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I stop beside her and take the spoon from her hand. Our fingers touch. Her eyes lift to mine. Tuesday passes silently between us. Neither of us needs to mention it. I turn toward the stove before I forget I'm supposed to be irritated. It's becoming increasingly difficult.

I taste the sauce. She watches me for a moment, then turns her attention back to the pot.

"There's roasted pepper."

"Yes."

"Tomato. Garlic. Thyme."

I nod. Her eyebrows pull together.

"And something else."

I know that expression. The rest of the world could disappear, and Madison Hart wouldn't notice until she figures out the answer. There are worse things to watch.

She reaches for the spoon, then pauses.

"May I?"

I glance at her.

"Now you ask?"

She holds out her hand. I chuckle and give it to her. She tastes again. This time she takes longer. Then her eyes brighten.

"Cardamom."

"There it is."

"You put cardamom in this."

"I did."

"Martinez, this is genius."

Something in my chest shifts. It shouldn't. I've had people compliment my food before. But she isn't being polite. She's excited. Actually excited.

"The cardamom comes in after the pepper," she says. "It gives it warmth without making it sweet."

"That was the idea."

"It works."

There it is again. That expression she gets when food excites her. I saw it in the fields. I'm seeing it now in my kitchen. And somehow I'm becoming a man who wants Madison Hart to keep looking at things I've made exactly like that. Inconvenient.

She tastes the sauce once more. Then pauses.

"Fresh basil."

I glance toward the herbs near the window.

"There's already basil in it."

"I know, but you cooked it into the sauce."

"That was intentional."

"I'm sure it was."