Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71949 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 360(@200wpm)___ 288(@250wpm)___ 240(@300wpm)
I resist turning my head. Every time I don’t look at him is a small victory. He circles the table. I let my shoulders relax a millimeter.
“The lulo,” I say. “You found some here?”
“Frozen purée,” he says with disdain. “Acceptable for people who don’t know any better. Luckily for you, I do.”
I spear another shrimp. I lick a fleck of onion off my lip. Stick my chest out. “So,” I say as conversationally as I can. “Reyes.”
He doesn’t seem to notice my overt action. He was never that interested in my boobs. Only my mouth on his disgusting dick. Then again, he requested the blue dress. If I can seduce him—God, the thought makes me gag—maybe he’ll be more vulnerable.
Still, he seems interested only in the dinner as he pours a pale wine. Probably a Sauvignon Blanc. It was always one of his favorites. Frankly, I think it’s overrated.
“What about him?”
“He met me at the door.” I dip the shrimp in the foam. Balance it on the fork. Wait a beat. “Is that a new alliance or an old one?”
A tiny shrug. “A shared interest.”
“In me?” I eat the shrimp, slowly, so I don’t choke on the food or the words.
“In resolution,” he says. “He is not a subtle man, but he understands pressure.”
“You put a bomb on a bus,” I say, licking my lips.
Still, he doesn’t notice my overtures.
Strange.
“Insurance.” He takes a sip of his wine, eyes on his own plate, as if I’ve said something tactless and we’re moving past it out of politeness. “Eat, Daniela.”
I eat. I eat like a person who might die tomorrow and who wants to taste something right now that isn’t fear. The lulo sparkles on my tongue. The coconut tastes like a beach. The onion stings just enough to remind me I have a tongue. I take a plantain chip and snap it in half so the sound echoes.
Halfway through the ceviche, I stop to breathe, head tilted like I’m considering something profound about texture. What I’m considering is blood. My pulse has slowed enough that my fingers don’t shake. Good.
“Do you remember the first thing I made you taste?” he asks.
I catch a flash of his cologne—amber, pepper, the dry thing he wore when I was sixteen and so eager to be praised I would have eaten cayenne by the spoonful if he told me it would make me a better cook.
I smile without showing teeth. “The cocoa nibs. You said to feel the bitterness all the way to the back of my throat.”
His laugh is genuine. It hits me in the stomach. “You were very obedient that day.”
“I was terrified,” I say.
He doesn’t react. At least not overtly. I see subtle interest.
Does he want me? What is this all about?
I didn’t expect to come here and be confused.
I take another bite. Another. I lick foam from the pad of my finger slowly to buy seconds and then pick up the wine and let it breathe against my lip while I count to five. I take a small sip, just enough to wet. I won’t take the chance of being plied with alcohol.
When my plate is empty, I don’t slide it forward. I let it sit. Chef doesn’t pounce with the next course. He rises.
I can feel him thinking. I see him eyeing the second candle.
“You always did pace yourself,” he says at last. “I appreciated that.”
“You trained me to,” I say. It comes out like a confession. I shove it back down my throat with another small sip of wine.
He collects my plate.
His hand trembles a fraction.
Interesting.
He’s not as in control as he wants me to think.
He’s just a man with a plan and five candles—one of which isn’t a candle.
He returns and strikes a match with a hiss, touches the flame to candle two. The wax liquefies, and the wick turns black.
One.
Two.
Three to go.
I look away and think about Belinda. Think about her sweet laugh, her cheeseball empire, about her piano scales marching up and down the staff, about how she’s a little girl who loves shopping and sleepovers but can play Debussy as smoothly as any virtuoso pianist.
I twist the edge of my napkin with my thumb and forefinger.
Chef returns with course three.
It’s braised flank steak—sobrebarriga. He’s cut it on the diagonal into slices, fanned like a hand of cards.
“Sobrebarriga with a reduction of malbec kissed with panela,” he says. “Served with yucca purée, charred baby carrots, and heart of palm salad with lime zest.”
The reduction is perfect, like a satin ribbon. Chef was always good with any kind of sauce, especially reductions. He never hurried them. Let them take the time they needed to reduce to such a perfect gloss. The yucca purée is smooth enough to see a reflection in.
The entire presentation is beautiful.
Obscenely beautiful.
Any Michelin restaurant would be proud to serve this dish.