Page 79 of The Promise Of You

He shrugs. “I dunno. It’s just a name. Haley was going through her Abba phase at the time.”

“That doesn’t answer the Madness question.”

He chuckles. “Shit, Chloe, you never let go, do you? I made it in March. There. Happy?”

“Yes, happy.” I take my mac’n cheese out of the oven and set it to the side to cool. When I turn around, he’s scooping his Mamamia sauce onto an open-faced pork belly slider. My pork belly, marinated, his friend Christopher’s brioche bread, and coriander from Cassandra’s vegetable garden. He hands the bite-size slider to me, one hand under it so the sauce doesn’t drip on the floor. I meet him halfway, my gaze hesitating between his green eyes and the food he’s finger-feeding me. He could have set it on a plate. On a napkin. He could have let me take it myself.

He probably should have.

Because now, my mouth is closing down, his fingers are caught in, and his gaze is searing into me. What is he doing?

He wipes his fingers on a dishtowel and turns his back to me to fix himself the same bite. “So? What do you say? Good?” His voice is detached. This must have been nothing to him. I need to cool down.

I swallow and take a long drink of water. “It’s heavenly.” The pork belly is a perfect balance of crispy and soft, the coriander adds depth, and his sauce is equal parts sweet and spicy, in tune with the dish, enhancing it without overpowering it. The brioche bun provides a sweet, soaking vessel.

“Umm, good,” he agrees. “Yup. That’s up there. Lemme write it down.” He grabs my notebook and the pen.

My fingers tingle as his decisive handwriting fills my notebook with the recipe we just created. I can’t help but recognize it—so he did write the apology note himself.

This is ridiculous. I’m like a schoolgirl watching her crush fill her yearbook. Next thing you know, I’ll be carving our initials on a tree. Rolls eyes inwardly. I grab our glasses and refill them with water, then set his next to him.

“Thanks,” he says.

The countertops are full. We’re not in a professional kitchen, so we have to make do with the space we have, which isn’t much. It’s cramped and messy but it’s fun. And Moose can be with us. I throw him a lean piece of meat, which he swallows in a fraction of a second.

My phone dings with a text message from Corine. Sam is here.

Hm. She doesn’t call him Chef.

Me: Okay. All good?

Corine: Yes. Just wanted to let u know.

Me: thx

I’m not looking forward to going to the restaurant today. Samuel hasn’t answered my messages checking in on him, and I’m not sure how to navigate that situation with him. He did lock me up to yell at me, after all. I don’t want to blow it out of proportion, but I can’t accept that. On the other hand, he was beaten up pretty badly by Justin for doing just that, so it’s not like I feel super comfortable addressing that again.

What bothers me most is what Corine said about menu items we never sell. And I know we order a lot and should never be short. I’m going to need to look into that.

“Almost done with the pork sliders,” Justin says, cutting into my thoughts. “What next?”

Me: Might be running late today

I put my phone down, stress from the day ahead lodging right between my shoulder blades. The restaurant can wait, for now.

The mac’n cheese has cooled, so I grab a fork and dip in. “Holy crap. It’s the best I’ve ever made.”

“Is that your specialty dish?” he asks.

“Nope. My specialty dish is a lobster risotto.”

He stops with his pen midair. “Why didn’t you make that today?”

Last time I was going to make it was for Tucker. “It brings back bad memories.”

“Lemme guess. Douchebag?”

I nod.

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