“You’re the one who told me to develop my palate.”
I spare a glance at her, curled up on the armchair from the kitchen office, sparkly pink pen in hand as she scribbles notes. We’ve been at it for hours and haven’t made much progress. My idea for the snapper was bland. The black garlic I tried out with duck overwhelmed everything else. These ovens are too inconsistent to attempt a soufflé, something we learned the hard way. The starfruit-cherry pork was halfway decent, but it needs editing before it’s ready to go on a menu. As of now, Poppy’s idea for foil-packet fish, which we plan to do with grilled asparagus and thin, crispy fried potatoes, is the only thing ready for Fable’s opening.
“How much champagne vinegar did you put in there?” I ask. “It should be a delicate flavor.”
“Half a cup.”
“Half a cup?” I scowl at her. “No wonder it tasted like crap. I wrote down a quarter.”
“Your handwriting is incomprehensible,” she says, sitting straighter in the chair. “A monkey would have better penmanship.”
“And yours is pink. What am I supposed to do with that?”
“You sound like my high school teachers,” she grumbles. “I told you a million times, it gives everything a fun flair.”
I sigh. “We’re not painting the bar pink.”
“Despite the retro Palm Beach vibes it would bring?” I don’t answer, because she does have a point—sort of. She smiles. She won the argument over the restaurant’s branding, and I’m loath to admit it, but it looks great, especially on the website. A tropical storybook of blues with hints of yellow and pink, ready to welcome you in. “Exactly. We’re tabling the discussion for now.”
“I still don’t recall giving you free rein in the dining room.”
“So? You’re just going to sell the place anyway.”
“It’s the first restaurant I’m heading up myself. It needs to feel right.”
“Someone will be willing to pay a ton for this waterfront, and then it won’t matter.” I might be mistaken, but she sounds a little sad about that prospect. “It’ll probably turn into a chain restaurant.”
A pang goes through me. That’s very likely, and not something I want to think about. Sal would hate the idea. But my future isn’t here, and there’s no use in pretending. It’s not like Poppy will be sticking around, either.
She hops off the chair. “So, we’re scrapping this completely?”
“Yeah. Let’s go back to the beginning.” I drum my fingertips on the counter, thinking through our remaining ingredients. “Mince some shallot for me, will you?”
If she’s exhausted from running around prepping ingredients for me and taking notes, she doesn’t show it. She just reties her apron and picks up the chef’s knife she’s claimed as her own. It’s the same one I brandished at her when she was hiding from the cockroach.
Maybe I should have left it with her at the apartment instead of moving her into the houseboat.
The mere thought has me on edge. We’ve fallen into a routine, this past week, and no matter how I pretend to protest, I like it. When we go back to the houseboat, we’ll eat together at the small drop-down table. We’ll brush past each other on the way to thebathroom. We’ll say goodnight before I go above-deck to sleep. All while she’s in another slinky nightgown, her hair loose and golden.
It feels good to have her so close. To know she’s safe. Not from stupid little cockroaches, obviously, but from other, genuinely scary things.
“Why are you staring?” she says as she cuts into the shallot. “Am I doing it wrong?”
“No.” I clear my throat. “Your technique is great. I was just thinking over some other vinaigrette possibilities.”
She beams. “That’s the first time you’ve said that.”
“You’ve been improving.”
I mean it. She’s proven tougher than a lot of people who come into kitchen environments, expecting things to be smooth sailing. Worst of all are the culinary school grads who think they know everything, questioning the chef and constantly pitching bad ideas for specials.
We try out the vinaigrette three more ways. The first is too sweet. The second, an awful, confusingly spicy combination that has us reaching for water immediately.
“Last chance for tonight,” I say as I finish whisking the third one, emulsifying the oil with the vinegar. Poppy suggested sherry vinegar to go along with the stronger, stone-ground mustard we used this round. I have my mind set on champagne vinegar, but you never know. “Fingers crossed it doesn’t suck.”
I coat a spoon, passing it to her first. She licks it without taking the spoon from my hand. Her eyes flutter shut. My nape warms at the reminder of earlier today at the Greenmarket, relishing the brush of my fingertips against her supple lips. The way her hand settled on my knee, squeezing with tantalizing pressure. I’d successfully shut it out of my mind, but now the rush of desire comes back full force. I had to stop myself from lurching forward and kissing her.
And good thing I did, because if there’s one thing I know, it’s that a woman like Poppy wouldn’t work with a man like me. I tried that once with Jessica, and the result was humiliating. Sure, I brush shoulders with high-paying, high-class clientele. That doesn’t put me in their league.
