She looks up at me. "This is still a Boston dish. Just... translated."
"Sounds perfect."
"It better be. I'm not starting over."
I move closer. Reach past her for the wine on the counter.
Our arms brush.
She goes still. Just for a heartbeat.
"So," I say, opening the wine. "How about the bet we talked about? Bridesmaids cry first or scream first?"
"Scream first." Jane resumes chopping. "Then cry. I want both."
"Greedy."
"Competitive."
"And the stakes?"
"Loser does something humiliatingly sweet." She glances sideways at me. "Your definition is still vague."
"I like keeping you guessing."
"That's not how bets work."
"It is now."
I pour two glasses. Hand her one.
"To diplomatic lobsters," I say.
She clinks her glass against mine. "To clawless disasters."
"To you being brilliant even when you're yelling at seafood."
She flushes. Just barely. A bloom of color across her cheekbones.
"Stop that."
"Stop what?"
"Looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like..." She waves the garlic knife vaguely in my direction. "Like you're proud of me or something."
I am. So proud the feeling barely fits inside my chest.
But I don't say that. Not yet.
Instead, I lean against the counter and watch her work.
She splits the lobster tails cleanly down the back of the shell, thumbs sliding under the meat with practiced confidence. One smooth pull and the tail comes free in a single, glistening piece.
“Raw,” she murmurs to herself. “Straight into butter. Low heat. We’re coaxing, not punishing.”
