Page 118 of Cerulean Truth
“I’ll sear it in this.” I gestured to my trusty steak pan.
She watched my actions with suspicion, and it almost amused me to see how low her expectations of my cooking-skills were.
“Will you be sticking with Scotch or would you like a glass of red to accompany that?” I asked politely, while we waited for the oven to work its magic.
She blinked, as if my politeness were a capital offense.
“I’ll stick with the Scotch, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t.”
Scotch and steak. Finally, we had something in common.
I refilled our glasses and observed as she perched on the counter, still eyeing me as if I were preparing to cook her fried squirrels.
"You know, you seem to have some trust issues," I remarked dryly.
She snorted. "You would know, being the expert on them."
Touché.
"I'm the expert on many things," I replied with a wink.
"Like on how to be an ass? Yeah, you've got that down to a science," she retorted swiftly, her tone carrying a playful edge.
"An ass who's cooking you dinner, I might add."
“Which is honestly, the least you could do, considering you went all caveman on mine.”
I rolled my eyes. “Fine. I went all caveman on your ass, and now I’m making you steak. Can we call it even?”
Emma smiled as she slid of the counter. Then, she almost gave me a heart attack when she replied, “Keep feeding me Scotch and steak, and you’ve got it.”
I tried to keep the shock from showing on my face. Holy shit. An actual truce between Emma and myself. People were probably skiing in hell right about now.
As if on cue, I retrieved the steaks from the oven and seasoned them with a sprinkle of salt and pepper, ensuring both sides kissed by the perfect amount of flavor. With precision, I seared them on both sides, finalizing the dish with the expected but unmatched finesse.
“I had no idea you could cook,” Emma remarked, her tone tinged with surprise and perhaps even a hint of admiration.
There was a twinkle in her eyes as she took her place at the bar, clearly expecting to be served. I bit back a snarky comment, reminding myself of our truce.
Shrugging, I replied, “I don’t really. I just know how to make my favorite dish.”
A small smile played on Emma’s lips as she responded softly, "It’s my favorite too."
I set up the bar, grabbed a stool beside her, and served up our amazingly well-prepared steaks. Watching her take that first bite, I couldn’t help but study her expression, which went from utter surprise to fucking delight in a second.
She moaned as she put the second piece of meat in her mouth and I wanted to strangle every man that ever heard her make that sound.
“Holy s…” she almost cursed. “This is amazing! This meat is literally melting in my mouth.”
I grinned, stupidly proud of myself and yearning for more compliments from her.
However, in a completely unexpected turn, she ate the rest of her meal in total silence. Which stunned me even more than our declaration of peace. Up until then, I hadn’t known her to be quiet for more than a minute.
Clearly, all it took was some good food.
By the time she polished off her plate, her mood had done a complete one-eighty since our arrival, and she was practically giddy.
