Page 35 of The Reaper
I hadn’t realized I was.
“Sometimes it’s like that,” I admitted. “When I can shut my brain off for long enough, everything clicks afterward. Flavors, textures, menus. It’s like clearing a cache.”
He smiled. “So, I’m your creative reboot.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
I shook my head and found my pants, stepping into them one leg at a time. “The fall tasting menu isn’t final yet. I was on the fence about the venison course, but I’m thinking now maybe we cure it—serve it raw. That depth of flavor could use acid though. Maybe blackberry. Something tart but sticky.”
He sat up slowly, muscles flexing like a predator unfurling. “You just got fucked on your kitchen floor and you’re thinking about blackberry purée?”
“Gastrique,” I corrected, pulling my long dark hair into a quick knot. “It’s different.”
Caleb stood then. Unapologetically naked. He didn’t reach for his clothes. Just stood there, glorious and wrecked, stretching like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Do I get credit on the menu?” he asked, voice low.
“For the inspiration?” I smirked. “You want me to call it the Caleb Course?”
“Sounds masculine. Dominant. Pairs well with red.”
I laughed, but the sound was breathless now. I was slipping back into my world—my rhythm—whether I wanted to or not.
My mind raced.
I needed to test the acidity levels in the glaze. Rework the plating. Check with the forager—if he could still get wood sorrel this late in the season, it would tie the whole thing together. And the duck. I’d have to rethink the duck. Maybe brine it differently. Or dry-age.
I glanced at the clock over the oven and cursed softly. “Shit.”
“What?”
“I have a 7 a.m. call with the local food critic. He’s previewing the fall menu for his piece in thePost & Courier.”
Caleb crossed his arms, biceps bulging. “You’re kicking me out?”
“No. I’m ... I just—” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”
His voice dropped. “You regretting it?”
I looked at him—really looked. At the way his eyes darkened, jaw tensed. Like he was preparing for impact. Like he’d been here before. Left behind. Shut out.
“No,” I said softly. “Not even a little.”
Something in him eased, but only slightly.
“I just need to focus,” I said. “The restaurant—this place—it doesn’t run itself.”
“I’m not asking it to.”
“I can’t fall apart right now.”
“Who said you were?”
The silence stretched.
I walked toward the prep table, trailing fingers along the stainless surface where I’d just surrendered myself minutes ago. “You don’t understand. I’ve worked my whole life for this. Every dish. Every night. It’s all calculated. Controlled. The minute I start letting things slip?—”
