Page 3 of Love on the Vine
“My sophomore year of high school, I think. You’d already left for Notre Dame, Ben,” said Jake, his warm breath tickling the back of my neck as he peered over me at the picture. My entire body broke out in goose bumps. “My camera was permanently attached to me back then.”
“Yeah, you were a damn nuisance with that thing. As if it wasn’t bad enough that he’d skipped two grades and was younger and scrawnier than everyone else in his class, he was always popping up when you wanted a little privacy and immortalizing the moment for the yearbook.” Dad laughed. “Man, I’m surprised you didn’t get your ass kicked more back then.”
“Benjamin, language!” Gran admonished. “Well, I for one am delighted that he took this one. Wherever did you find it?”
“Cleaning out my parents’ place. We finally sold it.” Jake slid his hands in his pocket.
“I was sorry to hear about your father,” Gran said. “When was the funeral?”
“There wasn’t one. Just a small memorial.”
Gran patted him on the arm. “Well, I’m glad you could be with us tonight. Now, come sit over here and tell me more about yourself. Is there a Mrs. Vos yet?”
“No. I travel too much.” My ears pricked up, and I strained to hear the rest of their conversation as I headed back to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the side dishes I’d prepared. Even as I tried to concentrate on the food, though, I couldn’t help glancing out into the living room every now and then. Jake sat on the couch next to the chimney, a whiskey and soda in one elegant hand, the other arm propped casually against on the back of the sofa. Brooke was chewing his ear off. God, she was such an incorrigible flirt.
I must have been staring because suddenly his eyes met mine and I couldn’t look away. The blood rushed to my feet as I broke my gaze from his.
Okay, focus. Food first, ogling sexy older man later.
When I looked back up, he’d disappeared, and I took the opportunity to slip my phone out of my back pocket and open the chat I’d set up with my best friend Callie, who was currently living my dream going to culinary school in Paris.
I’m in big trouble, I typed. I was sure it would be too late for her to message me back, but my phone buzzed almost immediately.
Callie: Did you burn the Gooduckant?
I wrote back quickly:Worse—my dad invited the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen to Christmas dinner. Like scorching hot!
Callie: Ooh . . . way to go, Daddy. Don’t burn yourself!
I responded:Yeah, right. Oh damn, he’s coming over. I slid my phone into my pocket and pretended not to notice that Jake was headed my way carrying an enormous cardboard box.I continued dressing my salmon gravlax with thin slices of red onion and fried capers as he set the box on the counter by the sink.
“Ben said I should check with the chef. I’m assuming that’s you,” he explained as my eyes darted from the box to meet his gaze. On closer inspection, his eyes weren’t dark, but rather a deep hazel green with flecks of amber.
“Oh?” My pleasure at hearing my dad calling methe chef, only slightly mitigating the guilt I felt at having been almost caught sending objectifying texts about Jake to a friend. “What can I help you with?”
“Pairing the wine to the meal.” He gestured to the box. “I stopped at the only open wine store in town. The selection was surprisingly good.”
“Oh, I don’t know anything about wine.” I bit my lip in embarrassment, his eyes traveled to my mouth, lingered there in a way that made my insides quiver.
“That’s all right. I do. Tell me what you’re serving.”
“Well, for starters I have date and asiago gougères, gravlax, and roasted shrimp with lemon aioli.” As I rambled off my menu, his eyes ran over the platters of food on the kitchen counter. “Then I have two salads—roasted apple and fennel with hazelnuts, and orange, parsley, and walnut. Then for the main course brown butter stuffing and roast parsnips to go with the . . . um . . . fowl. Oh, and a mushroom Wellington with port wine reduction for the vegetarians.”
“You made all this?”
“Yeah, food is kind of my thing.” My blood heated under his intense scrutiny. It suddenly felt very warm in here and I longed to take off my sweater. “I can’t take credit for the roast though. That was all Dad.”
“Did he shoot it himself?” The corner of his mouth turned up.
“Mostly. He decided to try something different this year.” He must have heard the doubt in my voice because he raised an eyebrow at me. “It’s a Gooduckant.”
“A what?”
“Like a Turducken but with goose and pheasant.” His bewildered expression told me he hadn’t been around for the Turducken craze when everyone was deep frying them in barrels in their backyards. “How can I explain it? You’ve heard of a riddle wrapped in mystery inside an enigma?”
He nodded. “Sure.”
“Well, this is a pheasant wrapped in a duck inside a goose.”
