“Thank you very much,” he replies with a hint of a bow. “Of course the bar is so high with you ...”
“I don’t want it to go to your head. But in reality I’m not that surprised. You’ve always been good with your hands.”
“I hope to show you what else I can do with my hands,” he replies, winking.
“Are you exposing your ulterior motives?”
“I don’t know what you heard, but I was referring to dessert.” He gets up from the stool, takes two cups from the fridge, and hands one to me with a teaspoon. “Deconstructed tart.”
“You made this too?”
“I did ... thanks to YouTube,” he confesses with that sly smile of his.
“I appreciate the honesty.” Oh my God! Honest or not, this dessert is out of this world.
I’m shoveling in a second spoonful before I’ve even swallowed the first. The coulis of berries blends beautifully with the custard layer below, and with the crunchiness of the shortbread pastry crumbles on the bottom. “You know, Michael, I have to admit you really know your way around the kitchen. You should keep it in mind as a second career if you get bored of finance.”
“There’s another thing I have to confess: The tart was supposed to be in one piece, except that it broke when I took it out of the mold, so I reassembled it in the cups.”
“That’s why it’s in cups! I thought you were trying to be creative and contemporary.”
“The truth is, I didn’t even know where the dessert cups were.”
“You don’t know where things are in your own house?” I ask, amazed.
“I told you I’m never here.”
The way he plays with my fingers, intertwining them with his, sends shivers down my arms. “And tell me, how much is the bill for this dinner?” I ask.
He shakes his head, giving me a heart-stopping smile. “It’s going to be pricey.”
“Luckily I brought my credit card.”
“How unfortunate, the machine’s down.” Our faces are getting closer and closer, and our voices have gone soft.
“I only have fifty pounds with me,” I reply, curious about his reply.
“I don’t think that will cover it.”
“Are you going to make me wash the dishes?” I ask, when the tips of our noses are touching.
“The chef says he’s willing to tear up the bill in exchange for a kiss.”
“The chef is very cheeky,” I say, tugging on his tie. “Does he really think I’d kiss him in exchange for dinner?”
“Oh, no.” The deep notes of his voice vibrate inside me. “He’s the one who wants to kiss you.”
“I can give him a kiss on the cheek.”
“Not just on the cheek.” He touches his finger my lips.
“Where else would he like to kiss me?”
“Everywhere.”
61
Michael
