Page 22 of Bottles & Blades
“You brought it,” I protest. “You should?—”
Thunk.
The plate lands on the table and suddenly his face is in mine, his blue eyes blazing with a mixture of frustration and impatience. “Just eat the fucking food, yeah?”
My throat goes tight.
I felt his words on my lips.
If I inched forward, I could?—
Well,hecould.
Well,ourmouths could touch and?—
He sits back, and I shake myself, see that he’s lifting his brows as though waiting for something.
Or…he’s waiting for me to eat.
Testing that, I lift the bread to my mouth, nibble at the corner of the slice. The crust has that perfect sourdough crunch, tough enough that my jaw could get tired from chewing it—if I ate an entire loaf, that is.
And I have—picking up a loaf from the store, coming home and slathering each piece with butter.
Adoring the crunchy, chewy crust and how it gives way to a fluffy, light center with the hint of sour that gives the bread its name.
A perfect complement to the sweet butter.
What Jean-Michel put together for me is even more so, especially with the addition of the creamy cheese, the salty, wafer-thin slice of meat.
Flavor sparks on my tongue, bursts out along my taste buds.
It’s simple.
It’s nothing.
And yet, it’severything.
And pretty soon, I’ve eaten the entire slice.
I watch as he tops another piece of bread, don’t argue as he passes it over to me. But as I take it from his long, capable fingers, I say, “Your turn.”
He just jerks his chin at the food in my hands, and I sigh, start eating it.
Finishingit.
He passes me a third.
“You really should?—”
“Eat,” he orders.
I weigh continuing to argue then decide it’s just easier to eat the bread and cheese and meat. There’s more in the kitchen. I can make him a plate once he’s decided I’ve filled my belly.
Which…
By the time I finish the third and he passes me a fourth, that task is accomplished.
I’m stuffed.
