Page 18 of The Princess and the Nerd

Chapter 10

Willow

“This is really good,” H.D. says as he brings the spoon to his lips. “What the hell? Why don’t you serve anything like this at your restaurant? Nothing interesting is even on the menu.”

It takes me a second to respond. Not because I was staring at his lips.

I shrug. "I guess I became a little too much of a perfectionist. I just couldn't be satisfied or happy with anything I made. So I decided to keep things simple at The Willow and choose meals that were local classics, done in the traditional methods. Just very straightforward."

"But don't you ever miss getting down and dirty with the food?" he asks gently, standing a bit too close to me. “Being creative?”

Dammit. Why does he smell so good? He is still shirtless as we stand in the kitchen, cooking up a storm. He now has a towel slung over his shoulder, and his tanned skin is glistening under the heat of the stovetop.

Also, his glasses are fogging up in the steam. My hands twitch, wanting to remove them and clean them for him. What the fuck? What kind of thought was that? This man is my arch nemesis. My worst enemy. I should not be thinking about removing anything from his body.

But I can’t help looking. When he reaches down to check the oven, I can see the rippling muscles in his back. God. Then he straightens and turns to me. His perfect, shiny caramel skin is stretched taut over gorgeous pectoral muscles. A little sprinkling of hair over his abs in a happy trail leading down to his uh... waistband.

"Um—can we talk about the article now?” I ask him.

"As soon as the curry is finished. And the naan,” he says.

“No,” I respond. “You asked me to help, and here I am, helping. We need to talk.”

He sighs. "Do you think you're the only disgruntled restaurant owner who wants totalkabout their review, Miss Wintergreen?"

"No, but I may be the only one where you printed such damning, inflammatory, incorrect information. You didn’t do any researchat all. You were completely unfair to me."

“I wrote the truth of the matter from my limited experience. Now let’s try not to burn the naan.”

"It used to be this beautiful bed and breakfast, but it was falling apart. I had it lovingly restored, brick by brick, and added a whole new section. It was where my parents fell in love. It was where my father said he first knew that she was the one. So he took her back there to propose, under the willow trees. I added large glass panels so you could see the water. Restored the local ecology. A local development company was going to deforest a nearby lot, covered in weeping willows trees. I managed to stop construction, to preserve the local wildlife habitats.”

“That’s a beautiful story, but I have no idea what it has to do with me,” he responds.

“I just think you were rushing and didn’t really even take a moment to look around when you visited us. Just outside the restaurant is the Willow Garden, which is a romantic lovers walk to commemorate the scenic spot where my parents got engaged. A little pretty trail along the water. But we paved a path to make it easier for elderly couples to walk, and there’s also a bridge. It’s great for weddings, and even wheelchair accessible. It's a beautiful, winding path with several benches beneath the willows so that people can enjoy the nature. And of course, so they can better digest their meals after overeating."

"And again I must ask, what does that have to do with me?”

"I want you to come back to the restaurant, and get the full experience,” I tell him gently, reaching out to touch his arm. “I don't believe you saw everything that we have to offer. And I don’t believe you even really gave our food a chance.”

He stares down at my hand, resting on his arm. I inhale sharply, realizing how close I am standing, and I withdraw my hand, stepping back.

"Can you pass me the coriander," he says, as he sprinkles powdered garam masala over his curry. I walk over to his spice rack—no. It's a spicewalland I nearly gasp in awe at the beautifully organized spices, encased in wood containers.”

"This is stunning," I whisper as I select the coriander, taking a deep whiff of the scent. The wall of spices smells as divine as it looks. Aromatic.

"I import all of the spices directly from India. Whole, not processed," he explains as he sprinkles the coriander into his curry. He mixes it for a moment, then lifts a spoon out of the pot gently. "Here, taste it."

I am startled, but too curious and fascinated to refuse. I step forward and let him bring the spoon to my lips, taking a small sip of the contents of the wooden spoon.

My eyes close. It's delicate. Aromatic. Not overpowering at all—just perfectly balanced.

"Fuck," I whisper softly.

When I open my eyes, I see that he's grinning at me. "Isn't it incredible what a little spice can do? Food is totally different when it actually hasflavor, my dear. I am not sure what you learned in your fancy French cooking schools, about eggs and butter and cream, but there's more to life than that."

"We learned that butter is life,” I admit. “And if I recall correctly, you finished everything on your plate. So it couldn’t have been that horrible.

“It was tolerable,” he says, moving close to me again. “Barely. But you can do better.”

---