Page 26 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

“But you haven’t taken it to heart.” He took the bowl from her.

“Hey!”

He dumped out the sticky mixture. “She only had to say it to me once,” he smirked at her. “I listened; I learned. Again.”

Chloe’s shoulders drooped. “Really? Freshly plucked rosemary, rub one leafed stem between my palms after warming between them for ten deep breaths?”

“It’s in the recipe.”

She huffed out a breath, and never had a sigh been more well-earned. “I never follow recipes. I just make it up, throw things together, see what happens.”

Often the compost bin was what happened.

“I thought chefs were creative.”

“They are.” His voice was dark as molasses, and Chloe blamed his potent draw for her distraction and disinterest in doing the recipe over again. Maybe she should just suck it up and hire caterers.

“But chefs learn the basics. Practice the essential skills over and over. We learn what works and how and why before we can play and get our hands truly dirty.”

The way he looked and sounded when he said “dirty” should be a sexy man internet meme. Viral. Boom! Mentally, Chloe made exploding jazz hands.

“You still write poetry?”

The question was unexpected, and she could barely swallow as a red wave swamped her cheeks. “Ummm…yeah?”

“There are rules to language. Grammar. Syntax. Stuff like that. Miss Millie told me you’re a high school English teacher, and that you also teach a creative writing class.”

Why she felt utterly exposed was a mystery. It wasn’t as if Rustin would want to see her journal…okay, dozens of journals. If he did, he’d abandon his new venture and head to a city where he didn’t feature in dozens of effusive entries about Rustin sightings in her childhood journals.

“You know the rules that make writing work so that the meaning is clear, so you can experiment a little—create a voice that sings on the page in places.”

“Like when I verbize nouns,” she said, making the connection.

“Yeah. I guess. So, this time do it exactly as specified in the recipe.”

“It’s not like this old book is the Bible,” she griped, reaching for the bag of flour. “And if you’d helped me, we’d both be tucked in bed.”

The flour dropped from her hands and would have plopped on the floor, making an even bigger mess, but Rustin caught it. Handed it back. His expression amused.

“Separately, I mean,” she stammered, sure she was crimson again. “Different beds. Yours. Mine. Oh. Never mind. Zipping. Right now.”

“Good idea. Again, exactly.”

Rustin was broodingly hot, but she felt he was laughing at her a little, and that cheered her, like they were friends.

So, she read the directions. Followed them exactly, including the rosemary stalk and the lemon candle, and then she plated the food exactly as Rustin had instructed. That part was interesting because she’d never thought about a plate as a canvas. Or like a choral arrangement, each voice singing something specific to complement or draw attention to a certain line or tone.

Rustin sounded like an artist as he talked about the shape and colors and texture and the way it would all “draw the eye.”

And it did. But, still, her eyes, her hungry gaze, would always, always, always be drawn to Rustin.

And now he was back in Belmont.

“Ta-da,” she said softly, placing the plate in front of Rustin as he sat at her bistro-style table she’d snagged at a Charlotte bakery that was going out of business. It was the one piece of furniture she’d chosen. Grandma Millie had chosen all the other furniture from generations of Mayes or Cramers. Chloe loved the thick, reclaimed wood round top and the hand-painted design accents.

Rustin looked at the food and then picked up the still piping-hot biscuit that she’d layered with slaw and the pulled pork that had cooked and marinated in her Crock-Pot all afternoon.

“Aren’t you going to taste it with me?” he asked.

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