“None of your business.”
He’d hung up, skipped lunch, and spent the rest of the afternoon answering emails that didn’t require thought, and he still hadn’t told Tessa about the call.
It was Thursday now, and the duck was already in the oven.
By six thirty, Gabriel was reasonably certain he had made a terrible mistake.
Knox’s recipe had seemed straightforward when Knox walked him through it. Knox cooked when he needed to think, which was something Gabriel wished he didn’t know about his best friend, but found oddly comforting anyway. Brown the duck. Add the glaze. Roast until crispy. Simple.
Knox forgot to mention the smoke. Or Gabriel had been too focused on getting it right to listen.
He waved a dish towel at the smoke detector like he could negotiate with it. The detector shrieked anyway, loud enough to rattle the windows. The kitchen smelled like burned sugar.
This was supposed to be romantic. Thoughtful. A home-cooked meal to show Tessa he paid attention. That he remembered she had mentioned duck was her favorite three weeks ago. Instead, it was turning into a disaster.
His phone rang. Ronan.
“I’m cooking. Can’t talk.”
“You’re cooking?”
“Attempting to cook.”
“That seems unwise. Is something on fire?”
“Not technically.”
“Gabriel.”
“It’s under control.”
“Is it?”
The smoke detector went off. Full blast.
“I have to go.”
“Please don’t burn down your place.”
“No promises.”
He killed the oven and climbed on a chair to yank the battery from the detector. Silence. The duck sat in the roasting pan, significantly darker than the recipe photos.
His mother had been circling all week. Mrs. Whitcomb would’ve reported back from tea by now. Knox had told her—forced into it when she couldn’t reach Gabriel and called him instead. Camille was working her network the way she always had, with patience and charm. He pushed the thought down. That was a problem for another day. Right now he had a charred duck and limited time before Tessa walked in.
When Tessa arrived forty-five minutes later with wine and an expression that said she could smell disaster from the elevator, he had managed to air out most of the smoke.
“You burned it.”
“I caramelized it aggressively.”
“There’s smoke coming out of your vents.”
“Good. The ventilation system is working.”
She walked past him into the kitchen, took one look, and started laughing. Not polite laughing. Full-body, tears-in-her-eyes, can’t-breathe laughing.
“It’s not that bad.”
