Not at all what I expected from him.
I’m not sure how to respond.
He speaks again before I think of what to say.
“The dessert,” he says.“You always loved dessert.”
I spear a carrot to stop my hand from shaking.I still say nothing.
He sets his fork down.The air shifts.
He stares at me.I hold his gaze for a moment and then lower mine.
Seduction isn’t working.He’s throwing me curveball after curveball.
What the hell is this all about?
“Eat,” he says.“Please.”
Please?Why the hell would he say please?
I eat.Slowly.I cut pieces so small a mouse would complain.I dab reduction, swipe purée, mash carrot.I let the fork hover as I count drips of wax down the side of candle two.I glance toward candle three, candle four…
Candle five.
Say something, Daniela.Something intelligent.
“Do you remember the first time you taught me to braise?”I ask as I lift another bite.“You said the meat has to surrender.”
“It still does,” he says.“Everything does, in the end.”
Not everything.
Not me.
Not without a hell of a fight.
Chef eats, but he doesn’t seem to enjoy the food.
I set my fork down and reach for my wine.I take a sip and then another to buy more seconds, making sure I don’t drink enough to impair me.Then I finish the course.Slowly.
Slowly.
Achingly slowly.
When the plate is finally empty, I let my shoulders sag like I’m full.I lay the knife and fork together at four o’clock.I dab my mouth with the napkin, place it beside the plate, and meet Chef’s gaze.
“Course three,” I say lightly, “was indecent in its perfection.”
He smiles.“Wait for four.”
“Why?”I pout a little, because there’s no faster way to make a man talk about his art than to pretend you might not appreciate it.“Tell me.”
He cocks his head.“Because I want to see your face when you taste it.”
Time, he means.He wants time.To watch.To own my reaction.It’s always been that with him, more than even the sex.Thetaking in.
I can use that.I can slow time to a crawl.
