His eyes nearly roll out of his skull at my words. “I ran out of contact solution.”
“Uh-huh.” I lean against the prep sink, latte in hand. “I hope you know those are total grandpa glasses. Just how bad is your vision?”
“Thanks,” he says dryly.
“They do suit you,” I add, tilting my head to the side to take himin from another angle. He scowls, pressing the glasses up the bridge of his nose. “They’re cute.”
“Please stop talking.”
I sip my latte, peering into the crate. It’s full of groceries. On the top, I spot cheese, honey, and jam. “What’s all of this?”
“Sample provisions.”
“Are we going to taste them?”
“Yeah. One of the purveyors I’m talking with sent them as samples.” He gestures for me to wash my hands and take a seat at the prep table.
As I drink my latte, he sets the food on a cutting board with all the care of a new parent. A wheel of soft, moon-white cheese. Spiced honey in a fancy jar. Lingonberry jam, whatever that is, and pistachios, still in their shells. Some kind of cured meat, which he slices so thin, each piece could be paper. At the last moment, he brings out a warm loaf of bread from the oven. I stare at it like a malnourished stray. My stomach proudly announces its hunger to the room.
“Did youmakethat?”
“Yep.”
“When? Just now?”
“Before you came in. It’s the extent of my baking abilities.” He breaks off a piece, chewing slowly. He nods; it must meet his approval. “At one of the places I worked—”
“Wait,” I interrupt, bringing out my phone. “Can I film this?”
“No.”
“But the story time videos do so well.”
It’s true. Whenever I get Jack talking on camera, be it about cooking technique or places he worked in the past, our engagement is sky-high. I know it exasperates him, but comment after comment asks when Fable will open, if we’re taking reservations yet, ifJackis taken... I usually answer the last with a random food emoji, just to annoy him.
He glowers. I beam. Unfortunately for me, he wins our stare-off.
“Fine,” I sigh. “What were you going to say?”
“We had a baker. Raymond, but everyone called him Big Ray.” He cuts the cheese, spreading a dollop on another piece of bread,then drizzles it with honey. He passes it to me. I suppress a shiver as his fingertips brush mine. He’s kept his distance since the night he made me grilled cheese; always to the side of the stove, the other end of the prep table. I know better, but that night, I could have sworn he kept looking at my lips. “He did the pastry, all of that, but also bread.”
“And he taught you how to bake it?” I’ve barely swallowed before I’m reaching across the table for another piece. It tastes like absolute heaven.
“No.” There’s a faint thread of amusement in his voice. He fixes me another slice, this time with the jam, which bursts across my tongue with unexpected tartness. I love it. I finish my bread and attack the jar with a spoon. “He was a drunk. He’d be fine for days at a time, then go on a bender. Chef—this guy named Cole, he was a fucking hardass—somehow got it in his head that it was my job to keep Big Ray in line. When he didn’t show up on time to his shift, I’d have to go find him. Eventually I got tired of that, so I just started making the bread myself.”
“Sounds like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just, you’re very take charge.” I pick at another piece of bread, breathing in the warm, pleasant scent of sourdough. “This is amazing, seriously. We’re going to have it at Fable, right?”
He raises an eyebrow. “What, you think you have a say in the menu?”
“Hey, no one would know about your menu if it wasn’t for me.” I swing my feet underneath the table. “By the way, we have an upholsterer onboard for the booths. She’s local, too.”
“For free?”
“As long as we promote her.”
