Capture & Surrender (Market Garden, #5)(46)

Frank bit back a laugh.

Beside him, Brandon cleared his throat. “I don’t know how y’all handle things in this country,” he said with an exaggerated drawl, “but in mine, we say grace before meals.”

Everyone at the table froze. Eyes wide, staring at Brandon like he’d lost his mind. Frank included.

“You say what?” Mike waved a hand. “Honey, I say whatever grace I need to say when I find my ingredients at the shops.”

“That’s not grace.” Geoff cast him a sardonic glance. “And it’s not you, either. It’s me saying ‘Oh thank f*ck, now we can go home.’”

Brandon laughed. “Relax, I’m f*cking with you. The extent of my grace-saying since I left home has been ‘Yay, God! Boo, Devil! Let’s eat.’”

Geoff choked on a gulp of wine.

“See?” Mike elbowed him. “That’s why you sip wine. In case you’re sitting at a table with a smart-arse.”

“Oh, is that why?” Geoff dabbed his lip with his napkin. “And here I thought it was for some sort of snobby connoisseur tasting bullshit.”

“Nope. Smart-arses.” Mike grabbed the bottle from the centre of table and pointed at the label. “See? Says it right there.”

Geoff rolled his eyes and took another drink. A sip this time, naturally.

Emily pointed a finely manicured nail at Brandon. “You, sir, are encouraging them.”

“Me?” Brandon showed his palms. “I was merely suggesting we pay homage to God and thank Him for all the food and wine and company. And stuff.”

“Uh-uh.” She shook her head once. “I paid for this stuff and turned it into something presentable and edible. You say grace to anyone, it’s Saint Emily O’Malley of the Sisters of Infinite Patience with Obnoxious Men.”

“That’s a bit of a mouthful, darling.” Mike straightened his napkin.

“That’s what she said,” Brandon muttered, and Mike burst out laughing.

“Oh my God, Frank.” Mike waved his wineglass at Brandon. “I love him. Can we keep him? Please?”

“Um, technically under the rules of warfare, don’t I get to keep you?” Brandon lifted an eyebrow.

Mike’s cheeks turned bright red. Geoff sniggered behind his hand.

Emily pinched the bridge of her nose. “Boys. Focus. Food.”

Brandon sat up straighter. “You have my attention.”

“Me too.” Mike cracked his knuckles over his plate. “Tell us what all this is, love. Where do we start?”

“We’re moving parts of the menu to the summer one.” Emily stood and pointed. “So there’s olives Ascolana-style, large mild green olives stuffed with a really complex mix of pork sausage meat and veal, and yes, I can use the word ‘sausage’ without having sniggering five-year-olds at the table. I finally managed to secure a supplier for the right kind of— Geoff! Get your fingers out of there. I’m not done yet.”

Red-faced, Geoff withdrew his hand. “Fine . . .”

“Anyway, I finally managed to secure a supplier for the right kind of Italian olives. Quickly fried, Italians love them as finger food. There’s a couple slices of proper salami from the same provider, and I’m switching out the supplier for the mozzarella, because this one has a much nicer texture and the acidity is better rounded. Served with salt, pepper, and a splash of olive oil I had to practically bribe the Italians to let it leave the country. They only export the cheap stuff.” She pointed at the bread basket. “Served with ciabatta with sundried tomatoes.”

“Oh, now you’ve got my interest.” Mike leaned forwards. “Nobody in London does a good ciabatta.”

Emily’s eyes flashed. “Try me.”

Frank chuckled. “You knew that was coming, Mike.”

“Yeah, well. I don’t want her to become complacent.” Mike winked. “Like the rest of London’s cooks.”

“The recession’s already killing the bad ones. I’ll kill the others.” Emily wielded her serrated bread knife to cut up the ciabatta. “Next course is butterflied chicken stuffed with mozzarella, sundried tomatoes, spiced sausage, and fresh herbs, cut and presented on a bed of polenta with mixed vegetables. Simple, but a crowd pleaser. Dessert is based on ricotta with honey and candied limes. The trick is to perfectly balance the sour with the sweet. It’s also doused in limoncello, so that one’s boozy.” Her toothy grin said it was likely enough to make them all drunk. “Tuck in, gentlemen. You, too, Mike.”

Geoff reached for his fork, then drew his hand back. “Are you sure I’m allowed now?”

“Yes, Geoff.” Emily turned her knife over and over in her hand. “Go ahead.”

Geoff whimpered. “Frank, she’s scaring me.”

“Emily.” Frank gave her the most disapproving look he could muster. “Put the knife down so the lad can eat.”

She flashed Geoff a grin and laid the knife down on the table. He eyed her hand warily as he picked up his fork. When she didn’t attack him, he started eating.

Frank met Emily’s eyes, and they both laughed.

The food was, as always when Emily prepared it, divine. By the time they’d finished all the courses, it was a wonder any of them could move.