Page 67 of Simmer Down
A wave of “oohs” and “aahs” travels across the table.
“And the crunch on the outside.” He practically sings the words. “Goodness me.”
Matteo chomps on his forkful. The rest of his dining companions do the same, then rave about the perfect flavor.
Matteo takes his butter knife in his left hand and brushes a mound of pineapple fried rice on his fork. He holds it up in front of him, catching the light of the nearby overhead chandelier. It’s like he’s an appraiser scrutinizing a gemstone in the light.
“And this rice. My oh my, this rice. The perfect complement to the delicately fried fish with its sweet chunks of succulent pineapple and salty bacon.” He slaps his free hand on his knee and lets out athroaty chuckle that booms against the dining room walls. “Who would have thought to add bacon as a twist in fried rice? Not me, ladies and gentlemen. Not me.”
After his monologue, he rewards himself with the bite of fried rice. Everyone else at his table follows suit, taking bites, then raving.
Despite Matteo’s rambling, I’m beaming. He may be ridiculous, but he loves Callum’s and my food. And that matters. It means the most discriminating palate on the island thinks my last-minute attempt at an upscale dish is damn good. That means he’ll rave about it on his vlog and his website. And even though he has no idea it was me who helped prepare the meal, it’s still validation. It’s proof that even after flipping my life upside down, I can still go back to my roots—my passion—and cook a solid high-end meal.
I wait a beat and walk quietly backward until I’m out of the line of sight from the dining room. I spin around to head back to the kitchen, then bump chest-first into someone.
“Shoot, I’m sorry—”
The woman I collided with flips her blond hair out of her face, straightening out her dress. “It’s okay, I... Holy crap, Nikki?”
Penelope, the Instagrammer I took a selfie with at the farmer’s market all those weeks ago, beams at me.
Chapter 15
Oh, um, hi.” I tug at the hem of my chef’s jacket.
Why the hell didn’t I just stay in the kitchen? Ted was raving about how good everyone thought our cooking was. That should have been enough. Did I really need to blow my cover just to satisfy my need to see it for myself?
“What are you doing here?” Her berry-hued lips stretch into a smile so wide, just looking at it makes my cheeks ache. Understanding crosses her face. “Oh, wait, did you cook the meal tonight? Oh my gosh!”
“Well, I um, technically, yeah.”
She grabs my hands in hers, squealing softly. “Oh my gosh, Nikki! Amazing meal! Seriously amazing! So different from your food truck meals, but just as good. You know what I mean?”
I nod and let out a choke of a laugh. I fail to match her enthusiasm once again, but I need to play it cool. If I seem weirdly tense, she might think something’s up.
“I know exactly what you mean. And thank you,” I say in a hurried tone.
“So who’s the other chef? Your mom? You are seriously a dynamite team. Your food is the absolute best!”
The silver bracelets on her wrists jingle with each excited shake of her arms.
“Well, um, that’s the thing. It’s supposed to be a secret.” I hope my smile doesn’t come off as too pained. “I filled in as a favor at the last minute, and we don’t want any special recognition in the run-up to the Maui Food Festival. You know what I mean.”
She nods, her face turning serious. “Oh, of course. You can count on me. I won’t peep a word, promise!”
She pulls me into a hug, and I nearly tumble to the floor. My God, tiny Penelope is stronger than she looks.
When she leans out of the hug, she still holds me by the upper arms. “How crazy that we—”
The kitchen door swings open and out steps Callum.
When Penelope gazes at Callum, I know the jig is up. In the few seconds he stands in front of us, she stares at him, standing there in his white chef jacket that’s identical to mine. Then she looks back at me, her widening eyes and mouth making it obvious that she’s putting two and two together.
“Wait... you two are working together?”
The wonderstruck expression on Penelope’s face is reminiscent of when a little kid is told that Santa isn’t real.
“But I thought... You don’t even like each other...”
