Page 13 of Show Off

Except now I’m wondering. “Did you deliberately withhold it from me earlier?”

That makes his mouth quirk. “Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” I look at the box. “Is this a stolen dessert?”

Dal frowns. “There’s ice cream in there. Hurry the hell up and eat it.”

“Yes, sir.” I salute him like a smartass, then hold open my door. “Thank you for the ma—for the dessert.” No sense making him wince again. “You want to come in and have some?”

Dal drags a hand through his hair and frowns. “I hate that shit.”

“Make sure you put that on the menu.” I leave the door open like I’m coaxing a stray cat. Feeling his eyes on my back, I stride to my kitchen to hunt for a spoon. Two spoons, just in case.

When I steal a glance, he’s still standing in the open doorway. “Shut it.” Might as well be blunt, since that’s his thing. “You’re letting in bugs.”

I hold my breath, hoping he won’t leave, and what do you know—he’s closing the door, now leaning against it as I drop to a chair at my dining room table and spoon his creation into my mouth.

“Oh my God.” This is amazing.

He doesn’t respond, though one edge of his mouth tugs up.

“You’re sure you don’t want some?” I’m eating so fast I’ve got freezy brain. “It’s delicious.”

He’s watching me eat like it’s a compliment, which maybe it is. For a chef, I guess a food frenzy is the finest form of flattery.

“I’m good.” He’s glued to the door like he might make a run for it. “How was your Australia call?”

“Good.” My shoulders tense, and I wonder if he sees it. “Wrapped up right as you knocked.”

My spoon scrapes the bottom of my bowl and I keep my eyes down. No sense missing any makgeolli. Or admitting the call with my mother didn’t go great.

“There’s a tabloid sniffing around.” Mom whispered the warning as I wondered where my dad was. “They’re asking some questions.”

“What kind of questions?” The burn in my gut said I already knew. “Mom?”

“I’m handling it.” Something clanged in the background, and I tried to recall if this Sydney trip was for business or pleasure. “I’m sure they’re just looking for drama.”

“Of course they are.” Her new memoir hits shelves in three weeks and I’ve helped with publicity for the release ofLemon Light. Cute, right? Sort of a play onlimelight,with a hat tip to Mom’s most famous film,The House on Lemon Lane.

“Mom?” When she didn’t answer right away, I pressed. “Do you want me to?—”

“I’ve got it handled.”

“Okay.” I waited for her to say more. “Do you think it’s tied to Christie Chaplin’s memoir coming out the week after yours?”

“Maybe.” My mother’s voice turned sharp. “She was always a jealous bitch.”

Precisely the tone I worked to scrape from Mom’s memoir. I’m just glad she listened, that her editor took my input to heart. Taking the high road is kinda my jam. Why make things ugly if you don’t have to?

“Okay, well. Keep me posted.” I somehow managed to keep my voice perky. “If you want me to rattle some cages to find out what people are saying behind the scenes?—”

“I need to go.”

And that was the end of our call. I was still processing when Dal knocked.

“So.” I get up and go to the sink, rinsing the bowl to give back to him. “That was amazing. Thank you.”

His grunt could be “you’re welcome” or maybe “if you inhaled that any faster, you’d choke.” I guess it doesn’t matter. The man hasn’t moved from the doorway. Is he still deciding whether to stay?

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