Just One Taste

by Louisa Edwards

  “Frederick Law Olmsted won a competition for the best design,” she told him. “The city chose his naturalistic vision of the park over a more formal approach because it made the best use of the varied terrain. They planted more than half a million trees, shrubs, and vines to get it to look like this.”

  Wes grinned at her, sticking his hands in his jacket pockets. “Have I mentioned today how much I love that big brain of yours? Come on, tell me some more stuff about the park.”

  She pressed her lips together to stop the flood of information that wanted to pour out. “Are you mocking me?” she demanded. “I can’t tell, but I’d prefer it if you didn’t.”

  His grin faded. “No, I’m really not,” he said, his voice gentling as though he were trying to soothe a skittish lab rat. “I honestly like talking to you and learning new stuff. You make me curious about the world outside the kitchen, which is something I haven’t thought much about the last few years. Too focused on where I wanted to get to, I guess. But when I’m with you, it’s like everything opens up, and I can see more possibilities than what’s right in front of me.”

  Rosemary had to concentrate to keep putting one foot in front of the other. “That’s … a very nice thing to say. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to respond.”

  Wes’s lips twitched, but he treated it as a real question. “Well, I guess you could go traditional and just say ‘thanks.’ Or you could be all tit for tat and tell me something you like about me.”

  “That’s assuming there is something I like about you.” The words popped out before she could censor them, and Rosemary bit her lip, feeling exposed, as if she’d just revealed exactly how much Wes had hurt her.

  He didn’t seem to notice, though. He cocked his head to one side, looking thoughtful, and said, “True enough. So maybe a better tit for tat would be you telling me something true about yourself. Come on, one true thing.”

  Rosemary thought about what Wes had told her. “I’ve always been curious,” she finally said after a long pause. “Sometimes to my detriment. But people are so incomprehensible, and the world is so mysterious—the only thing that makes sense to me is to try and unlock the secrets of how things really work. Since I know I’ll never understand how people work and why they do the things they do.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Wes asked, taking her hand to turn her down an offshoot path to the right.

  “Well, people are largely irrational and illogical, ruled by their emotional responses rather than their intellect—oh. You mean why can’t I relate to that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged, keeping hold of her hand. Rosemary let him, even though it made her stomach jump around nervously. She immediately began to worry about sweaty palms. “You keep telling me you’re a genius,” he pointed out. “And I believe you! But it seems to me like people aren’t that complicated—the fact that we’re ruled by our desires and instincts actually makes us easier to figure out.”

  “Not for me,” Rosemary said. “And the reasons for that … well, who knows. One of my mother’s psychologist cronies would probably tell you it has something to do with not being held frequently enough as an infant— that lack of early attachment to a parental figure stunted my ability to connect with others as an adult.” It was her turn to shrug. “Perhaps there’s some truth to that. I certainly don’t remember being hugged often as a child. My earliest memory of my mother is being given an IQ test when I was four. I was already reading and writing, and I remember being aware that the test was very important to her, and that I had to do well.”

  “And you did,” he guessed softly.

  She didn’t like the gleam in his eye; it looked like pity. “Of course,” she confirmed stiffly. “My mother was pleased, so I was, too. The results of that test got me my first private tutor, and gave my mother the idea for her second book, the one that became a bestseller. Prodigy: How to Gift Your Child.”

  A hitch in Wes’s step, and Rosemary’s hand popped out of his. Yep, clammy. She took the opportunity to give her palm a surreptitious scrub over the thin wale of her corduroys.

  “I’ve heard of that book,” Wes said. “So, that was your mom?”

  “Sure was,” Rosemary said, watching Lucille take advantage of the pause in forward momentum to investigate the roots of a deciduous shrub.

  “And she wrote it about you. Because of you.”

  “And took me with her on her book tour. I became something of an expert on hotels that year.”

  “It’s nice that she wanted to give you credit,” Wes said.

  “At lectures, interviews, bookstores—everyone who came to hear her speak wanted to see me.”

  “Well, sure, you were kind of the star of the book, right?”

