“Grilled cheese,” I request. “With those mushrooms you fried the other day?”
He stands behind me, keeping his voice low.
“Fried? Never. For you, I shall sauté.”
His knife moves quickly.
Soft layers peel from a blend of swiss brown and shiitake.
Searing them in brown butter, he adds a splash of chardonnay.
A little garlic and rosemary.
A splash of truffle oil.
“Such a show off,” I tease. “But keep going.”
And he does.
Sourdough, an inch thick with a light brush of butter on the side.
Gruyère melting like silk.
Stretchy mozzarella, barely escaping the edges.
A pinch of parmesan.
“You're a magician with food,” I swoon.
That smile is seductive.
Cooking is how he woos.
“Almost done,” he says.
A scattering of thyme leaves.
A few drops of balsamic.
Sea salt sprinkled on top.
“Iced water with lime?” he guesses.
“Please.”
I devour every bite within minutes.
???
When our bellies are full, I rinse and dry the dishes like a good little kitchen boy.
In this rare moment of kitchen seclusion, Porter lets his guard slip.
His hands wander places that are usually reserved for upstairs only.
Never downstairs.
Turning to face him, I break another rule.
