Page 67 of Cooking Up My Comeback
“I’ll work on it.”
He picks up a biscuit and examines it with mock seriousness. “Okay. Good rise, golden edges, structurally sound. The butter-to-flake ratio looks promising.”
“Are you reviewing or flirting?”
“Can’t it be both?”
The question hangs in the air between us, and I feel that familiar flutter in my chest that shows up whenever he looks at me like that.
“Just eat the biscuit, Brett.”
He tears off a piece and pops it in his mouth. “Warm. Buttery. You might actually know what you’re doing.”
“Might?”
“I’m withholding final judgment until I see if you can do this consistently.”
I grab the recipe card from the counter. “Fine. If we’re doing critiques, I’m reading this like it deserves proper dramatic interpretation.” I clear my throat and hold the card up like a sacred document. “Step four: ‘Add shrimp to skillet. Sauté until pink and just cooked through. Do not overcook.’”
“Very moving,” he says solemnly. “I felt the emotion.”
“The shrimp deserved respect.”
“The shrimp got respect. Along with an appropriate amount of butter.”
I scoop up a tiny bit of grits with my spoon and launch it in his direction. It lands on his forearm.
He blinks, looking down at the dot of food on his arm. “Did you just start a food fight?”
“That was reconnaissance. Testing your reflexes.”
“My reflexes are fine. It’s my retaliation you should worry about.”
He reaches for his spoon, and I hold up my hands in surrender. “Truce! Truce!”
“Too late.” He scoops up a small amount of whipped butter and steps around the table.
“Don’t you dare?—”
He taps the spoon lightly against my cheek, leaving a tiny dot of butter. “There. Now we’re even.”
I go still. So does he.
His hand lingers just a second longer than it needs to, thumb brushing the butter away. For a moment, the kitchen goes quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and the sound of my heart beating too fast.
Then he clears his throat and steps back, reaching for his napkin.
“Sorry,” he says quietly. “That was...”
“Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “It was fun.”
But something’s shifted. The easy teasing from a moment ago has been replaced by something more careful. More aware.
We sit back down, and I focus very intently on my shrimp and grits.
“These really are good,” I say, filling the silence.
“The grits or the shrimp?”
