Page 93 of The Arrogant One
“I hope she does.”
“What about you? Cooking tonight?” I asked. “Ordering in? Picking up from Charred?”
“I planned on picking up from Charred until I saw the recipe Dear Foodie posted this morning of her homemade macaroni and cheese. Did you see it?”
I shook my head. “Let me look.”
I pulled up Instagram, and Dear Foodie’s post was the first one displayed in my feed. I clicked on her video, which enlarged it on my screen. The voice was computerized—something I couldn’t deal with initially, but I’d been following her for so long that I was used to it. She had all the ingredients set up in small bowls on her counter, and in front of those wereblocks of cheese. Her pink nails were moving so goddamn fast as she grated a sharp cheddar.
When she finished and picked up the Gruyère, I noticed the Band-Aid. It was wrapped around the back of her thumb—the same spot Sadie had hers.
What was it with these women and hurting themselves in the fucking kitchen?
“Save me the leftovers,” I ordered. “I need some of that. It looks delicious.”
“Right?” She was gazing at her phone as she spoke. “Four different types of cheeses, more cheese sprinkled on top that gets baked and melted and a little crispy along the sides. Thick, springy, ribbed noodles. I’ll have to spend hours at the gym tomorrow.”
“Your weight is something you don’t have to worry about. You can afford to eat the entire pan, Eden.”
Sadie
Remember the whole “I found my future wife and husband” thing we once said to one another? I’m feeling THAT. In a hardcore way.
Me
It’s mutual, baby.
“No need to meet me in the conference room. We can chat right here,” Walker said from the doorway of my office.
My attention snapped in his direction.
He came in and looked at Eden, rubbing her shoulder. “Are you sticking around for the spectacle?”
She smiled at me. “I don’t know. Hart, do you need backup?”
I chuckled. “Fuck no. Go get some work done. I’ll come see you before I head home.”
“Good luck,” she said before she left my office.
Walker took her chair, wearing his chef’s whites, and as he sat, a hint of something sweet-smelling wafted off him.
I moved my phone off to the side. “What have you been cooking?”
“Baking. Testing new desserts for Charred since I saw the photos of the fucking butter cake and listened to you and Beck moan about it.”
I decided it would be best not to laugh even though I wanted to. “Any contenders?”
“I’ve been playing around with a nontraditional banana pudding and a bread pudding.”
I moaned, “Talk to me about the bread pudding.”
“It’s made of homemade cinnamon raisin challah bread with a drizzled-on bourbon glaze, a garnish of cinnamon-infused whipped cream, and a scoop of caramel ice cream.”
“Jesus Christ.” I patted my chest. “That right there is your winner.”
“You need to try the banana pudding.”
I shook my head. “I really don’t. I’m not interested in anything banana-flavored or that has a pudding consistency—pudding is for fucking kids.”
