Page 22 of Brooke
“No happy face,” Pierre drew out, fluffing his wings. For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ruffling of the white cloth of his culinary attire with Chef’s Little Helper stitched in, a present from Dean.
“I would never tell you to stand down like that. This dish has you by the throat. You have to finish it. And you will.”
He chewed some bread and then grabbed some water. Madison stood beside him, her entire frame clenched for battle. He wanted to massage the tension out of her shoulders.
He could absolutely not do that.
So instead, he picked up his knife and fork.
“Okay, let’s try this.” He’d lost count of how many variations of the duck dish he’d tried, most of them excellent. He didn’t know what she was looking for, and that was part of the problem. Neither did she. She just knew it wasn’t right. Sawyer was the same way with a painting. He’d torn up canvases Kyle thought were wonderful works of art.
His friend’s artistic struggles ripped out his guts. And now he was worried about Brooke, when he’d thought he’dprovided her with the perfect setup to realize her dream. Thank God Thea and Dean were dancing on moonbeams right now in life and love. He couldn’t take any more roommate stress.
After cutting a bite, he chewed slowly.
Madison’s stricken eyes watched his face. Emotion started to boil inside him, the urge to wrap his arms around her pouring into him like water from a dam breaking over an unsuspecting valley. His internal Madison meter was reaching red-alarm levels again.
How much longer could he take only being her friend?
He cleared his throat. “I like the spice in the cherries. Clove?”
She bobbed her head three times. He breathed a sigh of relief at having guessed right. “The duck is cooked to perfection. The flavors blend together beautifully.”
“But it’s missing something, right?” she pressed, her voice strained as if she’d been screaming this one question over and over again.
Maybe it was time for a different tactic—like what he’d used to push Sawyer through moments of torment. He grabbed her hand, uncaring that he’d broken his own rule twice now about not touching her. “Come with me.”
He marched them both over to the two large drawers she’d dedicated to spices, one for savory and the other for sweet. Pulling them both open, he cocked his head at her. “Listen to your inner chef. Sweet or savory?”
She didn’t shoot back a joke about the inner chef thing—alarming. She only leaned toward Pierre’s sloped head and whispered. They both nodded. “Savory. Something green.”
He started holding up green spices. She shook her head at oregano, basil, and chervil. But when he got to tarragon, she stopped. Cold.
“My heart is beating faster, but I’ve tried tarragon! I’ve lost count of the ways.”
Okay, they were onto something. Madison’s heart didn’t up and beat faster for no reason—although it did for him and they both knew it. He opened up the bottle and held it out. “Sniff.”
She eyed him with disgruntlement. He could hear her thinking,I know what tarragon smells like, Kyle,but she leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “It’s right. But it’s not right. You know?”
He didn’t, and he wanted to bash his head against the counter. Then an idea struck him. “Outside. Let’s go.”
He grabbed her hand and together they practically ran to their new garden. Pierre was flying beside them, his wings flapping in the air. They reached the garden Kyle had initiated, hiring someone to plant an assortment of herbs for Madison after removing a wall of useless rhododendron. She’d gotten that scary look in her eyes when he’d shown it to her, the one she always got whenever he tried to give her something. This house. The kitchen.
Himself.
Plucking off a tender tarragon shoot, he thrust it out to her as Pierre landed on her shoulder. “Close your eyes and smell it. Let your mind drift.”
“Shall we call a hypnotist too so I can cluck like a chicken?” she asked, thrusting her courageous chin out, making him want to run his finger over the slight indentation there.
He reminded himself that her snark was good. It had fire. And she needed that fire to burn away whatever was holding her back from this dish. Because it was the dish she’d said would guarantee a Michelin star for Nanine’s.
Suddenly, it all clicked.
Madison was scared of winning that star outright. She’d done it at another restaurant, but she hadn’t been head chef. There’d been someone else to hide behind. He knew her story. She’d pulled herself up out of a dangerous neighborhood and made herself a successful chef, someone she could be proudof. But some people were scared of enormous success, not feeling like they could achieve it alone or were worthy of it. That rang true for him.
“Trust me, Mad,” he simply said, clasping her hand and putting the tarragon inside it with a soft but insistent pressure.
She didn’t knock him back for using her nickname, the one he called her when they were getting too close. Her eyes went to amber as they held his for one more moment. His heart pounded in his chest like someone was knocking railroad ties into place. Then she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath as she held the tarragon to her cute little nose.
