Wes blinked. “You know a lot of weird stuff.”
She shrugged. “I told you. If I read it somewhere, it’s in my brain forever. There’s no escaping it.”
“That actually sounds kind of sucky,” he said.
“You have no idea. It’s really crowded up here.” She rapped her knuckles against the side of her head, making her messy blond topknot wobble. “I’ve got the moves to the Thriller dance squashed in next to the chemical formula for vinegar.”
“Do you ever get confused?”
“No.”
Awesome.
“Another theory on the oysters-as-aphrodisiacs myth,” she said, “is that their high levels of zinc contributed to overall health during a historical period where zinc deficiency was common. Better health leads to increased sex drive.”
“You don’t say,” Wes replied, starting to unpack the cooler. He cracked open one jar and inhaled deeply, breathing in the smell of the ocean.
Rosemary drifted closer. “How are you planning to set this up?”
Wes looked up from his preparations, making sure to set his face to “innocent inquiry” beforehand. “Oh! I thought I’d just mess around with oysters and see what different preparations do for me.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s not terribly scientific.”
Wes shrugged. “I’m not really a scientist,” he confided as if it were a big secret. “That’s what I was hoping to count on you for.”
She stared down at the array of dishes Wes had unpacked. “I’ve never had oysters.”
“No way. I love ’em! When I was a kid, I ate fifty-two in a single sitting, at a wedding in Seattle. I was sick as anything afterward, but it never put me off them.”
That was one of the best weddings he and Pops ever crashed, Wes remembered. Hundreds of guests who didn’t know each other; about half of them didn’t know the bride or groom. Easy pickings. Wes didn’t remember how much Pops got pawning silver snatched off the gift table; he didn’t like to think about that.
But he vividly remembered the food at that wedding: smoked salmon wrapped around creamy, tangy mascarpone dotted with bright green chives; tiny, individual spinach tartlets jazzed up with caramelized shallots; a fourtier wedding cake that actually tasted great; and of course, enough oysters on the half shell to clog a toilet.
She stared at him, eyes round and impenetrable. “Charming. If we might get back to the science?”
“Sure.” He really enjoyed the easy, natural way she rocked that white lab coat. Wes was wearing a white jacket, too, but somehow his normal, perfectly tidy chef’s whites looked dingy compared to the eye-dazzling purity of her white coat.
In fact, the whole lab was a little squint-inducing. Every surface gleamed; the chrome fixtures at the deep double sink against the back wall were nearly blinding. Not a single instrument was out of place; every beaker, every Bunsen burner, every microscope shone as if it had recently been attacked by rogue bottles of mutant antibacterial spray.
Maybe what he really liked was her. A thought that scared the piss out of him, actually, but what could he do? He was starting to remember why things went south between him and Pops—Wes had never really had the stomach for conning, even the relatively victimless crimes where supposedly no one got hurt.
But he was here. He’d already toppled the first domino; he might as well follow and see where he ended up. Who knew? There might be more at stake than his grade.
“As you pointed out, Dr. Wilkins, I don’t have much in the way of science yet. What I do have are three different kinds of oysters I sweet-talked out of Chef Roberts; supposedly they each represent a different genus.”
She liked that, he could tell. “Of course, because there are three main genera of edible oysters; which are separate, you understand, from the gem oysters, which yield pearls. What do you have here?”
“Sydney rock oysters,” Wes said, wiping a few drops of liquid from the rim of the first plate.
“To represent the genus Saccostrea, I presume,” Rosemary said.
“Just so. These were shipped in from the Wingan Inlet in Eastern Victoria. That’s New Zealand, not Canada. I did a quick ceviche with lime and orange segments, slivered ginger, and toasted hot chiles.”
Then Wes pointed at a plate full of small, juicy-looking oysters resting on their halved shells. These shells were flat and rounder than the others. “Belon oysters, from Brittany in the north of France,” he said.
