I sidestep him and take a seat. “What are we eating?”
“Pasta with pesto, but my way.”
I sip on my champagne as he dishes out what I learn contains only five ingredients, all of them slivered and crisp, save for the pine nuts, which have been reduced to a savory nut butter. It’s simple yet elaborate, but mostly fucking delicious.
“You could open your own restaurant,” I say, after my second serving.
“You make it sound easy, Electra. I don’t have the kind of money needed to open a restaurant.”
I sit back in my chair, stomach blissfully full. “All you need are investors.”
He drops his gaze to the slick of basil-infused oil coating his pasta bowl. “I could never be owned.”
“They wouldn’townyou, Cillian. They’d own a piece of your company, but your company isn’tyou.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No. Especially if you keep the majority shares. You’d have all the say.”
I can tell he’s unconvinced before he even murmurs, “Perhaps in another lifetime.”
“Didn’t have you pegged for a defeatist.”
He gets up and stacks our plates. Before walking them to the sink, he refills my glass with ice water. “I’m realistic, not defeatist. Besides, if my passion becomes my work, then I’ll stop enjoying it.”
“Worst philosophy ever.” I turn in my seat and watch as he lowers the dishes into the sink, then picks up the suds-filled scrubber and proceeds to handwash them even though I have a professional dishwasher.
Dorian loves doing the dishes. He says it helps clear his head. Is that the case for Cillian, or does he do them to make sure I don’t label him a slob?
“What’s for dessert?”
A smile returns to his lips. One that’s unlike his usual ones. It’s neither smug nor wry nor shy, but eager. It hits his eyes like a breaking dawn. “Something my dad used to make.”
Here I thought his father was an alcoholic who’d left only ruin in his wake. “Your father cooked?”
“No. He tinkered, as Mom would say. He liked tossing random ingredients together. Most of the time, the combinations were awful, but once or twice, the flavors just…worked.”
I’m tempted to ask if he tinkered while sober or drunk, but I sense bringing up that facet of his father will kill Cillian’s mood. Besides, if it left good memories, then it was surely before the man started hitting the bottle.
Cillian pops the lids off a tub of mascarpone and a container of dates, then unknots a baggie of walnuts. His tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth as he spoons dollops of cream on a plate, then splits open a few dates and replaces their pits with walnuts. He nests the recomposed fruit on the strokes of cream, before carrying his creation back to the table.
“Do you cook often on your camp stove?” I ask.
He cants his head. “How do you know I own a camp stove?”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “You told me the day we went to the tow lot to pick up your ride,” I lie. “You asked me to dinner. Said you wanted to cook for me. Remember?”
When he breathes out a, “Right,” my pulse settles.
Thankfully, he returns his attention to the dessert, scoots one of the dates along with some cream onto his spoon, then holds it up to my mouth.
“Haven’t been spoon-fed since I was a baby. Actually, I probably wasn’t even spoon-fed back then,” I say, leaning over and closing my teeth around the utensil, before leaning back to savor everything.
Cillian watches me intently, as though trying to make sure not to miss the moment the flavors bloom. It’s…fantastic. Like a mouthful of creamy treacle, but a thousand times better. It’s so freaking good that I actually moan.
Cillian beams before using the same spoon to consume a bite himself. An hour ago, his fingers were venturing mere inches from my core, but for some reason, his use of the same utensil feels ten times more intimate. Go figure.
“You know, I wouldn’t mind a private chef. It’d save me from living off takeout or freeloading at the Blooms or at my brother’s.” I place my forearms on the table as though I were about to enter into a business negotiation. “You’d get full creative license. All I’d ask is that you keep the veggies out of desserts. And no pickles.”
