Page 42 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
A wave of warmth washed over me, a feeling like sunshine on my skin.
I was already surprised by how personal our first date felt.
But this … this felt overwhelming. And yet, somehow, totally natural.
He hadn’t just picked another amazing restaurant. He hadn’t Googled “best date night ideas in Manhattan” or gone with a flashy scene to impress me. He’d chosen something thoughtful—intentional. He’d paid attention. The kind of gesture that made my chest tighten.
“Are you ready to learn how to prepare Chicken and Shrimp Laksa?” Melody asked, unaware of the thousands of other questions racing through my mind. James shoved his hands deep in his pockets and arched an eyebrow at my frozen state. He watched me, a mixture of amusement and anxiety in his eyes, waiting to see what I would do.
I reached for the apron, deciding to ignore my racing heart, and pushed forward, determined to make the most of every second we had with Melody.TheMelody Garrett.
“Are you much of a cook?” James asked as he pulled his apron over his head and tied it around his waist with steady hands. Somehow, he managed to make that simple white fabric look like a designer brand.
“There’s a reason that I enjoy reviewing food that’s cooked by someone else,” I said with a crooked smile.Cooking wasn’t exactly my strong suit, but the chance to watch Melody prepare her signature dish up close? That was worth burning a few shallots for. Her Chicken and Shrimp Laksa had put her on the map, allowing her to open her Asian-fusion restaurant that had sent waves across the food scene in New York City.
As Melody began walking us through the steps, I tried to absorb every word, every flick of her wrist as she added spices or stirred the broth. James, of course, took to it like he was born in the kitchen, while I mostly tried not to light anything on fire or accidentally julienne my fingers.
By the time we were plating, I was sweaty, flour-dusted, and maybe just a little more in awe of people who could do this professionally. After thirty minutes of trying not to burn my fingers, I stared down at my bowl, a far cry from Melody’s incredible creation. Next to me, James was putting the final garnish on his own dish that was a pretty much exact replica of what Melody had plated in front of her.
“How did you do that?” I asked, staring at the perfectly poached shrimp and chicken, perfectly fried shallots, and the rich yellow color of his broth. Even the handmade noodles were perfect. “Did you miss your calling?”
“I grew up rolling pizza dough at my family’s restaurant,” James teased as we carried our bowls to the table. We thanked Melody (probably a little too effusively on my part, given how long it took me to let go of her hand) and she left us to eat, just the two of us.
“You expertly managed to create a critically acclaimed dish, and you’re equating that to slinging pizza dough?” I asked as we took our seats.
“Hey, don’t let my Nonno hear you say that. Slinging pizza dough is an art form. Plus, I’m sure yours isn’t that bad,” James said, smiling as he quickly swapped our meals, taking my travesty and giving me his plate of perfection.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” I winced as James inspected my Chicken and Shrimp Laksa. As much as Melody had tried to guide me, the broth was the wrong color, the chicken and shrimp had been overcooked, and the fried shallots had come out more burnt than fried.
But James carefully spooned a bit of the suspiciously brown broth into his mouth, and I waited, my eyes fixed on his, for the expected grimace.
“Just needs some salt.”
“Oh, come on,” I said with a laugh. We both knew that the dish required significantly more than salt to be palatable. “You don’t have to eat that.”
James stuck a hand out, keeping his bowl firmly in front of me. “So, Hallie Woods, future restaurant critic ofSophisticate,review me. Tell me how I did.”
My heart did an annoying flip, which I promptly ignored. This wasn’t real. Not in the way it was starting to feel. This was about mutual benefit—an article for me, good press for his family’s restaurant. That was the deal. That’s all it was supposed to be.
But between the private cooking class with my favorite chef and the thoughtful way he kept handing me chances to shine, it was getting increasingly difficult to pretend I wasn’t swooning just a little.
I picked up my spoon, humoring him. The first sip hit like a revelation. The chicken and shrimp were juicy,the herbs were fresh, and the noodles were perfectly cooked.
“I really do think you missed your calling,” I said, moaning as I went in for another bite. “Split this with me.”
James was still attempting to eat my monstrous creation without flinching, bless his heart. I slid his bowl into the middle so we could share.
“In other words, a five-star review?” he teased, his signature smirk which I loathed playing on his lips.
“You’d get my most glowing review for this.” Little did he know, I didn’t just mean the dish in front of us.
15
James
“Tell me about your family.” Our fingers lightly brushed while we walked—a simple touch, yet it sent tiny goosebumps up my arm that I couldn’t ignore.
The energy between us seemed to intensify with every step we took. Every second that passed tonight made it harder to believe this was just an arrangement.
