He nods brainlessly.
“Make her do it again,” she whispers.
I crack up. “Stop.”
They break into mischievous grins.
“Why that one?” Nico asks.
I think about it. “You get a whisper of vanilla and coconut from the pandan. It’s like silk. But then the kaffir lime cuts through—bright, citrusy, electric.” I take another bite and put my dramatic commercial voice on. “Then it all lingers, a dance of sweet and tangy, like sunlight filtering through emerald-green leaves.”
Michelle nods, impressed. She pulls out her phone and starts typing. “I’ma write that onto the menu.”
There are about ten bowls of different sorbets we made in the machine, loading in different ingredients and herbs and syrups and other things I wouldn’t ever imagine putting into a dessert. I said something silly after the first one we made, mango and calamansi (golden silk, citrus kiss), and after that we made it into a fun little game. Dramatically and poetically describing each of the flavors like I’ve been doing with the cookbook.
The two of them are hilarious together. I can’t remember the last time I laughed this hard. But maybe I’m all jacked up on the sugar.
“Hey, Téo!” Michelle suddenly says.
We look over, and a tall, lanky man walks into the kitchen.
“Guys, this is my sous, Téo Gutierrez. Té, some friends. Nico and Annie.”
He nods his head down at the bowls. “Which one we serving tonight?”
“Annie says pandan and kaffir lime,” Michelle tells him. “And what Annie says, goes.”
I smile.
Nico, Michelle, and Téo start discussing something about the Pacojet, throwing around words and phrases I don’t understand—superfine emulsification, 2,000 RPM,breaking down fat globules and evenly dispersing water molecules. I stop listening aftershear-thinning effectandmicro-aerationand try to finish all the gelato on the counter instead. I mean, if I’m having icecream for breakfast, I’m going all out. God, I can’t believe how delicious these are.
“I gotta go over some stuff with Téo, but feel free to hang out,” Michelle finally says. “I can whip up some real food in a sec.” The two of them start walking towards an office in the corner. “But don’t get in the way of all the guys. They’re gonna start coming in soon.”
We wave.
Nico smiles down at me. “Having fun?”
“Yeah,” I have to admit. “Michelle’s a blast.”
He slaps a pout on his face. “Sister Annie better not be renouncing her vows for Michelle before me,” he mopes with false jealousy.
I can’t help but laugh. I feel light, airy, somehow, like I was just all whipped up in the Pacojet and filled with tiny air pockets.
Nico squeezes a hand on the curve of my waist. It lights me up. “I dunno, Annie. I think I like that one,” Nico says, pointing to the furthest bowl on the counter. “Black sesame and coconut honey.” He drawls the words, drips them off his tongue. “Try it again,” he demands.
I take a bite. I make it slow.
“How would you describe that one?” he asks, voice a shade deeper.
I make a show of licking the spoon. Curl my tongue around it.
Nico’s eyes turn feral as he lasers in on my mouth.
“The black sesame hits first—deep, toasty, and rich, like a whispered secret against your lips. Then the coconut follows, smooth and sweet, curling around it like warm breath at the nape of your neck, softening the bite into something?—”
I don’t get the last word out because Nico darts in. He takes my mouth, tongue licking in and tasting once, then twice, a wet, hot slide against the cool stickiness left from the sorbet.
He groans softly. “The honey,” he murmurs down at me, while I stand breathless, blood thrumming through my veins, “makes it fuckin’ delicious.”
