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Heart thumping fast, she joined him, pouring them both a glass.
He took his, that enigmatic gaze never leaving her.
She caught her lip. Not nervous, just…anticipating…something. But what?
Or wanting something? Something impossible?
“I like this label,” she blurted out, drilling her attention onto the wine bottle’s simple white and gray label. “The design, I mean. The graphic design. I’ve never had the wine before, but I like the label.”
God, she was babbling like a fool.
“It’s a small winery in the Hunter Valley,” Angus said. “Owen’s cousin owns it.”
“The rock star?” Elisa lifted her glass to her lips, realized she hadn’t eaten anything for a long time and abruptly lowered it. Dio, why was she suddenly so nervous? It was ridiculous. “Or the cellist?”
“The rock star.” He pulled out the chair beside her hip. “Ready to eat? Before we do something crazy like drink on an empty stomach?”
A wobbly laugh fell from her. “I was just thinking that.” She lowered herself into the chair. She couldn’t remember the last time someone not a waiter had held a chair for her.
Her stomach rumbled and she pressed her palms to it. She was hungry.Andnervous. Hungry she understood. Nervous? Not at all.
Yes, you do. Because you think what’s happening between you both could be more and you thinkhedoes as well and you’re too scared to make the first moveandtoo scared of what might happen if you do, let alone if you don’t.
“What makes a signature dish?” she asked as he moved to his seat on the other side of the table.Stop stressing out. Enjoy the moment.
“Well, all the food magazines and blogs and food critics will tell you it’s a recipe unique to a chef or restaurant. In a blind test, a well-informed gastronome can identify the chef from taste alone. But to me…” He rested his fingers on the stem of his glass, pivoting it slowly on the spot. “It has a soul.”
She frowned.
“Okay, that sounds wanky, I’ll give you.” He chuckled. “Cooking has always been a…an escape for me.”
Something about the way he’d said the wordescapemade Elisa think that wasn’t the word he was originally going to use.
“But this meal…” He looked down at his own plate. “This one I made at a particular time in my life when I needed an anchor. I spent almost half a day in Owen’s parents’ kitchen experimenting with flavors, textures.” A stillness fell over him.
Owen’s parent’s kitchen? Not his own parents? Now she thought about it, she had no clue about his family apart from the fact he had a half sister he adored.
And an anchor? A person only needed an anchor when their life was chaos. She’d needed an anchor in her life once. Her sisters and mom and dad had been hers. Owen and his family had been Angus’s. Why not his own family?
She nibbled on the inside of her lip. He was still a closed book. A closed book she felt comfortable with, but a closed book all the same. One she wanted to open.
He lifted his head, his smile once again relaxed. “Owen was the very first person to try it. He loved it. Ate all of it. Didn’t share a single bite with anyone. And that’s how we all discovered he was allergic to shellfish.”
Elisa’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh boy.”
Mischief twinkled in his eyes. “Oh boy, indeed. His face blew up like a balloon. An itchy, red balloon. It was hilarious.”
“Hilarious?”
“Well, Owen and I thought it was hilarious. Mind you, wewereonly fifteen at the time. Idiotic teenage boys. The doctors and nurses in the emergency department didn’t think it was hilarious. Nor did his mum and dad. His brother and sister…theythought it was funny. His sister made us all T-shirts for Christmas that year with Owen’s bloated face printed on the front. I’ve still got mine. Was contemplating wearing it to the engagement party.”
She blinked. “I thought I understood Australian humor by now, but…” She shook her head, chuckling. “So this is your signature dish? The most popular at your restaurant?”
He turned his wineglass again, his smile wide even as a pensive stillness fell over him again. “I’ve never put it on the menu rotation at Buckley’s Chance. It’s too…personal.”
She swallowed, the weight of his declaration making her heart thump faster. It was an important dish to him, very important by the sounds of it. Too important to share with the general public, but he’d made it for her.
“In that case,” she picked up her knife and fork, and began dissecting one of the plump shrimp nestled in the crisp lettuce leaf amongst the chopped peanuts, green beans, mint and coriander, and red onions. God, it smelt good, “thank you. For making it for me.”
