"Dry-aged tomahawk ribeye. Forty-five days. Prime grade."
"I don’t mind if it's blessed by the culinary gods themselves! You can't just leave raw meat on people's doorsteps!"
"It's wrapped properly. Food-safe paper. The bone is cleaned. It won't contaminate anything."
"That's not—" Another one of those strangled sounds. "That's not the point!"
I shift the phone to my other ear, warmth spreading through my chest. She's magnificent when she's angry. "What is the point?"
"The point is that normal people apologize with words! Or flowers! Or a fruit basket! Not with... with..."
"Premium cuts of beef?"
"Yes!"
"Noted." I'm fully grinning now, though she can't see it. "For future reference, you prefer flowers."
"There's not going tobea future reference because you're going to take this ridiculous slab of meat back and we're going to pretend this never happened."
"Can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because you deserve an apology that matches the damage I caused. You spent six hours on that cake. I spent forty-five days on that steak. Seems fair."
The silence that follows is so complete I briefly wonder if she hung up. Then, in a voice that's lost some of its sharp edge: "You aged it for forty-five days?"
"Optimal flavor development. The enzymes break down the muscle fiber, concentrating the taste while tenderizing the texture. That particular cut would run you about ninety dollars at a high-end steakhouse, and they'd still overcook it."
"I'm a baker. I don't cook steaks."
"I could show you."
The words escape before I can help them, and the silence that follows makes my jaw clench. Too far. Too fast. I'm pushing into territory I have no business exploring with a woman who's currently furious with me.
"You," Quinn says slowly, "want to teach me how to cook the apology steak you left on my doorstep."
"If you want."
"After you destroyed my wedding cake with your bone saw. The one I spent hours constructing. The one that was supposed to feature hand-piped buttercream roses and a three-tier vanilla bean sponge with raspberry preserve filling."
"Accidentally."
"Right. Accidentally." She laughs, and it's not a friendly sound at all. It's sharp and brittle, like spun sugar cracking under pressure. "You're insane. Completely, utterly insane."
"Probably."
"I should report you for health code violations."
The threat doesn't land the way she likely intends it to. I shift my weight against the prep table, still fighting that grin that wants to split my face in half. "My permits are current. The inspector was here last week. Gave me top marks for cleanliness and proper temperature control."
"Of course they are." Another pause, longer this time. I can practically hear her scrambling for ammunition, searching for some new angle of attack that might actually penetrate my defenses. When she speaks again, her voice has taken on a different quality, something almost tentative beneath the lingering irritation. "What if I'm vegetarian?"
The question catches me off-guard, and genuine concern tightens my chest. "Are you?"
"No, but I could be!"
"But you're not."