  “My mother was the star, Wes. She trotted me out in front of those crowds—rooms full of people staring and whispering and breathing and coughing—ugh.” Rosemary shuddered. “I think at first she hoped I’d dazzle them all with my big brain, as you call it, but I couldn’t. All I could ever do was stand there. And in the end, she preferred that. I was nothing more than a prop.” Suddenly antsy, she pulled a protesting Lucille away from the bush and marched off down the path.

  Walking swiftly, Rosemary wasn’t sure if she was trying to outrun the memories beating at her like a heavy downpour, or the man whose questions had brought them up— but in any case, it was only about ten-point-two seconds before Wes caught up with her.

  “Hey, wait up! Shit, Rosie, I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t want your pity,” she said over the rush of blood in her ears. She never talked about the past; it was over and done with, what good did it do to rehash it?

  “It’s not pity,” he argued. “I’m pissed. And I wish I’d been there to make you laugh, make you feel better.”

  When he slipped his fingers around hers again, Rosemary sighed. She had to admit, if only to herself, that the wordless comfort of his touch made the rain in her head slow to a drizzle.

  “I didn’t have anyone back then.” Rosemary frowned, hating the way that sounded. “I mean, I had tutors and a nanny who traveled with us. I was fine. I had a very privileged childhood; I was given opportunities most people can only dream about. I visited all fifty states before the age of six.”

  “And you hated it,” Wes said, his hand tightening for a moment. “You were right the first time; you didn’t have anyone back then, not really. But you have me now, and I swear, you’re going to enjoy today.” He grinned at her, a reckless, happy sparkle in his eyes. “I’ve got a couple of props, but you’re not one of them. Promise.”

  Wes squeezed her hand again, and his heart leaped into his throat when she gave him a small, reluctant smile and squeezed back.

  Okay. Progress.

  He couldn’t believe he’d spaced like that, stopped reading her facial expressions and body language, and gotten her onto this clearly painful subject. Talk about breaking the mood.

  But he’d just been so thrown by the sudden revelation that Pops was right. Prodigy was about her. The book Pops had used as inspiration for their final scam was written by Rosemary’s mother. And oh, hey. Yeah. They were filthy rich, too.

  It was too freaky weird for words, and the blow knocked him sideways for a good thirty seconds—until Rosemary’s agitation started to register.

  Hell, maybe it was a good thing. He hated to see her upset, but he knew more about her than he did five minutes ago.

  And now, more than ever, he hoped his plan today would work the way he wanted it to.

  Their winding path finally curved around and emerged from the trees so they could see the lake.

  “It’s man-made,” Rosemary said. The return to imparting random facts seemed to settle her. “There are more than thirty bridges and arches in the park.”

  “Well, we don’t need to find one,” Wes said, steering her left and down toward the bank of the lake. “Because we’re going to cop a squat right here.”

  They walked up a small hillock and down into a dip ten
feet or so from the edge of the lake, where the water lapped quietly against the rocks, grass, and roots growing down from the shore. Nestled in a curve of the lake was a tiny gazebo, painted white and peeling, with a slat bench built out along the sides.

  “I first found this place when I was a kid,” he revealed, pulling her down the hill and into the quiet, enclosed structure. “It was the perfect hideout for a nine-year-old, tucked away, off the beaten track—in all the times I’ve come back here over the years, I’ve only encountered someone else in this gazebo maybe twice. It’s one of the best-kept secrets of Central Park.”

  “Not so secret, if you’re sharing it with me,” Rosemary pointed out, her interested gaze taking in every detail of the old building.

  “Well.” Wes shrugged. “You’re special.” He said it as matter-of-factly as he could, but he meant it with everything that was in him. He meant it so much, he was actually afraid that if he tried to sound sincere, he’d overplay it and come off as sarcastic, which was the last thing he wanted.

  This whole day was about making sure Rosemary understood exactly how special she was to him. It was about earning a second chance.

  First order of business? Lunch.

