Page 31 of Until August
That’s exactly what I wanted. To create magic. And I had a feeling that August Harper was a magician.
Suddenly, everything seemed possible again.
Food is love.
Food is a celebration.
Food is life.
CHAPTERTWELVE
Nicola
I spoonedtruffle froth over the lobster Bolognese and served it with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
August picked up his fork and eyed me before he took a bite. I hated that his opinion mattered, but I swear he had the god’s tongue with an even more discerning palate than mine.
With just one taste, August could name every ingredient and spice that went into the dish. He could also tell youpreciselywhat was missing or why it didn’t live up to his standards. Which he never hesitated to do.
He was lucky I didn’t stab him with my fish knife last week when he declared that my seabream tasted like a used condom.A used condom?
Now, I gave him a smug smile as he nodded.
“Not bad,” he declared.
My jaw dropped, and my eyes narrowed. “Not bad?” I grabbed a fork and tasted the linguine myself. Not bad, my ass. “It’s perfect, and you know it.”
“There’s no such thing as perfection but this….” He shoveled another forkful into his stupid, perfect mouth. “…comes pretty damn close.”
I grinned, my excitement too great to be contained.
The whole dynamic had changed in the weeks since August had swaggered into my kitchen.
I assumed he’d have a hot temper and lose it quickly. But he always remained calm under pressure and never raised his voice. He didn’t have to. When he spoke, everyone listened. Even Luca, who wasn’t great at taking orders from anyone.
I grabbed the pencil behind my ear and bent over the paper on the stainless-steel counter. “Okay. So that’s going on the menu.” I crossed out the lobster ravioli and replaced it with the lobster Bolognese.
We’d re-engineered the menu, and this was our last change. We’d created a new sauce for the duck—plum and black sesame, and we got rid of the Dover sole and added my scallops with blood orange sauce and his sea bass with cilantro and chili. His shellfish risotto. My salmon with ginger and sesame.
Our menu was a true collaboration.
We devised the idea for the Fruits de Mer and the accompanying sauces together. It would be the crowning glory. But, as I scanned August’s notes, my eyes snagged on the words written in his bold print, all caps: SEX ON THE HALF-SHELL.
Seriously? Sometimes he was ridiculous. “Sex on the Half-Shell?”
He shrugged. “Sex sells. And it’s a sexy dish.”
Don’t think about sex. Donotthink about sex.
I pressed my lips together and put a few slashes through the words with my pencil. Then another one for good measure. “We’re not calling it that.”
“How about Sexy Fish?” he suggested, undeterred.
“Stop making everything about sex,” I all but shouted. Ari was right. I was too tightly strung. I took a few calming breaths as August chuckled and came to stand beside me.
“I was talking about the menu.”
“Let’s keep the menu PG. I don’t want to scandalize the conservatives of Costa del Rey.”
