On the Steamy Side - Louisa Edwards [94]
Devon shrugged, the growing sense of frustration and confusion a nearly physical weight on his shoulders. “Hell if I know. My menu should be working; obviously my palate isn’t dead.”
It all boiled over in an instant, like scalded milk frothing out of a hot pan. The self-doubt, the humiliation, the knowledge he was letting his friend down—Devon banged his open hand down on the breakfast table, rattling the discarded tasting bowls.
“Damn it,” he snarled. “What the hell is wrong with me?”
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was Devon’s harsh breathing. Lilah was so quiet, Devon wondered if he’d finally managed to scare her off, but then she said, “You’ve got about fifteen seconds left on the clock. You want another taste?”
Devon swallowed the bitter, acrid fear and cleared his throat. “Hit me.”
The last item was warm; it must have been one of the things Lilah made a trip to the stove for. The smell tickled his brain, almost familiar, but he couldn’t quite place it.
“Need a fork for this one,” she said. “Open up.”
He opened his mouth and let her feed him. The taste burst over his tongue, smoky, salty, mysterious—Devon chewed quickly and opened his mouth for seconds.
The second bite was even more delicious. It had a firm give when he bit into it, and there was enough liquid and enough of a leafy green texture to remind him of sautéed spinach, but it was nothing so simple as that.
He scowled; it was next to impossible to parse individual ingredients when they married together so well. But he thought he read bacon in the meatiness of the smoke flavor and he was almost sure he tasted the savory caramel of slow-cooked diced onion and the subtle heat of red pepper flakes. And then there was a bright tang of something acidic that brought the whole thing together.
“Oh, my God,” he finally said, the last piece of the puzzle jigsawing into place. “I know what this is.”
The timer dinged and Devon tore off the blindfold to stare down at the bowl of braised collard greens on the table in front of him.
“You tricky little witch,” he said, admiration clear in his voice. “I didn’t even know you brought that stuff home.”
“When you go to the trouble of cooking up a mess of greens, you don’t leave them sitting around a kitchen full of hungry cooks overnight. I wanted to have some left for family meal tomorrow!”
“I can understand your concern,” Devon said, dipping the fork back into the dark green mound. “This stuff is addictive. Oh, my God.”
“All right,” Lilah laughed. “Enough with the commandment-breaking. You keep taking the Lord’s name in vain, I’m going to have to stand across the room in case He decides to smite you.”
“No,” Devon said, going back to the bowl for more of the warm, comforting, complex braise. Every bite filled him with a kind of cozy happiness he couldn’t recall ever experiencing before. Or at least, not in too many years to count. He felt dazed with contentment. Blinking down at the bowl, Devon was shocked to see how much of the greens he’d put away.
“I mean, it’s not a curse or anything—I’m really . . . this is unbelievable. What did you put in this stuff?”
No doubt responding to the helpless bewilderment in his voice, Lilah raised both brows in indignant concern. “Nothing bad! It’s my Aunt Bertie’s recipe. Well, really, it’s my grandmother’s, or maybe her mother’s. It’s been passed down in my family for a long time. And I come from a very old Virginia family! Which might not be a big deal to you, but let me tell you, it’s a big deal back home.”
“Christ.” He started laughing, rusty and hoarse enough to be just around the corner from tears.
Snatching up his bowl, Lilah said, “Hush that laughing. You’re the most aggravating man, I swear. Why did you eat it all if you hated it so much?”
Devon sat back. He met her eyes, allowing all of the weird, vulnerable emotion to be visible on his face. “No. Lilah Jane. I loved it. I think it might be the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth.”
She gazed at him, then down at the empty bowl in her hand, then back again, her, strawberry pink