This meal marked the first time he’d ever cooked specifically for her. Sure, she’d sampled his experiments in the past, but those had been recipes he’d made for himself. He supposed this, too, was for him in some ways. To keep his job and persuade her to alter her vision. But still . . .
Gingerly, he unpacked his knife roll. His best friends, sadly. Razor sharp. Perfectly worn handles. The most prized: the Messermeister Meridian Elité chef’s knife he’d received as a parting gift when he left France. He set his hands on the counter and drew in a cleansing breath. Some people worshipped at the church altar. He did so in the kitchen.
At work he could never listen to music, but at home he could crank it up. He scrolled through his phone to find Nirvana’s “Come as You Are” and hit “Play.” A tune that turned back the clock, almost as if he thought he could finally go after what he’d always wanted.
Alec folded the napkins to resemble water lilies and then set them on the table between spotless, gleaming silverware. He lit the tapered candles and placed the flower vase in the center of the table. Little details made a difference, even if Colby didn’t yet realize it.
After a moment he remembered she’d never much liked the grunge-music scene, so he opted for Jason Mraz. He swiveled, checking to make sure everything was set. His pulse throbbed in anticipation.
An olivewood platter with charcuterie and cheese, grainy mustard, and Johnny-jump-ups sat waiting on the kitchen bar next to a basket of homemade multigrain crostini. He had chilled prosecco on hand, and—
Knock, knock, knock.
His stomach clenched. Another quick glance made him wish he were living in something nicer than a cheap rental apartment.
Knock, knock.
He opened the door. “Sorry. Come in.”
Unlike him, she hadn’t changed her outfit for the occasion. Of course not. To her, this was nothing more than a quick business meeting. One in which she likely planned to hold him to her ultimatum.
“Thank you.” She kept her gaze locked on his as she stepped inside. “I won’t keep you long, I just—” She paused, having peripherally noticed the ambience. Her eyes widened. “What’s all this? Do you have a date tonight?”
“No.” He fought the flush rising up his neck. “This is for you.”
“For me?” She wandered to the table and fingered one of the napkins, brows pinched in the cutest show of confusion. “I thought we were going to talk about our disagreement.”
“We are . . . in a manner of speaking.” He went to the kitchen, tossed a hibiscus bud in a champagne flute, and filled it with prosecco and a dash of St-Germain elderflower liqueur. “Have a drink and try some cheese.”
She hesitated before taking the glass from him. “Ham?”
He tsk-tsked. “Jamón ibérico, from Spain.”
Her sardonic stare reminded him that she didn’t appreciate the distinction.
“Yes, Colby. Ham. Very special ham.”
“So special it needs flowers, apparently.” She grinned, fingering the Johnny-jump-ups on the platter.
“Those are edible. Minty. Good with the goat cheese.” He made her a crostino with cheese, meat, and the flower. “Try it.”
He then spread some mustard on another piece of toast, covered it with “ham,” and popped it in his mouth. The combination of salt and spice with the hint of garlic-seasoned olive oil on the toast sprang to life in his mouth.
“This ham is delicious.” Colby said.
“I’m glad you approve. We should include a proper charcuterie-and-cheese selection on our menu. And as you can see, it’s not fussy, although it makes an impression.”
She raised a brow. Without addressing his remark, she glanced around. Her gaze stopped on the half-finished 3-D puzzle of Notre-Dame Cathedral residing on his coffee table. “Three-D now?”
He’d loved jigsaw puzzles—every kind of puzzle, really—for as long as he could remember. He wondered if she remembered sending him a personalized jigsaw puzzle she’d had made from a photograph of Une Bouchée as a congratulatory gift when he’d earned the James Beard Award. “Keeps me out of trouble.”
“Oh, yes. You were always such a radical,” she joked. Following another assessing look around, she asked, “How long have you been living here?”
“Almost two months.”
“No photos anywhere? Nothing on the walls.” She tilted her head. “Unsure of whether or not you’d be staying?”
He gulped down his prosecco. He was going to need more of it to get through the evening. “Yes.”
“Why?”
How to answer that complicated question? “Lots of ghosts.”
Probably not the reply to toss offhandedly at a woman whose husband had killed himself. Dammit, she made him nervous, and he’d always been stupid whenever he’d been nervous.
Colby peered into her glass at the flower surrounded by golden bubbles. “What changed your mind?”
Alec leaned against the counter. “My mother, and Hunter. When I took off after losing everything, it broke my mom’s heart all over. I came back for her but didn’t have the money to start another restaurant. My former colleagues had lost faith in me, so my options were limited. Then Hunter called. I took it as a sign.”
He watched her while she carefully constructed another crostino. She closed her eyes when she bit into it, then finished it off with a sip of her drink. After swallowing, she opened her eyes. “So you plan to use A CertainTea to prove everyone wrong. To reclaim what you lost.”
Alec didn’t want to discuss his motives, especially the more personal ones. None of them undermined his earnest belief that following his lead would be her best shot at making A CertainTea a wildly popular restaurant.
“That doesn’t mean our goals conflict.” Alec gestured toward the table, sidestepping her question. He couldn’t tell her that handing her her dream was one of his goals, because that would raise questions he didn’t want to answer. “Take a seat and I’ll join you in a minute.”
While she seated herself, Alec ladled white gazpacho into two bowls. After drizzling them with his secret emerald-green oil and adding sliced almonds, he garnished each bowl with lavender blossoms. He looked toward the dining table, where Colby sat, looking perfectly at home. Oddly, it seemed to him the most natural thing in the world to have her there. To cook for her. To serve her. To just look upon her made him happier than he’d been in years.
He carried the bowls to the table and set one in front of her. “Voilà.”
“It’s gorgeous, but it’s . . . green.” She sniffed twice, trying to discern the soup base.
Green. Such a boring, meaningless word. The pale soup—veering toward white—would be better described as pistachio. It glowed, evoking a sense of renewal. Something he suspected they both were seeking, if for different reasons. “White gazpacho.”
An approving grin appeared. “And these flowers are edible, too?”
“Lavender. Yes.”
He watched her face as she sampled her first spoonful, and waited. Waited for the delighted, surprised look that would light her eyes. When it came, his chest expanded with victory.
“Yum!” She smacked her lips together.