Page 65 of Simmer Down
“You say that like you’re surprised,” he says.
“I’m not. It’s just cool seeing you in action. All those years of working in your gran’s bed-and-breakfast have paid off.”
“That helped me with my cooking skills more.” He turns to check on the temperature of the oven as it preheats. “I learned how to work a kitchen after spending my early twenties in restaurants.”
He gently wrings out his hands at his sides. Automatically, my eyes fixate on his thick fingers and how deftly they move.
“So that’s how come you’re so good with your hands,” I say.
His lips twitch upward ever so slightly. “It is. I can chop, sauté, dice, whisk, knead. Massage. And rub. Among other things.”
I bite my lip. This feels like some sort of indecent kitchen pillow talk. My eyes skim the shiny metal surface of the nearby prep table. If only there weren’t a handful of servers due back in the kitchen at any minute, I’d demand he bend me over the shiny cold surface and show me for the millionth time just how good he is with his hands. That’s a decidedly friends-with-benefits thought.
I shake my head and glance at the clock. Only four minutes of ogling time left.
“You look like you’ve got something on your mind.” It’s as if he can read the naughty thoughts crowding my head.
My eyes fall to the floor. It’s time to rein in the pornographic kitchen euphemisms and focus back on the task at hand.
“I just hope they like the deconstructedlumpia. It’s a little pretentious. I don’t know why I didn’t just cook my regular recipe.”
Callum swipes a stainless steel saucepan from the shelf above him and sets it on a spider burner. “We tasted it before it went out, remember? How many times do I have to tell you that it’s bloody delicious?”
He flips on the burner and tosses a stick of butter in the pan.
I fetch a vat of diced scallions from the walk-in and set them next to the stove. I look up at him. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
He gazes down at the butter, which is slowly melting into a rich foam. “That idea you had to stack the fried wrapper sheets between the minced pork was genius. Foodies go wild for that stuff.”
Heat finds my cheeks, and not just because Callum’s hot body is an inch from mine. But because of how genuine his compliment is. I’ve been so fixed on perfecting the comfort food menu for the food truck and festival that I haven’t had much time to experiment with more daring recipes, like I did in my old job. My stomach was in happy knots the entire time I prepared my appetizer. I’ve missed playing around with creative recipes.
“Is that what the foodies at the restaurants you worked at told you?” I ask.
Callum shakes his head, chuckling. “I worked in pubs. Those aren’t the kind of places foodies care to go to.”
“Not true. Even foodies know that pub grub is some of the tastiest food there is. Anyone who turns their nose up at fish-and-chips and meat pies doesn’t have a clue what good food is.”
Callum winks at me before pulling a tray of single-serving-sized chunks of mahi-mahi from the walk-in. “Will any of your recipes from tonight be showing up at the festival?”
I ladle the scallions into the melted butter, then wag my spoon at him. “Nice try. I’m not revealing anything.”
Callum shrugs while staring at the pot of butter, a gleam in his eye. “Just curious.”
“I’m not going to ask you if the tempura-crusted mahi-mahi you’re making for tonight’s entrée is something you’re planning for the festival. That stuff is sacred and I don’t play dirty.”
He sets the tray of fish on the prep table, places a hand on my hip, and pivots me to face him. His other hand rests under my chin. The sound of metal clashing on metal hits my ears. All of a sudden my hands are empty. I must have dropped the spoon on the stove when Callum pulled this deliciously suave move on me just now. But I don’t care. It’s an excuse to have his hands on me. I’ll take it.
“Oh, you play dirty, Nikki.” His eyes bore into me. “Just not in the kitchen.”
The kitchen door swings open, causing both of us to take identical steps away from each other. Callum turns to the prep table while I stare at the scallion butter like it’s the most intriguing substance in the universe.
A server darts to the wine rack in the corner for a fresh bottle, then the door swings open once more.
“Everyone’s loving the canapés,” Ted announces, beaming. “Well done, Nikki!”
He skips over to Callum and slaps him on the back. “I hope your part of the main is as good as her starter, mate.”
I sneak a peek at Callum, who’s biting back a grin. He turns back to the stove top and begins to sear the fish. “I hope so too.”
