Page 136 of Brutal Vows
Which is good for her, because the meal she serves is awful.
Seriously god-awful. I wouldn’t even feed it to starving rabbits, which seem to be the target demographic.
Sitting at their huge rectangular glass dining table, I stare down at my plate loaded with inedible, unidentifiable nubby twiggy things and wonder how poor Declan manages to keep so much muscle on his frame.
If I had to guess, he probably eats out a lot.
“Try the soy seaweed cakes,” she suggests, pointing with her fork to an ugly oblong greenish-brown lump on her plate. “They’re super good for your colon.”
I spear the tempeh—whatever in God’s name that is—with my fork and nibble on it.
It tastes like what a filthy piece of driftwood from an old shipwreck might taste like: salty, soggy, fishy, disgusting.
“Mmm. Yummy.”
Watching me from across the table, Declan pulls his lips between his teeth to keep from laughing.
Sloane beams. “Right? I just love tempeh. It’s so versatile. Do you cook, Reyna?”
“Like a bloody Michelin chef,” says Quinn, warily eyeing a poisonous-looking fleshy gray lump on his own plate that could be a mushroom of some sort. Or possibly a boiled toad.
“Really?” says Sloane, intrigued. “What’s your specialty?”
“Sicilian cuisine in particular, but Italian food in general. My mother was born in Sicily, so many of my favorite recipes are handed down from her.”
With a hint of pride in his voice, Quinn says, “She makes everything from scratch.”
Declan says forcefully, “Don’t tell me you make homemade pasta!”
When I nod, he groans. “Spider, you lucky bastard!”
With arched brows, Sloane turns to Declan. “Why, exactly, is he so lucky?”
Avoiding her searing gaze and an answer that might cost him a testicle, he takes a long drink from his wineglass.
Tactfully hiding my smile, I intervene. “I’ve always loved to cook, even when I was little. Then, when I got older, food became even more important. It’s really the only pleasure I have in my life.”
Reaching for my wineglass, I send a warm look in Quinn’s direction. “Had, I mean.”
When I set my glass down after sipping from it, I realize everyone is staring at me.
But only Quinn’s eyes are blazing.
Declan saves me from what could be a rogue attack from Mr. Handsy sitting next to me by asking, “What’s your favorite thing to make?”
I laugh. “Oh God. That’s like asking a mother which is her favorite child. Five-cheese lasagna with spicy sausage, truffle risotto, saltimbocca, Sicilian stuffed flatbread, the list goes on.”
With wide eyes, Declan says faintly, “Bread.”
“You should taste her carbonara,” brags Quinn.
Even fainter, Declan says,“Bacon.”
Sloane gives him a smack on the shoulder.
We make it through the rest of the meal with small talk as I try to move things around on my plate so it looks as if I’ve eaten them. For dessert, Sloane serves vegan ice cream made without cream, eggs, or sugar, or anything else resembling actual food.
But at least it’s bland and tasteless, so there’s that.