“Of the genus Ostera,” Rosemary put in, as if she couldn’t help herself.
“Right,” Wes said, amused. “I kept these raw and on the half shell, but I did bring a nice little mignonette to go with. Just minced shallot, olive oil, lemon juice, and cracked black pepper. Then over here”—he indicated the next plate—“we have the most common and popular oyster, the Eastern or Virginia oyster.”
“Crassostrea,” Rosemary muttered.
Wes bit his lip to keep from cracking up. “They might be common, but they’re delicious. All perfect and plump, these are so great fried in a nice cornmeal batter. Or just as God intended, with a good, horseradishy cocktail sauce. Which I also happen to have.”
“I see you came prepared. For lunch, if nothing else.”
“Thought you might be hungry. And don’t worry, I intend to document any interesting results.”
She cocked that brow again, like a quizzical bird. “What results do you think you might find, exactly?”
Hopefully, whatever love potion is in these bad boys will convince you it’s a good idea to start thinking up ways to get that pristine lab coat all nice and dirty.
But Wes was smart enough to keep that potential end result to himself. “I thought maybe we could test to see whether different preparations of the supposed aphrodisiacs have different effects on the body. I’ll develop some different recipes, and we’ll pay students to test them out. Won’t have to be big bucks; everyone around here’s always strapped for cash.” He paused. “I’m assuming you don’t want to falsify our results for President Cornell, since you hate lying so much. I noticed yesterday that it didn’t come all that naturally to you.”
She bristled as if he’d insulted her. “I think I acquitted myself perfectly adequately, considering the exigencies of the situation.”
“I’m not a hundred percent on what that means, but anyway, I wasn’t trying to insult you. Lots of people would consider it a very good thing to be a bad liar.”
“Humph. I’m not accustomed to being bad at anything,” she groused. “With the possible exception of reading facial expressions and social cues. Other people can be so bafflingly irrational.”
She was truly unlike anyone Wes had ever met—and, what with one thing and another, he’d met all kinds. “Very true. So, you wanna try some oysters? See what happens?”
“Nothing will happen beyond a quenching of hunger,” she stated, then paused. “Actually, a great many things occur the moment a bite of food makes contact with one’s mouth. I could go through the entire process, from taste buds to intestinal tract, but I assume that would be inappropriate and unwelcome.”
Fascinated, Wes leaned one elbow on the table and rested his chin in his hand. “I wouldn’t worry about being inappropriate, but it’s probably not superappetizing.”
“That’s what I thought.” She sighed, then brightened. “Points to me for interpreting the situation correctly, though!”
“Do you really have a point system?”
Rosemary slid him a sideways look. “It’s a colloquial turn of phrase indicating pride in an accomplishment.”
“Ah,” Wes said. He wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if she did have a point system, with distinct numbers of points awarded for different levels of personal success. Social engagements probably didn’t rank all that high on her value scale.
“Well?” She was watching him expectantly. “Are you going to eat them or not?”
“What, alone? You’re not going to try even one? Come on.”
“I’m not
in the market for a bout of food poisoning just now, Mr. Murphy.”
“I’m going to tell Chef Roberts you said that. He gets a bit touchy when people malign the freshness of his fish.”
“Fine! Pushy. I’ll begin with the Sydney rock oysters,” she declared. “Because the acid in the lime juice will have cured the oyster flesh, rendering the risk of bacterial infection much smaller than with the raw oysters.”
“Not much of a risk taker, hmm?” Wes went straight for the Virginias, big and bold and slippery in their smooth shells. He doused his in cocktail sauce and tipped the whole thing straight down his throat like a shot of vodka. It burned going down, just like a shot, but as the bright brine and tomato flavor exploded over the back of his tongue, Wes smacked his lips and started getting another one ready. He could do this all day.
“Risk is only practical in controlled laboratory circumstances,” Rosemary said, daintily arranging her Sydney before slurping it down. “Oooh. That’s … that’s really good. But it mostly tastes like the lime segments … just saltier and spicier.”
