I would probably like it more.”
I shook my head. “It’s fresh marinara, Julia.” Quickly, I rolled some homemade penne in the sauce and lifted the fork to her mouth. “Taste.”
She chewed slowly, and her expressive face brightened. “Hey, I like that!”
I smiled at my small victory. It hadn’t taken me long to figure out Julia’s palate was so used to bland, overprocessed, oversalted food that her taste buds didn’t know how to handle other flavors. For the past two weeks, every chance I was able to tempt her away from her busy schedule, I had her in my office or perched up on the counter beside me in the kitchen, getting her to taste things I would make for her. I kept the herbs and spices subtle, using layers of ingredients I would combine to see how she would react to them. So far, I knew without a doubt, she enjoyed pasta, chicken, and vegetables, as long as they were simply prepared. Anything too overspiced or rich sent her taste buds into overdrive. I also discovered she disliked salmon intensely, tolerated milder fish, and she had a sweet tooth.
I speared more penne and fed it to her. I loved watching her eat when she actually was enjoying it. Her expression was one of surprise and delight. It thrilled me to be the one to put that look on her face. I found myself looking forward to these little experiments more every day, thinking of things to tempt her with. Not only did I enjoy discovering what she liked and disliked, I enjoyed discovering things about her. She was highly intelligent and witty, and our conversations left me smiling and wanting more. More conversations, more time with her, more of her.
“You listen to the Beatles a lot,” she mused one night. We were alone in the kitchen, the staff having left. She’d had a late class, and I had been waiting for her, preparing her meal and listening to music.
“Yes. One of my favorites. There is a song of theirs named ‘Julia’—do you know it?”
“No.”
“John Lennon wrote it for his mother, although he later admitted it made him think of his feelings for Yoko as well. It’s very pretty.” I paused, spearing the roasted asparagus I made for her. “Like you.”
Her flushed cheeks made me grin. I loved her reactions to my food—and my words.
For the first time in many years, my concentration was not solely on the restaurant or my career. I found myself distracted by the thoughts of a lovely strawberry-blond-haired girl several times a day.
I lifted another forkful, but she shook her head. “Your turn.”
I grinned as I added more penne and took a much larger bite. She refused to be the only one to eat whatever I had made, saying it made her too self-conscious. The first time she had insisted, I informed her I only had the one fork, and she had snorted, took the fork from my hand, speared a piece of the beef and grinned at me.
“Open up.”
When I looked at her, she rolled her eyes.
“I think we’re past not being able to share a fork, Byron. We share. Everything. It’s the rule.”
And from then on, we did.
I sliced off some grilled chicken, watching as her eyes lit up again. “That is delicious!”
After a positive reaction from the chicken, I was disappointed to see her frown as she chewed on an herb-roasted potato. “Too much?”
She shook her head. “No, it needs something.”
I was shocked. She wanted more flavor? Curious, I picked up a piece and tasted it. The flavors of rosemary, pepper, and thyme blended with the olive oil were subtle but pleasing. Not too much, not too little, just right for her.
“What does it need?” I asked encouragingly.
She paused as if thinking and then grinned innocently. “Ketchup.”
I gaped at her. No.
She winked and began laughing, her beautiful eyes dancing with mischievousness.
Unable to stop myself, I joined in. She had a way of making me laugh when I least expected.
“Gotcha,” she giggled.
I nodded. “You did, you little tease. You didn’t like it?”
She shrugged. “I liked the pasta better.”
“Excellent.”
“Why?”
“You showed a preference for something. That’s progress.” I drew in a deep breath. “What are your plans tomorrow afternoon?” Tomorrow was Sunday and the restaurant was closed, which meant I was free all day, and I was hoping her schedule was the same.
"I have a day off—a whole day!" She threw her arms in the air in celebration. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I chuckled. I