Page 2 of Whisking It All

The woman at the bar chuckled to herself as she took another sip of her wine.

“Something amusing?” he asked, just loud enough that he was clearly talking to her.

She glanced up at him, giving him his first good look at her face. Goddamn, she was beautiful, especially with that knowing smile and sparkle in her eyes. Even if she was young.

“That has to be the worst date I’ve ever witnessed,” she said.

He exhaled a laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah, tell me about it.”

“Blind date?”

He nodded.

“Who’d you make angry enough that they did that to you?”

“Her grandmother, apparently.”

The woman shook her head as though disappointed in his answer. “You have to come up with some better screening questions. Maybe, ‘knows how to order their own food’ is a good place to start.”

He smiled for the first time since Trisha had walked into the restaurant that night, declaring that he was ‘hashtag gorgeous.’ “I’ll take it under advisement, thanks.”

The woman grinned, her eyes lighting up. He’d never seen eyes like hers, a blue so dark it was almost black, like a raven’s feather.

“Would you—” He stopped himself, flashing an apologetic smile and turning his attention back to his wine. He was clearly too old for her. Don’t be a creep.

“Would I what?” she asked, the arch of her eyebrow challenging him to ask the question.

“Would you care to join me?”

She made a face that seemed to say, sure, why not, then took her plate and glass of wine and carried them over to the now empty place across from him. She was shorter than he’d expected. Curvier, too—the kind of woman who would make heads turn wherever she went and had the swing in her hips that proved she knew it. Jamie slid Trisha’s uneaten food out of the way. The woman set her plate down and they both laughed to see they’d now added a third plate of inedible short ribs to the table.

“Don’t worry,” she said in a stage whisper. “I know it’s beef.”

“Thank God.” He extended a hand to her across the table. “I’m Jamie.”

“Tessa.” Her hand was so small in his, so soft against the roughness of his calloused palms. “You really are a chef,” she said as she withdrew her hand. “You have chef’s hands.”

“And what do you do, Tessa?”

“I’m a pastry chef.”

His heart beat faster and he straightened up in his chair. He may be too old for her, but at least they’d have some good conversation, which was more than he could say for the woman who’d previously occupied that seat. “Yeah? Where?”

She hesitated, glancing away and pushing her food around with her fork. “I’m getting ready to open a pop-up actually. Hoping to do some traveling before I look for my next long-term gig.” She took a bite of the risotto and immediately made a face, dropping her fork. “God, that really is awful.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, it’s pretty bad.”

“No, it’s objectively awful. How are they serving this? Does this chef even have salt in his kitchen?”

His blood buzzed beneath his skin, a floaty electric feeling he hadn’t felt in ages. “Doesn’t appear that way. And the braising liquid for these ribs is—”

“Watered down tomato paste at best. ‘Braising liquid’ is too kind.” She pushed the plate away and took a sip of her wine, half looking like she intended to gargle with the alcohol to clear the taste from her mouth. “Oh, shit,” she said. “You’re not friends with the chef, are you?”

He smiled. “No. Contrary to popular belief, we don’t all know each other. This is my first time here.”

“Mine too.”

“So is Rhode Island home, or part of your traveling?”

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