One More Taste (One and Only Texas #2)(58)

He felt the smile her answer elicited from him all the way to his heart, as a kind of delicious ache. “Okay, when? And don’t say, when you have your restaurant.”

“Okay, then. When I’m good and ready,” she said in a playful tone.

He would never tire of the give-and-take battle of their conversations. Never. “I’ve been thinking of hosting a dinner party next weekend for my equity firm partners and their wives. Smoked pork would be perfect. I mean, assuming you’d agree to cater it.”

“Only if you don’t make me hobnob with the dinner guests.”

The condition made him smile even bigger—made his heart ache even more deliciously—it was so her. “Not a big fan of schmoozing clients?”

“I don’t do small talk. I’m terrible at it.”

It came as no surprise that for as confident and capable as she was in the kitchen, she was insecure about being the person in the spotlight. “It scares you.”

She cast him a wary look. “Yes, it scares me,” she said finally. “But who said we have to do everything that scares us? Humankind evolved to have fear for a reason, so why would we suppress it? Because some inspirational poster with a tightrope walker tells us that facing our fears is a virtue? That’s bullshit. Maybe we’re scared for a reason. Maybe we don’t have to be great at everything. That’s such a stupid American construct.”

“There you go sounding like you’re rationalizing your choice to labor in obscurity at the resort. How can we evolve if we don’t conquer what scares us?”

She set her glass down and leaned forward. The fire in her eyes was something a man could get addicted to. “There is a noodle maker in Hong Kong who’s been making noodles the same way for sixty years, the same way his father did, the same way as generations before him did, bouncing on a bamboo pole. That’s it. That’s his life. That’s his skill. He has perfected noodle making. Do you have any idea how few people in this world ever perfect the art of anything?”

Almost no one, ever. Which begged the question, which struck more fear into hearts—spending sixty years on a single goal or accepting mediocrity for the manufactured concept of personal growth? It was a point Knox had certainly never considered before. And the fact that Emily Ford was telling him the noodle maker story, that she dared to strive for a level of perfection that might take a lifetime to achieve, made her the most fearless person in his life right now. Possibly, in the whole of Texas.

“I rendered you speechless,” she said.

“I was thinking about how it is the rarity of diamonds that makes them so valuable.”

She rolled her eyes melodramatically. “Oh my God, it’s like you’re an inspirational poster come to life. The point is, I am a culinary artist. That’s what I’m striving to perfect, and I’m not going to waste my time pretending to be someone I’m not or learning a skill that useless for me, like making vapid small talk at dinner parties when I’d rather be in the kitchen honing my art.”

Knox pushed the plate nearest him in Emily’s direction. “Here’s another dish that misses the mark, like that pork.” The dish was a deconstructed mole involving two quail breasts floating on pasilla chili-chocolate foam, surrounded by caviar-like gelatin balls, each containing a different spice used in the sauce. It looked and tasted like a gastronomical chemistry experiment gone bad.

“The mole? I loved it, but I knew it would leave you feeling empty. Remember, I told you that when I ordered it?”

He hadn’t put that all together, but she was correct. “How did you know?”

She pulled a bite of quail meat from the plate with her fork and dredged it through the caviar gelatin. “Because deconstructed mole is not what you need.”

What he needed to do was slide his fingers through her unruly curls of hair. What he needed to do was call for the bill so they could leave this loud, pretentious restaurant and he could have her to himself. What he needed to do was kiss—

Stop it, you dirty bastard. She is not your wife or your lover or yours in any way. A ten-minute fuck in your childhood bedroom does not a personal relationship make. And even if that could have been the start of something, it would all come crashing down the moment she learned of Knox’s eventual plans for the resort. And then she’d probably never speak to him again.

Regret knifed through him. Suddenly, acutely. He’d thought his strategy for revenge was flawless. He would have never guessed that a small-time chef would prove to be the chink in his armor.

But never mind that tonight. He wouldn’t allow anything to interfere with this one perfect evening with her. He had to reach back, struggling to remember the conversation at hand. Ah, yes. The mole that left him empty. “All right, then, what do I need, if not mole?”

She met his gaze with a triumphant smile. “I’ve been trying to show you since day one. You keep resisting. Are you ready to surrender? Are you ready to let me feed you like you need to be fed, every meal, unequivocally?”

He’d never heard a more erotic line of questions.

Their server appeared tableside. “How’s everything, folks?”

Emily sat back in her chair. Knox did the same. Both of them watched the server pour more wine.

“You can take the smoked pork,” Emily told the server. “It didn’t satisfy us.”