“You can’t control the outcome of risky behavior,” Wes argued. “That’s what makes it fun. Makes you feel alive. Come on, try one of these.” He nudged the plate of Belons closer to her, along with the little cup of mignonette.
Rosemary waffled for a moment, visibly torn between her fear of bacteria and her inability to allow Wes to have one up on her.
“They’re perfectly safe, I promise,” Wes coaxed.
“If I get sick, you’re driving me to the hospital,” she warned.
“You won’t,” he promised. “Go on. Just one taste.”
As if afraid she might change her mind, Rosemary scooped up one of the smooth, circular shells and tilted her head back, popping the whole oyster into her mouth without even bothering with the sauce.
Wes watched the elegant line of her pale throat work as she swallowed, and felt a zing of heat up his spine.
Note to self: the lady can’t resist a challenge.
Chapter 5
Rosemary squeezed her eyes shut and let gravity do its work, every muscle braced for the inevitable panic-induced freak-out. Shellfish were dangerous! Everyone knew that. They were hosts to all sorts of bacteria. She hadn’t eaten a raw oyster since she first learned what happened to a person’s internal organs when they threw up.
But the instant that oyster slid into her mouth, the powerful flavor of the ocean beat her hypochondria into submission. The whole world narrowed to the patch of tongue currently tasting the distillation of sea breezes, salty waves, and sunlight that Wes had forced her to eat. She’d never tried a raw, unadorned oyster before. It was delicate and bold at the same time, a combination of flavors Rosemary was instantly sure she’d remember for the rest of her life.
She might have moaned a little.
“Good?” he asked. She could tell without looking that his smile was back, and smirkier than ever.
He was standing too close, Rosemary thought, the electric awareness of his nearness all over the surface of her skin. Did he have no personal boundaries? She shifted uncomfortably, feeling too warm, the tops of her ears tingling with enough heat to make her want to check that they hadn’t suddenly gone pointy.
Don’t think about Vulcans, she repeated to herself. It was unnerving to have him here in the lab with her, standing beside the table upon which her incredibly humiliating yet breathtakingly sensual dream took place.
“Yes. It’s good,” she managed, hearing the odd breathlessness of her own voice but unable to do anything about it.
“These are awesome,” he agreed amiably. “So. Are you feeling anything yet?”
Hmm. Had she registered the rise in temperature before or after eating the oysters? Or was that due to the memory of her dream? “Like what?” she hedged.
His eyes twinkled in a way that made Rosemary notice again what an extraordinary mix of colors they were, brown and green all shot through with gold. “Oh, you know. Do you feel like doing the horizontal mambo yet?”
Wes waggled his brows like Groucho Marx, which made her want to smile, but didn’t really dispel the spiraling tension that coiled between them. “It would take more than a couple of shellfish, Mr. Murphy.”
“Come on, call me Wes. After all, we’re research partners now.”
He smiled again, dimples winking into existence in his tan, lean cheeks, and Rosemary lost her cool. “Okay, enough. I know what this is. You’re flirting with me, aren’t you?” Rosemary accused, feeling a hot flush prickle up the back of her neck. “I may not be an expert on social cues, but even I can see where this is heading.”
A slow, lopsided grin lit Wes’s face as he peered up at her from his slouched stance over the table. “I wondered how long it would take you to catch on. Guess you really are a genius!”
Rosemary sputtered. She’d expected him to deny it! Most people tended to backpedal when confronted with the naked truth about their motivations. Not Wes, apparently, which was just her luck.
“I am a genius, thank you so much, and exactly what do you think all this leaning and smiling and, and, all these oysters are going to accomplish?”
He quirked a brow. “Beyond the obvious? Just kidding. Sort of. Come on, Doc, lighten up and enjoy the experiment.”
