Total pages in book: 132
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125653 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 628(@200wpm)___ 503(@250wpm)___ 419(@300wpm)
Half-bent over the counter, she’s wearing a tan dress that hugs every delectable curve. Her ass is a thing of beauty. I want to run my hand over it, give that peachy butt a firm slap. It would jiggle so nicely. And she’d probably kick my ass. Then again, maybe she’d be into some light spanking. I want to know this. I need to concentrate.
“Hey,” I say, coming up to stand alongside her. “You doing all right?”
She brushes a lock of hair back behind her ear. “I got this.”
“I know you do.” I bend down to kiss her cheek and feel the tension in her.
Delilah grabs hold of my forearm. “Macon . . .” She pauses, hesitating, then takes a breath. “Thank you for this.”
I’m not certain that’s what she really wanted to say, but I’m not going to push it. “There’s nothing to thank.” Caressing the curve of her cheek, I give her a smile of encouragement. “He’s going to love you.”
My throat closes on the words, emotion throwing me off for a second. But she doesn’t notice. Bracing her shoulders, she walks with me to meet our guests.
I shouldn’t have worried. Delilah handles Ronan with a cool confidence that totally belies the case of nerves she showed me. I try to keep track of the conversation, but then one of Delilah’s former catering waitstaff brings out a round of drinks and a tray of little spheres the size of a large marble.
“Gin blackberry bramble and peanut brittle spheres,” Delilah tells us.
I take a sip of the drink. Instantly, I’m back in the South on a summer’s day, eating plump blackberries straight from the bush. The peanut brittle sphere melts in my mouth, reminding me of the cookies Delilah’s mom used to make for us, more savory than sweet. It’s such a strong childhood moment that I swear I can practically feel the sun on my back.
After our drinks, she has us sit, and our first course arrives.
“Oysters topped with watermelon-and-habanero brunoise,” the server says, setting a plate before me. It’s a little work of art.
“The menu tonight,” Delilah tells us, “is a take on what I’m thinking about offering. It’s a compilation of the things I love and hold dear. However, I’d be creating dishes based on the best produce available for the week.”
“As long as you don’t call it farm to table,” Ronan says. “That catchphrase has died a swift death.”
She smiles easily. “I’ll leave you to come up with the new catchphrase. For me, a dish is only as good as its ingredients. It’s my job to start with the best and make them shine in a way that you never expected.”
He’s charmed. Of course he is; she’s brilliant. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?”
“It’s no trick, Mr. Kelly. It’s love. Love of food and the desire to show people how much they can love it too.”
They start to talk business, but again I’m distracted by Delilah’s food. With the oysters, I’m at the shore, swimming in the heat of the day. She serves us baby cream biscuits and smoked peach butter that taste exactly like those we’d eat around her mother’s table during a Sunday dinner, only better, tweaked in a way that makes me want to taste it again and again. Buttermilk panna cotta with spot prawns and spring vegetables pulls me right into lazy picnics in Delilah’s backyard, when we’d gorge on plump peas, sweet tomatoes, crisp cucumbers. The tender shrimp and tart buttermilk—all of this is our childhood on a plate.
I never wanted to look too closely at that time, but it’s slapping me right in the face. Oddly, it doesn’t hurt. Not this version. It feels fragile and rare, like I should be protecting it, like I should be proud of where we come from and who we are.
And then the menu changes on me. The servers bring out what Delilah says is butter-poached cod with potato galette and shellfish emulsion dotted with petals of mango and peach. It is the clean taste of the sea; it is buttery velvet along my tongue, bright bursts of juicy fruit. Underneath it all is a crisp, airy version of what is essentially a gourmet tater tot.
The taste is erotic. Heat and lust wash over me in a wave that has my balls clenching and my cock stiffening. I can’t figure out why. Then it hits me like a kick to the chest. This dish is us. Frantic kissing on the beach, eating juicy mangos at the market, peaches and tater tots. She’s created us. A compilation of all she holds dear.
A laugh bursts out of me, and everyone glances my way.
North looks at me like I’m nuts. Delilah quirks a brow but doesn’t say a word. I have no idea what was said while I was lost in her food. Hell.