I cut the first slice.It’s tender as butter.I drag the small piece of beef through the reduction and bring it to my mouth.
Oh…
For a second I forget my fear.
The meat is that good, that perfect.
The tannin in the reduction complements it perfectly.
The yucca is silk.
I close my eyes, just once.If I don’t walk out of here, at least this bite mattered.
“Good?”Chef asks.
“It’s perfect.”
My voice has a warmth to it that I don’t expect.
A warmth because I mean the words.The dish is exquisite.
Chef drops his shoulders a fraction.
If I didn’t know better, I might think his power over me slackened just a touch.
How best do I take advantage of it?
“You always loved a braise,” I say, adding a touch of seduction to my tone.I take a small bite of carrot, chew, swallow, lick my lips.“The patience of it.”
His mouth twitches.“Thecontrolof it.”
I look up at him through my lashes.“Patienceiscontrol.”
He laughs then.
Not a sharp or barking laugh.
No.
This is a real laugh.A laugh of enjoyment.
Good.Enjoyment slows men down.It makes them sentimental.It makes them talk.
“How long have you had this planned?”I take a sip of the wine.
Damn.It’s excellent with the braised flank steak, which only pisses me off because nothing about tonight should taste this good.
“A long time,” he says simply.
In my mind, I imagine a timeline.Chef watching, contemplating, planning.I haven’t been gone from Colombia very long.This was quick on his part.Things fell into place for him—his friendship with Chef Charleston, his partnership with Reyes.
It all clicked.
“Why five courses?”I keep my tone airy.Curious.
He glances at the unlit third candle.“Because luring you here and serving you takeout would be tacky.”
I stop my jaw from dropping.
