“And clean clothes, and toothbrushes, andchairs.I didn’t know how much I appreciated chairs before my only option was a rock or another rock.”
“And your friends are safe.”
“They’re all safe,” she echoed. Moss started to serve the meal, and she kept talking without thinking about it, the words coming out to fill the space. “Even after Maggie told us that Keeley and Lance were alive, I don’t think I really believed it until I saw them myself. I just… stopped myself from thinking it through until I knew for sure.” She looked down at her hands. “Not very action hero of me.”
“You say that like action heroes are known for thinking things through.”
“Not very secret agent spy of me, then.”
“There’s something to be said for denial as a survival mechanism.” His voice had an edge to it. She could have put it down to him being distracted as he poured the wine, but—no. That wasn’t it.
She leaned forward as he passed her wineglass. “You say that like you know all about it.”
“I’m learning.”
“Moss…” She waited until he met her eyes. Whatever he saw in her face, she recognized what was in his. “Whatever it is you’re putting off talking about, I don’t think we should wait to talk about it.”
His lips curved into a half smile. “I can’t even bask in your praise for my cooking for a bit first?”
“You already know it’s going to be delicious.”
“I want to watch you find out for yourself.”
And put off whatever you’re not telling me for another hour. Another minute. Another few seconds—anything, not to have to turn your fears into words and make them real.A lump formed in her throat. She knew how that felt, too well.
She nodded. “All right. You’ll have to tell me what I’m eating, though. So I can properly appreciate it.”
“You’re treating me to hearing the sound of my own voice?” He smiled, long and lazy, and despite the tension still obvious on his face, the smile was genuine. “You’ll spoil me. All right. To start, we have scallops seared in brown butter, served on a bed of pea puree and topped with an exquisite hat of preserved lemon, confit cherry tomato and toasted hazelnuts.”
“A hat?”
“That’s the technical term. It’s all part of chef’s code.Exquisitemeans I carefully eased them into place with a pair of tweezers.”
Carol’s eyebrows jerked up as she looked down at the scallop she’d just speared on the end of her fork, destroying its careful “hat” in the process. “Uh—”
“It’s meant to be eaten, Carol. I’m a chef, not a sculptor.”
She lifted the fork to her mouth. Flavor burst across her tongue—not the simple sweet-salt-and-smoke of their meals on the island, but a symphony, the brightness of the lemon and tomato a perfect complement to the sweet, buttery shellfish. The hazelnut gave each bite an earthy crunch, crisp against the tender meat.
*This is the best thing I’ve ever tasted.*
Smugness radiated from Moss. “You haven’t tried the main course yet.”
Every bite was better than the last. She could have eaten a full meal of the scallops alone, but part of chef training must be giving people just enough of something delicious to make them want more, and then blowing their mind with the next thing.
The entrée—what Moss called the main—was steak with a side salad of grilled eggplant and rocket topped with crumbled goat feta. The stewed tomatoes made another appearance, cutting through the fatty deliciousness of everything else on her plate.
“I might have gone a bit overboard having access to butter again,” he admitted.
“You cooked all this since we arrived? No—since after our meeting with Mr. MacInnis and the others?”
“Are you impressed?”
“Very,” she said firmly, and he didn’t even try to hide his smirk.
“It’s not a big deal. Whoever runs this place knows how to stock a kitchen. Those tomatoes—I wouldn’t have had time to get those ready if they weren’t already prepared.”
“Oh, the tomatoes weren’t you? That changes everything.”
