Love Her or Lose Her (Hot & Hammered #2)(38)

“Viva Team Vega!” called Armie as he zipped up the shelter, amid the squeals of his companions.

Rosie and Dominic were bursting at the seams as he hustled her back toward the parking lot, where they finally doubled over and gave in to tears of amusement.

“Did we just build a campsite so our therapist could have a threesome?” Dominic said.

“Officer, I swear, we were unwitting accomplices.”

Dominic’s laughter trailed off as he tucked a curl behind Rosie’s ear. “Here’s to not rejecting the crazy, huh?”

She regarded him in thoughtful silence. “Yeah.”

Sending his wife to Bethany’s that night knowing he wouldn’t see her until their next therapy session was torture, but he couldn’t help but hope they’d made some progress. Dammit, he would take it.

And someday soon, he would take his wife back.





Chapter Thirteen


A lot of people can throw together a decent meal,” Rosie said, giving her friends a stern look across Georgie’s dining room table. “But food should be about an experience. A journey.”

In front of Rosie sat three covered dishes, and she didn’t miss the ravenous looks Bethany and Georgie kept sending them. She’d asked them to refrain from eating today so they could participate in her first official taste test. It appeared they’d complied. And okay, she was being a little cruel making them wait to dig in, but she wanted to savor the moment. After building the campsite with Dominic yesterday, Rosie felt . . . exhilarated. Excited. New.

Ever since she’d reopened herself to the possibility of being a restaurant owner, she’d been struggling with imposter syndrome. Who did she think she was? Gordon Ramsay owned a restaurant. Did she think she was Gordon Ramsay? He might be a reality television star, too, but they would both be restaurant owners. How could she even put herself in the same category?

But while she cooked asado on Georgie’s backyard bar beque, she hadn’t felt like an imposter at all. Maybe that’s why she was confident enough to revel in the suspense. Just a little longer.

Georgie propped her chin on the table and sniffed one of the covered plates. “You vicious woman. You’re milking this.”

“We never knew you were a sadist,” Bethany commented, studying her nails.

Rosie hid her smile. “I just want you to really focus on how the food makes you feel, as opposed to what your mouth is telling you. It’s going to taste good. That’s a given. But tell me where the flavors transport you. That’s what I’m after.”

“Done.”

“Got it.”

Rosie whipped the napkin off the first plate with a flourish, outright giggling when both of her friends groaned in pleasure, leaning forward to inhale the steam coming off the meat. “Don’t dig in yet. I’m going to help you craft the perfect bite.”

Bethany picked up a fork and mimed jabbing it into her eye. “Rosie, you’re evil.”

“You’ll take that back in a minute.” Rosie took the napkin off the next dish. “This is an ensalada criolla. Tomato, lettuce, onion. Oil and white wine vinegar dressing. It’s going to help counter the savory flavors of the meat. And . . .” She uncovered the final dish. “The pièce de résistance. My mother’s chimichurri.”

Georgie scooted closer to the table. “Okay, so a little bit of everything in one bite?”

Rosie nodded. “Correct. This would be the house dish. At my restaurant,” she said, some shyness creeping into her tone. “I’d serve these three components together.”

Bethany’s face warmed with a smile. “Those words sound good on you.”

Her cheeks heated. “Thanks.” She waved her hands. “Okay. The time has come. Build your bite.”

“Ooh.” Georgie straightened. “Build your bite. Have you thought of putting that somewhere on your menu?”

“I am now,” Rosie murmured, repeating the phrase under her breath. “Build your bite. Maybe we’ll do appetizer combos and—” She cut herself off. “We’ll talk about it later. Eat.”

She held her breath as she watched Bethany and Georgie carve off small pieces of asado, moving it to their plates before adding the chimichurri and a forkful of salad. Georgie shoved the bite into her mouth first, closing her eyes and sighing dramatically. “Okay. Oh my . . . Lord. How am I supposed to think straight when my taste buds are having a straight-up orgasm?” She hummed. “This flavor journey is taking me to a busy street. It’s nighttime. Music is playing. People are dancing and making out in the alleys. There are lights strung overhead . . .”

Bethany popped in her own bite and groaned, her eyelids drooping. “Totally. I can totally see that. But I’m being transported to a backyard barbeque. I’m suntanned and half-drunk and there are bracelets clinking on my wrist and I’m so happy. This food just makes me happy.”

Moisture—happy in its nature—sprung to Rosie’s eyes. “Wow. Both of those scenes are perfect,” she murmured. “I couldn’t ask for anything better.”

“This is it,” Georgie said, already carving another bite of asado. “This is your signature dish. I think your only problem is going to be convincing people to order anything else.”