"It's okay."
She grabbed napkins, wiped between her thighs, tossed them and reached for her pants—then promptly half-fell sideways catching herself on the sink with an ungraceful thump.
"Smooth, April. Very smooth."
She finally got the pants on, rebuttoned her blouse as best she could, and stepped back to assess the damage. She snorted.My clothes look distinctly less 'in good taste' now. Which was ironic, because it had been a really good tasting.
She squared her shoulders, and opened the door.
Mateo was waiting by the service exit.
April stopped short, surprised he was still there, and then a smile spread across her face. He'd waited for her. Somehow that felt just as important as the rest, which was a thought she absolutely wasn't going to examine right now.
"I didn't realize I was the main course on the tasting menu," she said.
His expression warmed, his mouth curving into a knowing smile as he reached for her. "You're always the main course, April. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
He caught her wrist and pulled her back into him, kissing her like he hadn’t gotten enough, until she forgot what she was leaving for.
“Now,” he murmured against her lips, “you can go to your gala. You can dance with Liam Sterling and wear the Blackwood ring.”
His thumb brushed across her cheek.
“But you’ll still taste like my kitchen” His smile curved. “And you’ll come back hungry.”
Mateo
THE DOOR SWUNG SHUT BEHIND HER, and Mateo stood looking at it one moment too long before he shook his head and picked up the cloth.
He wiped the stainless counter along the wall. Already clean. He wiped it anyway.
Glanced once at the sorbet bowl still sitting on the marble and moved to the sink instead. Rinsed his hands. Dried them. Hung the towel back crooked and straightened it. Moved to the far counter.
Nothing needed doing.
He did it anyway.
The bowl stayed where it was.
He'd fed her. He'd laid her down like an offering and watched her come apart in his kitchen.
He'd known what he was hungry for since the first time she sat at one of his tables. That wasn't new. What was new was the taste; and it was exactly as good as he'd been certain it would be. Better. The way a reduction got better the longer you left it alone, flavor concentrating, sharpening, becoming more itself. You didn't pull it off the heat because you were impatient. You waited until it was ready.
He circled back toward the island and got close enough to see the evidence of her still on the marble. The smear of sorbet gone sticky at the edges. He found the knife block a fraction out of order and pulled each knife, resetting them by blade length until the handles formed a clean descending line.
He stood back and looked at it.
Better.
You didn't rush when you knew what you wanted and you'd spent too long being right about it to settle for the wrongmoment. A kitchen with a car waiting outside and a gala on the other end wasn't the moment.
Mateo dried his hands on the cloth, pulled his phone from his pocket, and opened the group chat. He typed that she'd left his kitchen. That she was lighter than when she'd arrived. Like she remembered she could want things.
He sent it and set the phone face-down on the counter.
He picked up the sorbet bowl, rinsed it carefully, watching the pale gold melt swirl down the drain, then dried the crystal with a clean cloth until it gleamed.
Instead of returning it to the stack beneath the counter, he set it on the high shelf behind the pass. From there he would see it every night.
