A crew member shows up with our prize menu, handling it like it’s evidence in a murder trial. And with the way Ransom is glaring at Wes, there might be a murder trial pending.
“Your victory dinner,” she announces with professional calm, even though I catch her glancing between the three of us with barely concealed curiosity. “Oysters Rockefeller with champagne foam, truffle-infused foie gras with brioche points, and caviar service with traditional accompaniments to start.”
The appetizers arrive looking like edible jewelry designed by someone with serious artistic training and easy access to expensive ingredients. The oysters glisten under champagne foam, while the foie gras sits on brioche points like a luxury spread designed to bankrupt nations. The caviar service includes all the traditional accompaniments arranged like a still life painting you want to devour—buttery blinis fanned across the plate, clouds of crème fraîche, and tiny mountains of chopped egg that practically glow against the caviar itself.
“Nice technique in the kitchen today, Captain,” Ransom says as he attacks his oyster with the enthusiasm of someone channeling aggression into mollusks. “Very hands-on approach to instruction.”
“To quote our instructor, ‘Teamwork makes the dream work,’” Wes replies with the hint of a grin that probably makes territorial husbands consider violence. “My wife is an excellent student.” He winks with the dig.
It’s all I can do not to gasp.
“My wife,” Ransom emphasizes with the subtlety of a jackhammer at dawn, “has many hidden talents.”
I nearly choke on my caviar. “Could we possibly get through one course without you two marking your territory like wolves in designer suits? Because I’m starting to feel like a fancy bone you’re both ready to bury in the backyard.”
“I wasn’t aware we were being territorial,” Wes says with the innocent expression that lets me know he definitely knows exactly what he’s doing. “I was merely complimenting your culinary skills.”
“Oh please.” I laugh, reaching for my wine and feeling a lot like I’m trapped in a romantic comedy written by someone with a twisted sense of humor. “You two are practically peeing on the furniture. If this gets any more territorial, I’m going to need a referee and possibly a spray bottle.”
“Your husband started it,” Wes points out with the maturity of a seventh grader, although his grin suggests he’s having the time of his life.
“I started nothing,” Ransom protests, which might be the most obviously false statement since someone claimed theTitanicwas unsinkable. “I was merely observing that some people seem very comfortable with close collaboration.”
“Close collaboration?” I repeat, nearly choking on my drink. “We made risotto, not porn. Although admittedly, watching you two right now is more uncomfortable than accidentally walking in on my parents when I was twelve.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Detective,” Wes says coolly.
“Nor does desperation suit you, but here we are,” Ransom shoots back.
The silence that follows is stony. But thankfully, the main courses arrive before either man can respond—Wagyu beef tenderloin with burgundy reduction that looks like culinary perfection personified, lobster thermidor with saffron rice arranged like edible architecture, and Chilean sea bass with miso glaze that gleams like liquid gold under the candlelight. The sides include lobster mac and cheese with chunks of butter-poached claw meat, asparagus with hollandaise and actual gold leaf, andpotato gratin with aged gruyere that probably costs more per ounce than precious metals.
“This food is incredible,” I say, taking a bite of the Wagyu that practically melts on my tongue like butter made of happiness and expensive cattle. “Can we focus on appreciating culinary artistry instead of whatever alpha male competition you’re conducting?”
“I’m not competing,” Wes says mildly, though the way he cuts his lobster suggests he’s imagining it’s something else entirely—possibly Ransom’s head. “I’m simply enjoying dinner with friends.”
“Friends,” Ransom repeats with the kind of loaded emphasis that could put a bullet in the chamber all on its own. “Right. Friends who win romantic cooking competitions together and then celebrate with candlelit dinners that look like a Valentine’s Day card.” He gives a short-lived smile to Wes before outright glowering at him.
“It was just food preparation.” I swing my fork between them, loaded with lobster mac and cheese as if to prove a point.
“Food preparation that involved a lot of close collaboration,” Ransom observes, his knife working through the sea bass with surgical precision that suggests he’s imagining other targets—specifically certain ship captains who shall remain nameless but rhyme withmess.
A mess with Wes, now that has a ring to it. A truthful ring.
The dessert spread arrives like the grand finale to a very expensive and very complicated evening—chocolate soufflé with raspberry coulis that rises like edible clouds, a crème brûlée trio in vanilla bean, lavender, and espresso flavors arranged like a sweet rainbow, profiteroles with dark chocolate ganache, macarons in Valentine’s colors arranged like pastel sweethearts, and fresh berries with champagne custard sauce that sparkles like liquid diamonds.
“Gentlemen,” I announce, reaching for the chocolate soufflé with the determination of a woman who’s decided sugar is the answer to romantic tension. “I’m about to focus entirely on dessert, which means you have exactly five minutes to get whatever territorial posturing out of your systems before I start throwing pastries.”
Ransom’s expression shifts from jealous husband to professional security officer.
“Speaking of getting things out of our systems,” he says, settingdown his fork with a certain gravity. And why do I get the feeling he’s about to deliver news that changes everything? “I’ve been sitting on some information that you both need to hear.”
Wes and I exchange a glance.
“The emergency that pulled me away from the cooking competition,” Ransom continues, his voice taking on the clinical tone he uses for official business—and, well, everything else, “was a call from the coroner’s office.”
The temperature in the dining room drops approximately twenty degrees.
“They found elevated levels of digoxin in Lavender’s system.” He raises a brow my way as if I may know something about this. “Along with lorazepam. The combination was most likely designed to mimic a heart attack.”