  Chapter 19

  While Rosemary admired the lake spilled at their feet and sparkling in the crisp September sunshine, Wes set the scene. He looped Lucille’s leash around a nail protruding from the frame of the gazebo, then excavated two thick blankets from his knapsack, one tartan plaid wool and one heather gray fleece, and spread them over the dusty wooden floor.

  “I thought we were going to work, not have a picnic,” Rosemary said.

  “Can’t we do both? Food first—my dad always said, you can’t think on an empty stomach.”

  She looked highly suspicious, but sat down anyway. Picnics were irresistible to most people, Wes had found.

  Taking care not to look too pleased, Wes unpacked the rest of the provisions he’d spent so many hours gathering together.

  There were paper plates, plastic utensils, and good linen napkins borrowed from the restaurant, along with a miniature cutting board and several small, individual enameled cast-iron pots, their lids secured with kitchen twine.

  He unwrapped half a loaf of the light, crusty baguette

  Market’s pastry chef, Violet, was justly famous for, and arranged it on the cutting board along with a round of triple-cream goat cheese from a Hudson Valley cheesemaker.

  Rosemary shivered and wrapped both arms around her waist. “It’s a little chilly here, out of the sun,” she said.

  Why, God? Why do you test me this way? Wes thought. Ignoring the perfect opportunity to skip straight to the seduction was a true feat of will, but he managed it.

  “Maybe this will warm you up.” Settling himself on the blanket a careful, respectful distance away from her, Wes lifted out the sealed, unlabeled glass bottle, relieved to feel the slip-slide of cold condensation on his fingers, and a pair of wine glasses.

  “What kind of wine is that?” she asked.

  “It’s not wine; not exactly,” Wes said, pulling out the plastic cork. “I thought I’d give you another cocktail to try, see if maybe this one is your drink.”

  The liquid he poured into the glasses was a clear, dark gold, like apple juice—but the smell that wafted up from the bottle was more dark, sensual nightclub than bright, happy kindergarten.

  Rosemary sniffed. “I smell … nutmeg? And, frak me, a lot of alcohol.”

  “Good nose,” Wes said, impressed. “Yeah, freshly grated nutmeg, plus a whole lot of booze, goes into this punch. Lemon juice to tart it up, sugar for sweetness, white wine and brandy to layer the flavor—it’s a classic.”

  “I haven’t made it to punches yet on my list of potential cocktails,” Rosemary said, accepting her glass. She took a tiny, ladylike sip, sucked in air through her nose, then went back for a longer gulp.

  “That’s truly exquisite,” she said, releasing Wes from the pleasurable tension that held him frozen in place while she tasted the first of his offerings. Cracking his neck to one side, he pulled the long sleeves of his henley shirt down over his hands and grabbed one of the cast-iron pots. Setting it in front of Rosemary, he reached into his back pocket for his pocketknife.

  Wes cut the twine and lifted the little, round lid away, allowing a curl of steam to escape from the pot.

  Rosemary inhaled and closed her eyes, then moaned. She actually moaned. It was a noise he remembered—had remembered frequently, on purpose, almost every night since, eyes closed, breathing hard, hand doing what came naturally—from their one time together. Wes’s groin tightened in an atavistic rush at the unabashedly sensual sound.

  “What is that?” she breathed, staring down into the pot.

  “Technically, it’s called baeckeoffe,” Wes said, carefully pronouncing the Alsatian word. Beck-eh-off. Heh. “But basically, it’s the most warming, satisfying, delicious little hotpot full of goodness you can imagine.”

  She poked at it with her fork, releasing even more steam. “Ye gods. It smells amazing.”

  “I should fucking well hope so,” he muttered, thinking of the hours he’d put into preparing it.

  Digging in, she got the forkful halfway to her mouth before pausing. “Oh. Is there anything in here I should know about? I mean, anything potentially hazardous? It doesn’t smell fishy at all, so I assume no shellfish. Or blowfish, but why would there be blowfish. The odds are against it, right? Maybe you should just list the ingredients.”

