Simmer Down - Sarah Smith Page 0,75

“You’re right. It’s best that no one finds out about us. Like you said.”

On the inside, I’m cringing so hard. Really enjoyed cooking with you. I sound like a home economics teacher.

The longer I look at Callum, the more obvious his hurt is. He refuses my eyes, occupying himself with washing dishes at the sink.

“Callum, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine.” His tone is a soft bark, but I get the message loud and clear.

His hunched shoulders, the way his back is turned to me, the way he refuses to look at me say it all. I’ve hurt him, and he doesn’t care to even look at me right now.

The longer I stand there engaging in this staring contest with his back, the more unbearable my faux pas becomes. I scurry through the door and out of the kitchen, unconcerned that I’m breaking my own “do not leave the kitchen” rule.

I stumble a few steps before noticing the dull roar of comments coming from the dining area.

“Crazy delicious,” someone sings.

“The flavors are on point.”

Curiosity takes hold of me, and I dart behind a nearby plant so I can eavesdrop more without blowing my cover. From behind the overgrown ficus, I strain my neck for a look at the diners. The soft murmur of conversation fills the room. Every single person at the tables is chewing or raving about how good the food tastes. Inside I’m bursting. Every foodie big shot in Maui is head over heels for my and Callum’s food.

I scan across the room and zero in on the familiar blond man bun I’ve been looking for. Matteo shakes his head back and forth, eyes closed, lips puckered while chewing. An older man in a sport coat sitting next to him starts to speak, but Matteo cuts him off by holding up his hand.

Everyone else at the table stares at Matteo, brows raised, eyes unblinking, waiting for him to say anything. I do an internal eye roll. The way his foodie groupies hang on his every word in person and on his blog is a bit over-the-top.

After several seconds of making “mmm” sounds and exaggerated faces, Matteo swallows and smiles. He opens his eyes, patting the arm of his sport coat–clad companion.

“My sincerest apologies, Jonas, but sometimes when you’re enjoying an otherworldly bite of food, all of your senses must be focused on it to fully appreciate the flavor overtaking your body.”

His companion nods, as does everyone else at the table.

Matteo holds up a forkful of fish. “Just take this exquisite bite of fish. The way it plays on your tongue—the salt, the richness, the luscious texture.”

A wave of “oohs” and “aahs” travels across the table.

“And the crunch on the outside.” He practically sings the words. “Goodness me.”

Matteo chomps on his forkful. The rest of his dining companions do the same, then rave about the perfect flavor.

Matteo takes his butter knife in his left hand and brushes a mound of pineapple fried rice on his fork. He holds it up in front of him, catching the light of the nearby overhead chandelier. It’s like he’s an appraiser scrutinizing a gemstone in the light.

“And this rice. My oh my, this rice. The perfect complement to the delicately fried fish with its sweet chunks of succulent pineapple and salty bacon.” He slaps his free hand on his knee and lets out a throaty chuckle that booms against the dining room walls. “Who would have thought to add bacon as a twist in fried rice? Not me, ladies and gentlemen. Not me.”

After his monologue, he rewards himself with the bite of fried rice. Everyone else at his table follows suit, taking bites, then raving.

Despite Matteo’s rambling, I’m beaming. He may be ridiculous, but he loves Callum’s and my food. And that matters. It means the most discriminating palate on the island thinks my last-minute attempt at an upscale dish is damn good. That means he’ll rave about it on his vlog and his website. And even though he has no idea it was me who helped prepare the meal, it’s still validation. It’s proof that even after flipping my life upside down, I can still go back to my roots—my passion—and cook a solid high-end meal.

I wait a beat and walk quietly backward until I’m out of the line of sight from the dining room. I spin around to head back to the kitchen, then bump chest-first into someone.

“Shoot, I’m sorry—”

The woman I collided with flips her blond hair out of her face, straightening