His lips quirk into a half-smile. “Most of the recipes will be shit.”
“I want to learn how you do it.” I unwrap my own taco. “How you put together flavor combinations, I mean. How you decide how much acid to add to a sauce, and how much fat to round out a dish.”
He studies me. “Yeah?”
I take a sip of the grapefruit-flavored soda, relishing the burst of carbonation. “Yeah. Things are different now.”
“Different,” he repeats.
“When we started this, you said I could earn the chef title. I want to. Earn it.”
A bit of juice sneaks out of the taco, running down my hand. I lick it clean. Jack stares, his gaze practically burning a hole through me. He shakes his head slightly. He reaches into one of the bags at our feet, taking out a small, paper-wrapped package, and works it open with one hand.
“Take a sip of your drink.”
There’s a curious note in his voice, so I listen without protesting. He holds out something between his fingers. When I reach out to take it, he shakes his head again. My breath stutters. I sway closer, and so does he.
Our eyes catch, blue on green. His fingertips brush my lips as he feeds me the small morsel. He caresses my bottom lip with his thumb before easing away.
The small gesture freezes me so thoroughly, I don’t remember that I have something in my mouth until my taste buds are overcome with flavor. It’s cheese. Nutty, rich, and yet like silk in my mouth. He watches as I swallow, those irreverent eyes shaded by the tree’s branches.
We’re close enough that it’d take no effort at all to touch. No effort to kiss, our mouths messy with flavor.
“Good?” he asks roughly.
I nod, mesmerized by the way he’s looking at me. I can’t manage to get my lungs to work, much less my voice. There’s a raw, almost carnal edge to his expression. I feel stripped down, even though we’re in public. The banyan canopy might as well be a curtain. We’re ensconced in our own little world, quiet and full of possibility.
“Tell me what you taste.”
“Is this a test?”
“Close your eyes and think.”
It does feel like a test, and one I don’t want to fail. I close my eyes. His fingertips tap against my lips. He places another sliver of cheese on my tongue.
This time, I let it melt intentionally. My focus narrows to this one point. Even with my eyes closed, I can sense his nearness. I scoot a little closer, my hand squeezing his knee. I want to please him. I’m desperate to ace this test.
“Caramel,” I finally say. I’m surprised by my own answer, but it’s the truth. “It’s like toasted caramel.”
“Clever girl.”
My eyes startle open. He’s grinning, perfectly relaxed, as if he didn’t just rock my world sideways. He tucks a wayward lock of hair behind my ear. My fingertips dig into his knee as I shiver, despite the humidity. I manage to jerk myself away from him, as far on the other end of the bench as it allows.
“I guess we’re cooking tonight, Winfield.”
My breath catches. I squirm, fighting the urge to throw myself into his arms, as excitement tumbles through me. “Yes, Chef.”
Chapter 25
Spit It Out
Jack
I dip a spoon into a plastic container of vinaigrette and stick it in my mouth. I make a face as I swallow. Too strong. Bitter. It needs way more fat—olive oil, in this case—but even then, this doesn’t taste like a winner. I dump it in the garbage.
“Hey, you didn’t let me try,” Poppy protests.
“No need.”
