This steak was buttery soft with a satisfying crust at the edge. Some steaks taste iron-heavy, but this one was smoky without much of the metallic flavor. “Pan searing in cast iron, then finishing in the oven?”
Emma nodded, and I resisted pumping my fist into the air. “At home, that’s a good method. And what I was going to have you do. But that would be too resource-heavy here. So, what do they do here? And how did they season it?”
What the hell? I thought I’d be learning techniques, not working on cooking theory. Clearly, I didn’t have all the answersand that spoke to my gap in education. I decided to answer half of her question. “Doesn’t taste like real butter. Butter-flavored oil?”
“Good. And?”
I took another bite from the edge of the filet, trying to get as much seasoning as I could. “Sugar. Seasoning salt. Tellicherry pepper, medium grind.”
She chuckled. “Very specific. And what else?”
I pressed the bite to the roof of my mouth. “Garlic, onion . . . chili?”
“Just missing one.”
I licked my lips to look for any clues, and Emma tracked the movement. “Paprika?”
“A plus, Royce. But you still haven’t answered how they cook it. How do they get it tender?”
“Grill? Like cooktop, then instead of the oven, grill?”
Emma leaned across the table, hand up for a high five. I gladly slapped it. “Great work, Chef. Now identify the cut for extra credit.”
I speared a bite of mac and cheese and smirked. “What do I get for being such a good student?”
Emma shot me a look, then her face contorted. “Fuck.”
I could have made a joke that she was going to fuck me for being a good student, but she was clearly in pain. “You okay?” My question felt silly, since she obviously wasn’t okay.
“Fine,” she gritted out, a hand shooting to the middle of her back.
“Your back hurts? You can get in the hot tub when we get back to my place.”
Her eyes squeezed shut as she continued to ride out the pain. “I don’t need to go skinny-dipping in your hot tub.”
I suppressed a laugh. “I’m not worried about what you’re wearing. I’m worried about your back. How did you hurt it anyway?”
She shook her head. Guess I wasn’t getting that answer. I hated being helpless while she writhed in obvious pain. “Should I get our check?” I stuck a finger out and looked around for our server. “Will riding the bike hurt it? I can leave the bike here and order us a ride home.”
A soft hand landed on mine on the table. I was suddenly very aware of my heartbeat, the way it sped up and felt erratic, like it was starting and stopping over and over again. I turned my hand over so she could squeeze my fingers.
Those big brown eyes met mine, and in that moment, I saw the truth. “Is this since the bus?”
Emma’s jaw clenched and her gaze fell to our joined hands. She chewed her lip and sat back, taking her hand away from mine. “It’s starting to pass. I don’t know why I did that. Sorry.”
My hand felt cold without hers, and I ached to touch her again. “It’s okay.”
Emma refused to look at me. The accident was the source of her pain, but she wasn’t going to talk about it. Now she could add emotional discomfort to her physical discomfort. If she wouldn’t let me alleviate her physical pain, I could do something about the emotional pain.
“I mean, I did suck your fingers, after all. That’s a little worse than grabbing my hand.”
Her ensuing snort and twinkling laughter had me feeling like I won the lottery: rich, overwhelmed, and like my life would never be the same.
ELEVEN
EMMA
FEBRUARY