My pulse stutters.
“The spoon,” a voice breathes.
“Oh God, the spoon!” One squeals.
I’m afraid to ask what he does with the spoon.
“When he tastes what he’s prepared”—a soft gasp—“he closes his eyes for half a second.”
I close my eyes for half a second—big mistake.
“Like he’s alone.”
“Like it’s just him and the flavor.”
The visual hits me.
“And he licks it clean.” A lady trails her hand over the countertop as if following his motion. “Not for us. For the food.”
“That’s the thing,” Zoe starts. “He’s not performing desire. He’s immersed in it.”
“And we just happen to be lucky enough to watch,” Zara finishes.
I glance around, clutching my wine glass.
A cult.
He has a full-blown cult.
“Baked pasta with roasted tomatoes.” Faye holds the tray to me, and it takes me too long to focus on it. “Unless you’ve decided to stay.”
I take the tray so fast that coffee spills over the edge of the mug.
“Thanks, but I’m feeling”—warm, tingling, lightheaded—“tired. But thank you for the offer. Have a great lesson, ladies.”
“You know we will.”
Ew.
My face is hot. I can feel it. The wine, their words, and my nerves are all tangled together.
It’s worse when I get down the hallway, and his room door opens, and he steps out.
Chapter Four
