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“No, he is staring at the kitchen door.” Bianca looks down at the plate while I put my finishing touches on it. People think presentation doesn’t mean much, but they couldn’t be more wrong. People eat with their eyes and nose first.
It's the same as when you smell milk wondering if it’s bad because it’s the day of expiration on the carton. It doesn’t matter if the milk is still good. If your mind for a second thinks it might be spoiled, it’s all you’ll taste even if it’s not.
“You should watch and see if he takes a bunch of pictures of the food,” Sara suggests.
“Good idea! Men never take pictures of their food.”
“They do of feet.”
“Reggie!” I snip.
“What? They do! There are entire websites dedicated to it. Tell me, Bianca, is that how you got all those expensive purses?”
“You have to take the pictures, not other people.” Bianca blindsides us all with her answer. I burst into laughter.
“If I take pictures of my feet, I can get those purses?” Sara gawks.
“I don’t know. Let’s see your feet. Those shoes you cooks wear are hideous.” Reggie again isn’t wrong.
“Everyone keeps their shoes on in my kitchen,” I say through laughter.
“You better not be selling pictures of your feet,” Gio grumbles.
“Have you seen that fine specimen sitting in the dining room? He’s not only extremely handsome but some kind of doctor. I’ll give him pictures of my feet and more.” Reggie winks before he snags the plate I just finished to take it out. Bianca grabs a few as well and follows behind him.
Sara and I glance at each other. What’s one little peek going to hurt?
CHAPTER 7
JASE
“The food here is good,” Calvin says as he gobbles down another dish. “This one with the fish. What’s it called?”
“Acqua Pazza,” I supply. I can’t pinpoint why, but it’s irritating the hell out of me that Calvin is enjoying the food. Seeing him chow down on the sea bass is almost enough to kill my appetite. Another plate comes out, this time a meatball doused in spicy red sauce. My mouth starts watering.
“What’s that?” Calvin wants to know.
I cover the dish with my hand and growl, “Eat your fish.”
“I can get you a soppressata meatball if you’re interested,” offers white shoe lady. “For you, however”—she dips her head in my direction—“just know that I’m not on the menu.”
There’s a smile on her face when she says it, but her tone is kind of mean.
“Why would you be? You’re not food.”
Across from me, Calvin chokes on his sea bass. White shoes’ brows come together. “You keep looking at my shoes—you know what? Never mind. I’ll put in an order for another soppressata meatball.”
I pick up the half-eaten egg yolk ravioli. “Can you put this in a box? I’m going to eat it for breakfast tomorrow.” She takes the plate and heads off to the kitchen. I wonder who the chef is. What kind of person makes food like this? I’m not religious, but it has to be a person that has tapped into a higher plane of consciousness. One who is using at least fifteen percent of their brain instead of the average five percent.
“Breakfast?” Calvin says, breaking through my subconscious train of thought.
“You should try it.”
“Studies show that carbs make you sleepy. I don’t want to miss something in the lab.”
“It must be the sauce then because I was productive all day.” I gobble down the meatball and then consider the plates on the table. There’s half of the sea bass, but I think I want something with the noodles. Plus, there’s dessert. I should make space for that.
“Calvin, how do I meet the chef?”
“I’m not sure.” He dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “Did you want to leave them a tip because you could probably ask Bianca.”
“Who’s Bianca?”
Calvin stares. “The gorgeous bombshell who has been delivering our food. You keep staring at her shoes.”
“Ah, right.” I snap my fingers. “The one who said she wasn’t on the menu, which of course she’s not.” I wait for the waitress to return and flash her a big smile. “Bianca, right?”
She blinks and staggers back. I jump up and steady her. “You okay?”
She gives herself a shake and pulls out of my grip. “Yes, of course. I must’ve tripped.”
“It’s probably your shoes. They’re not designed to allow you long periods of standing. I suggest a soft loafer. Crocs even.”
“Crocs?” The side of Bianca’s mouth curls up in disgust. “Please don’t say anything like that near my sister, or I’ll have to ban you from the restaurant.” Her face freezes, and then she pastes a wide fake smile on it. “I was kidding.” She bats my arm. “Just a joke.”
I frown. “Your sister?” Pieces click into place. “Is she the chef? I’d like to meet her.”
