Tori
Chapter 27
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
If that was true, then everything was going exactly according to plan.
Things had felt different after Stefan and I returned from New York. It was hard to pinpoint precisely what had shifted for him, but it was indisputable. He still worked late hours, but now he made an effort to be home early enough that we could have dinner together. We’d sit in the living room or on the couch, chatting about our days (I always talked more, but that was par for the course and neither of us seemed to mind the dynamic) while Gretna served us one of her gourmet meals. I paid attention to which dishes Stefan responded to most, planning to surprise him with my own home-cooked meal.
And now, the culmination of all my efforts was simmering deliciously right in front of me.
I’d pulled Gretna aside a week ago and asked her, “What’s a fancy dinner you can make for someone, that’s also not too hard to prepare?”
She looked me up and down. “Are you cooking for Mr. Zoric?”
I blushed. “I’d like to. And I’d give you the night off, of course. But I don’t have a lot of experience, and I want him to be impressed. Really impressed. What can I do?”
Gretna tilted her head, glanced around the kitchen, and nodded. “Risotto. It tastes like a million bucks but it’s just an elaborate preparation of rice. Everybody can make rice.”
Smiling, I said, “That sounds perfect. I know he loves seafood—can I put something like that in there, too? Or will that make it too complicated?”
“It’s not complicated,” she said. “But which seafood are we talking?”
I thought about Stefan’s preferences. “How about scallops? And shrimp? Maybe some clams or mussels?”
Grinning, Gretna nodded again. “Clams and mussels are easy—they open up their shells when they are ready. The scallops are a little more delicate, but we can practice.”
“You’d do that for me?” I was overjoyed.
“Of course. I’d never forgive myself if I left you to overcook a scallop. They get chewy. Tastes like rubber. A perfect scallop will melt in the mouth.”
I decided I’d sear the scallops and serve them beside the risotto, and then chose asparagus with poached eggs as the side. Gretna gave me scallop-searing lessons for the whole week leading up to Stefan’s surprise. I was shocked to find that it was easier than I’d expected—just a quick few minutes to cook each side—and that I was enjoying myself. Learning to poach eggs was a different story. I struggled time and time again, ruining countless eggs by turning them into disintegrating, inedible blobs.
“I just can’t get it right,” I’d told Gretna on Thursday evening. “I’m following the directions exactly. But every time I pull them out of the water, they fall apart.”
“It takes a lot of trial and error to poach an egg,” she said sagely. “Some people never master it.”
I frowned. “Is there anything else I can do? What if I fry them instead? I can fry eggs.”
“Of course you can.” Gretna brightened. “I should have thought of it myself. It will still be an elegant presentation. And he will love it.”
I took her words to heart and tried to convince myself to relax.
And now here I was, standing in the kitchen in a cute apron I’d picked up from a boutique near campus, a gorgeous pan of buttery seared scallops sitting on the stove beside my bubbling risotto. The asparagus was in the broiler, almost finished, and my fried eggs and parmesan were waiting to become garnish. I was sweating, and high on adrenaline, but I couldn’t wait for Stefan to get home.
I just hoped he wouldn’t walk into the kitchen and see the disaster I’d wrought. The counters were covered in bits of parsley and lemon juice, spilled salt and pepper sprinkled left and right, grains of rice on the floor and shrimp shells in the sink. Not to mention the dirty measuring cups and spoons and pans everywhere. I’d clean it up later.
Untying my apron, I dashed upstairs to change. I hadn’t wanted to risk setting a sleeve on fire or splashing oil or clam juice on my silk dress, but I realized when I got to the closet that I was still covered in a fine sheen of sweat. This would not do. I jumped in the shower to soap up and rinse off, then dried quickly and slipped the dress on.
But looking in the mirror, I saw that my mascara had run, my face was shiny, and my hair was a limp wreck. I touched up my makeup and tousled my hair under the hairdryer, then put on the teardrop diamond necklace from Stefan. Heels seemed like overkill for a dinner at home, but I still tried on a few pairs before finally settling on bare feet. I didn’t want to scuff the floors.
Stefan was going to be so floored when he saw what I’d done for him—when he tasted what I’d done for him. He’d walk in, tired out from his long day at work, and come to find me in the kitchen in my sexy little dress, just about to put the finishing touches on the plates with sprigs of parsley and lemon wedges. One thing was certain: Gretna deserved a fat bonus for all her help and guidance. I couldn’t believe I’d actually pulled this off.
I had just given myself a last look in the mirror when I heard a shrill beeping sound. That’s when the smell hit me. Something was burning.Fuck.
I rushed to the kitchen amid the screeching of the smoke alarm and found smoke pouring from the oven. The asparagus! It had only needed three minutes to broil, and I’d left it for—at least twenty minutes, maybe thirty. I turned off the oven and flung the windows open to let the smoke out, breathing hard as the cold November air poured in all around me.
“What is this?” Stefan asked.