  Quietly adoring her, Wes rattled off what he’d put into the baeckeoffe. “Thinly sliced fingerling potatoes, parsnips, and leeks layered with diced carrot, julienned fennel, and chunks of pork marinated in white vermouth and juniper berries. The whole thing gets doused in Riesling, topped with slices of fresh tomato, and then baked. For hours.”

  “That sounds complicated and time-consuming,” she commented, allowing the fork to complete its journey to her mouth. She chewed for a second, and her eyes lit up. “And also, yum!”

  “Good?” he couldn’t help asking, even though her opinion was obvious from the speed with which she dove back in for another bite.

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed, forking up another piece of perfectly tender pork. At least, it looked tender from where Wes was sitting, and he realized he didn’t need to rely on her review to tell him if it had turned out okay—he could taste his own.

  Which reminded him. Excavating a jar of whole-grain mustard from the depths of the knapsack, he tossed it to her. “Hey, try it with this.”

  “Interesting,” she pronounced after she’d smeared her next bit of pork and roasted vegetables with the mustard. “It makes the other flavors taste brighter and more vibrant. I can taste the juniper and the floral sweetness of the wine even more clearly. I wonder what chemical it is in the mustard that acts as a flavor enhancer?”

  Wes shrugged, enjoying his first bite. “No idea. All I know is, it tastes great. We should check it out, see if we can discover the perfect ratio of mustard to baeckeoffe.”

  “I postulate that trial and error is the best way to proceed with that particular experiment,” Rosemary said, reaching for the French bread. She broke off a hunk—Wes enjoyed the loud, satisfying crunch—and dunked it in the juices pooled around the meat and vegetables in her pot.

  “Now you’re talking,” Wes said, ripping into the bread. “I’ve never been more truly convinced of your genius.”

  She smiled around a mouth full of food he’d stayed up late last night preparing, and Wes felt warmth well up in his chest. He loved watching her eat; he couldn’t imagine anything sexier.

  Well. Maybe if she were eating naked.

  Wes’s cock had an immediate, and very strong, reaction to that charming mental image. Down, boy, he thought. Your time will come, but it ain’t here yet.

  To distract himself, Wes said, “I can’t believe you haven’t already regaled me with the tradition behind baeckeoffe.”

  “I don’t know it, or I’m sure
I would have.”

  Wes clutched at his chest as if he were having heart palpitations. “What! You mean to tell me there’s something you don’t know, that I do know? This is a red-letter day!”

  She pouted, her full lower lip poking out just enough to make him want to nibble at it. “I know where the phrase ‘red-letter day’ comes from,” she offered. “Do I get points for that?”

  “Sure, I can be magnanimous in victory.” He took another bite, pretended not to notice her staring at him expectantly.

  “Well?” she finally said, with great emphasis.

  “Well what?”

  “Tell me! The baeckeoffe tradition. You can’t tease me with new information and then not share. Unless you want to be cruel.”

  “That’s not what I want at all.” Their eyes clashed, the moment suddenly serious and more intense than either of them probably intended, but it couldn’t be helped. There was too much unresolved between them for casual, comfy conversation.

  Still, to prove he wasn’t interested in cruelty, Wes told her the story. “ ‘Baeckeoffe’ translates loosely to ‘baker’s oven.’ On Sundays, the women of the tiny villages of Alsace would prepare this stew, layering all the ingredients carefully together, and then drop it off at the local bakery while they went to church. When they came back a few hours later, the meat and vegetables would be roasted to falling-apart perfection. So you see, it’s not that complicated a dish. I just stick it in the oven and let it do its thing.”

  “That’s a lovely story,” she said, but she was frowning. “When did you say you baked this, again?”

  “I didn’t. Last night,” he said easily.

  “After you worked all day?”

  He shrugged.

  “And how long did it take?”

  “Ah, not that long,” he hedged. He wasn’t looking for a pity party here.

  “You just said it takes several hours in the oven, and that’s after you did all the slicing and dicing of the vegetables!” She sounded so accusing, Wes had to laugh.

  “Yeah, but I’m superfly when it comes to prep,” he said, buffing his nails on his shirt. “Fastest knife this side of the Atlantic.”