I add another dried ghost pepper to the pot, crushing it between my fingers first to release the oils. My hands have gone slightly numb from handling chilies for hours, which is probably not great, but I'll deal with that later.
The back door opens and Robin stumbles in, still wearing his catering blacks, looking like he's been through a war. There's something that might be powdered sugar in his hair and a stain on his sleeve that's definitely food-related but I can't identify from here.
"I never want to see another macaron as long as I live," he groans, collapsing onto one of the bar stools with theatrical exhaustion. His head hits the counter with a thunk.
"You say that every time."
"This time I mean it." His voice is muffled against the wood. "Twelve hundred macarons, Jason. Twelve hundred. Some politician's retirement party. Four hundred guests who apparently each needed three macarons to feel special about themselves."
"Did they at least tip well?"
"The tip was excellent." He lifts his head just enough to talk properly. "My will to live is gone, but the tip was excellent. I'm going to take the money and buy something stupid and impractical. Maybe a new stand mixer. Maybe a plane ticket to somewhere that's never heard of French pastry."
He lifts his head fully, sniffing the air. His nose wrinkles, then his eyebrows go up.
"What are you making? It smells amazing. Like, really amazing. Like someone who knows what they're doing amazing."
"Nothing. Just practicing."
Robin's eyes narrow. He looks at the stove—four different pots, various stages of completion, one of them definitely a failed experiment I haven't gotten around to throwing out yet. Looks at the counter—spice containers everywhere, multiple cutting boards stained with different colors, a small mountain of dirty dishes I've been ignoring. Looks at me—sweaty, anxious, probably wild-eyed and covered in turmeric stains.
"Jason. What is all this?"
"I told you. Practicing."
"Practicing what? Feeding an army? Opening a restaurant? Achieving some kind of Indian food enlightenment?"
I stir the vindaloo, not meeting his eyes. The sauce is looking good—deep red, slightly glossy, steam rising in fragrant waves.
"Indian food. For tomorrow."
"Tomorrow." Robin sits up straighter, suddenly alert. "Lunch." His voice goes flat with realization. "
"Vindaloo. With homemade naan, basmati rice, raita, mango chutney, and—"
"For Ash."
My face heats. I can feel the blush spreading up my neck, and there's no way to hide it when my skin always shows everything.
"For everyone. It's a group lunch."
"Jason." Robin gets up from the stool, comes around the counter to stand next to me. His expression is somewhere between amused and concerned, which is not a combination I enjoy seeing directed at me. "You made four batches of vindaloo for my brother."
He reaches over and turns off the burner. I make a noise of protest, but he's already stepping between me and the stove.
"Talk to me."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"You're stress-cooking. You only stress-cook when you're anxious about something, and the only new variable is Ash." Robin's voice is gentle but firm, the voice of someone who's known me long enough to see through my bullshit. "I'm not blind, Jason. I saw how you looked at him yesterday. I saw how you blushed when he touched your wrist. I saw you watching the door for ten minutes after he left."
I keep my eyes on the pot. The sauce is perfect—rich and red, complex layers of spice, exactly the right consistency. Tomorrow I'll make a fresh batch, but at least now I know I can do it right. At least now I know it's possible.
"He said he likes spicy food," I say quietly. "I wanted to make something he'd enjoy. Something that would impress him. Is that so wrong?"
"That's sweet. It's also terrifying." Robin leans against the counter, arms crossed over his stained shirt. His expression has gone serious in a way I rarely see from him. Robin is all jokes and deflection, all easy smiles and easier exits. This version—direct, worried—means he thinks I need to hear something I won't like.
"Jason, I need to tell you something about my brother."
