauce, then lift another spoon to her mouth. I’m expecting her to take it this time and tell me she doesn’t need to be fed, but she casually opens her mouth and lets me hold the spoon again.
The subtle pressure between my legs is not-so-subtle, anymore. Damn. I am absolutely imagining something other than a spoon between those lips of hers, and it’s driving me fucking wild.
“That’s better,” she says. “I still think a little more acid could help.”
“Alright,” I say. I’m already moving to the next sauce, mostly because I want to feed it to her again.
We repeat the process until we’ve moved through all six sauces and Mia has given her feedback on them. Neither of us have acknowledged the fact that she could very easily grab a spoon for herself and do the tasting on her own. It’s a simple thing, but it feels like the first time she’s cracking the door open for me, wondering if I’ll pull it the rest of the way open and let myself in.
Then again, I did tell her I was going to make her beg if she wanted it. I’m not sure I can make it so easy for her, if that’s what she’s wanting.
“I think the fourth one was best,” she says, eyes still covered. “Can I try it again?”
I spoon up some of the sauce and step close, holding my hand beneath her chin as I slide the utensil past her lips. I savor the tension as she presses her lips down around it and I pull the spoon free. Some of the sauce is on her lower lip as she swallows and frowns, focusing on the taste.
“You have something here,” I say. My voice is low because it feels like the moment might pass if I speak too loudly.
“Here?” she asks, rubbing blindly at her face and missing the sauce.
“Uh,” I say. “You’re missing it.”
“Want to help me?” she asks. There’s a ghost of a flirtatious smile on her lips. She’s backed up against the counter with both hands holding herself steady, almost as if she’s ready to push herself up and sit, legs spread invitingly for me to step inside her space.
The old me would make this easy for her. She doesn’t need to verbalize the invitation to touch her because it’s written in every inch of her body language right now. I’d spare her the awkward waiting–the wondering if I am picking up on her signals.
But the old me fucked things up. The old me had his turn, and it didn’t work. I feel my resolve harden as I remind myself I’m not going down that same road.
I put my fingertips on the outside of her arm, dragging them down in a teasing trail. “I told you I wouldn’t go easy on you if you waited, Mia.”
