Page 25 of Back for Seconds

“Sure, why not? I’m not sure if I was even allowed to say it,” she said through her own laughter.

June grabbed her wine glass, hopped off her stool, and came around to lean a hip against the counter, craning her neck to try to peek over my shoulder while I arranged the thick-cut slices of bread and a healthy smear of the roasted red pepper spread, carefully spooning extra pomegranate molasses over everything.

I don’t know why I was being so weird and cagey about letting her see the plate come together. Suddenly, nerves tugged at my stomach. What if this actually sucked? What if I had no idea what I was doing? The probability of that wasn’t low—not a ton of people were willing to try my vegan recipes.

“Ok.” I let out a heavy breath, slung a dish towel over my shoulder, and dusted my hands clean. “All guests need to be seated.”

June rolled her eyes, swiveling on socked feet back toward her seat. “I didn’t peg you for such a fascist.”

“Oh, yeah.” I grinned at her. “The trains run on time in this house.”

She snorted. “Smart joke.”

“You’re convinced I’m just some knuckle-dragging dudebro, aren’t you?”

“Again with the judgmental thing!” She blanched. “I thought we laid down our arms?”

I shooed her back toward her seat. “You just sounded shocked, that’s all.”

“Not shocked! Impressed. Jealous, even.”

She settled into her stool, laced her fingers together, and tucked them under her chin, eyelashes batting expectantly at me. “Ok, I need you to remember that I am a scientist, ergo all dishes will be analyzed using logic—”

“Of course.” I threw my plate together with a lot less care. Then, like a real gentleman, I grabbed a roll of paper towels and set it down between our place settings.

“And then ranked appropriately—”

“Naturally.”

“Based on one very particular question that has stumped man for years.” She threw her eyes up to the ceiling in a dramatic pantomime of deep thought. “Which is, how yummy did I find it?”

“The elusive yumminess, of course. What haunts all chefs.” I gave her plate a little spin as I set it down in front of her. “Voilà. Homemade focaccia made with imported, double-zero flour, Spanish olive oil, which is what gives it that warm, back-of-the-throat spice, and the finest water I could get my hands on—Evergreen tap. Topped with coarse salt and paired with a muhammara I could never even dream of making.”

She picked up her fork and twirled it at me like a magic wand, eyebrow cocked. “You kept your shirt on while you cooked.”

“You’re always trying to get me out of my clothes, JB.”

“No.” She yanked her head back, indignant. And a little defensive. Her cheeks instantly warmed to a very satisfying shade of soft pink. “You just seem very committed to your genre.”

“My nipples get me a lot of views. And a lot of views get more people making my food.”

She laid a hand over her heart. “Folks, he’s really in it for the love of the game.”

I shook my head, laughter pouring out of me. “You win this round, June. Just taste my fucking bread.”

She lifted the focaccia delicately, pinching it between her thumb and middle finger. I did the same. “Cheers, Joey.”

“Cheers.”

And then we took a bite.

Damn. I’d killed it. The dough had proofed and cooked perfectly. My grandmother’s recipe was incredible, but not quite foolproof, and I’d spent most of the morning sweating through multiple T-shirts, terrified that my dough wouldn’t rise and crisp properly. But now I could tell from the half-suppressed moan June had let out—while her eyes rolled back in her head—that I’d really killed it.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide and affixed on the bread she held up between us. “I grew up around dough. I’ve eaten more pizza and bread than you could ever imagine.”

I swallowed against the sudden swell in my throat, cheeks hot. “And?”

“And this is unfuckingbelievable.” She ran her tongue along her bottom lip, pulling in the last drops of oil clinging there. “This isn’t just bread. This is…religion. This…is god’s bread.”