Page 50 of Broken Dream
She’s certainly not a spoiled rich brat. Not that I thought she was. If that were the case, she’d be partying, driving around in an expensive car, and spending her money on frivolous things. She certainly wouldn’t be going to medical school. She’s choosing to put herself through these grueling four years and an even more grueling five or six afterward.
Angie Simpson is about as real a person as I’ve met in a long time.
“Let me grill the sandwiches really quick,” she says. She puts together a second sandwich and then throws them both into what looks like a waffle iron. Then she pours ladles of soup into two bowls and takes them over to the small table in her kitchen.
She wraps her fingers around the fridge door. “Would you like something else to drink? I have water or soda. Or we can just have the wine.”
“I think water would be great. Thank you.”
I really need to watch myself. I don’t drink often, so my tolerance is shit. And if I drink too much, I might just do something that will cost me my job.
Angie nods and fills two cups of water, adds ice, places them on the table, and then returns to the counter, where she opens the waffle iron and uses a spatula to pull out two gooey grilled cheese sandwiches.
“I just use regular old cheddar,” she says. “I’m not really into stinky cheese.”
I can’t help a chuckle. “Cheddar’s great. But I kind of think that when it comes to cheese, the stinkier the better.”
She wrinkles her nose adorably. “You sound like my mom. I’ve never met a chef that doesn’t love stinky cheese. Or goat cheese, which is the worst.”
I laugh. “I love goat cheese.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave my house,” she says, her eyes bright.
I grin. “I guess it would have never worked out between us anyway.”
She narrows her eyes. “Because of the cheese? Or because you’re my professor?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
Are we flirting?
It’s been so long since I flirted with someone. I’m a little rusty.
Angie smiles and gestures to a chair. “Have a seat.”
I wait for her to sit, and then I take the place across from her. She’s even put out cloth napkins.
Impressive.
I place mine across my lap and take another sip of my wine.
“Well,” she says, “dig in. But be careful. The cheese is going to be really hot.” As she says this, she opens her two slices of bread, and steam drifts out. “Helps a little.”
I repeat her movements. Then I take a sip of the water.
I decide to start with the tomato soup.
I bring a spoonful to my lips, blow on it, and then let it float over my tongue.
And wow.
It’s like tasting the essence of a sun-warmed tomato. The flavor is rich, velvety smooth, and bright, with that deep sweetness only a perfectly ripe tomato has. The subtle tang is balanced with a hint of roasted garlic and fresh basil that lingers just long enough to make me want another taste.
So I take another taste.
Then another.
And then I speak. “This may be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