She stood there and felt the world skew ever so slightly out of focus. Racking her brain for any possible scenario that might shine the light of reason and rationality on this odd scene, only one thing came to mind.
“You think if you cozy up to me, it will help your grade in Food Chemistry 101,” she said, wondering whatever happened to her usual modulated, detached tone of voice. She sounded … pissed. Which was odd, because she’d always considered anger to be a highly unproductive emotion more suitable to less evolved beings who enjoyed being ruled by their feelings. Rosemary preferred to avoid the question of emotion altogether. Which maybe explained her anger—Wes Murphy had incited more feelings in the short time she’d known him than Rosemary had suffered in years.
She watched now as he straightened up and backed a step away from the table, cheeks flushed a hectic red, his wide, mobile mouth curving into a frown. “That’s not what this is about.”
Rosemary regarded him with curiosity. His response dampened some of the heady, swirling ire that filled her chest at the idea of being used. She wondered if he meant what he said.
“Good,” she replied after a moment. “Because I’m not planning to evaluate the performance of anyone in your class. It would be ludicrous of me, considering how few weeks I’ll have to observe you. No, your entire grade will derive from the final exam, which has already been prepared by my predecessor, and you can rest assured, there will be no fudging or tweaking of test results. I would consider that highly unethical, on par with skewing the outcome of a lab experiment. I’d sooner strip naked and dance the hula in front of the entire class.”
That surprised a snort of laughter out of Wes, who’d held himself stiff and distant through her whole response. Rosemary didn’t understand why, but for some reason she didn’t like to see him that way.
So when he unthawed enough to loll against the table and shoot her an amused glance along with a terse, “Understood,” she was glad. And then annoyed at herself for being glad. And that made her head hurt, so she decided to ignore both sentiments and get back to work.
“I’m afraid my allotted time for frivolous inanity is up for today, Mr. Murphy,” she said, turning back to her notes. “Please don’t make too much noise as you pack your things and leave.”
She usually had zero difficulty losing herself in the fascinating research in front of her, but somehow, today she felt hyperaware of the quiet movements behind her—cloth brushing against cloth, the clatter of plates and the cooler scraping against the floor as it was lifted. She unwillingly tracked every movement of the strong, tall body behind her. And when he got to the door and reached for the handle, she held her breath, certain that he wouldn’t leave without saying anything.
As usual, she was right.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said. It sounded like a promise, caressing and full of warmth. “With chocolate truffles. And maybe a Barry White CD.”
Rosemary jerked her head up to look at him—even she got the Barry White reference—but with one last cheeky smile, he was gone and Rosemary was left alone with her notes in a lab that felt inexplicably cold and empty.
Shivering and buttoning up her lab coat, Rosemary paused with her chilly fingers pressing a button halfway through its hole as she realized something.
Frak me. I’m in serious trouble.
Wes slammed his lump of brioche dough onto the kneading board with more force than strictly necessary.
Half a week and four research sessions later, Wes still hadn’t quite come to grips with the rush of guilt and shame and just general wrongness that had overtaken him when she called him out about cozying up to her for a grade.
Everything in him wanted to deny it, and of course that was what he did—but not out of simple self-preservation.
He wanted it to be true.
Wes wanted to be the kind of person who would never think about using the attraction sparking between himself and his conveniently young, good-looking teacher. He hated the fact that still, however many hard years on his own without Pops, working the angles was his first impulse.
The look on her face when she accused him … Wes didn’t want to see that expression again. Ever.
The wet thwap of dough against wood almost drowned out the discreet vibration of the cell phone in Wes’s pocket.
There were only a few people who had this number; Mrs. N. would only use it if it were an emergency. Pops, on the other hand …
Wiping his sticky, floury fingers on the damp side towel he used to keep his station clean, Wes checked the chef instructor’s progress around the classroom. Chef Wolensky was about eight students away, trying to help Nathaniel figure out why his dough looked more like soup than anything else.
Just One Taste Page 5