Billionaire's Baby Contract (Hawthorne Brothers 1)

“Please dig in,” Ethan urges. “It tastes even better than it smells, I promise.”

I scoop out some of the broth and lift my spoon to my lips. The moment I taste the soup, my palate starts to sing. Every component just comes together like an orchestra of flavors inside my mouth. Ethan’s right. It does taste even better.

I eat another spoonful before giving him my feedback. “This is very good.”

He picks up his own spoon. “I’m glad you like it.”

I want to say more, but I just can’t help but keep eating. I almost want to take that bowl in my hands and pour that gorgeous broth down my throat. Even without doing so, I finish the dish sooner than I thought, which is a tad disappointing because I feel like I could eat ten more bowls. It’s that good.

“I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything quite like that,” I say as I dab my lips with the table napkin. “Is this what you eat all the time?”

“Not all the time,” Ethan answers. “But it’s one of my favorites. The chef who designed this, he was serving his food in a small hut when I first met him. Now he has an empire not just all over Asia but all over Europe, too.”

“And he’s here?” I ask with arched eyebrows.

“No. He hates flying. But the chef who cooked for us this evening trained under him, among many others. He’s very skillful.”

I put my hands up. “No need to convince me. If the next dish is as good as this, I’ll be very happy.”

Ethan grins. “I think you will be.”

Moments later, the second course arrives – a pair of pot stickers with a bit of salad on the side and a dark dipping sauce. The moment I see it, my chest tightens. I grip it as I draw a deep breath.

“Is something wrong?” Ethan asks me.

I shake my head but fail to conceal my emotions. “It’s just that this is one of the things my mom used to make. She liked working with flour, so she made a lot of pasta, pies, dumplings.”

And pot stickers were her go-to dish when she didn’t have a lot of time to cook, which happened quite often when she started working again. No matter how tired she was, she would always cook for Dad and me, and no matter how quickly she made the pot stickers, they always tasted delicious.

“God, I miss her,” I whisper as I fight back tears.

To my surprise, Ethan places his hand over mine.

“I’m sorry.”

Two words, and yet the kindness in them frees the tears from the corners of my eyes. I lift my hand to wipe them away.

“Thank you. And I’m so sorry I’m acting like a mess.”

What am I doing? Didn’t I say I was going to remain composed in front of him? He must think I’m a big baby now.

“It’s fine,” Ethan says.

“No, it’s not,” I tell him as I gather my emotions. “We’re eating and I’m ruining your appetite.”

“You’re not,” he assures me. “Believe me, I’m still hungry.”

“Then shall we eat?”

I grab the pair of chopsticks above the plate and pick up one of the pot stickers. I take a bite and the flavors from the juicy pork filling explode on my tongue.

I clasp a hand over my mouth. “Oh my God.”

“As good as your mother’s?” Ethan asks before eating a whole pot sticker.

“Almost,” I answer before finishing the other half of mine. “But this is still damned good.”

“It is,” Ethan agrees.

We eat our other dumpling in silence, then reach for our glasses of wine. The acidity in the Sauvignon Blanc washes away the lingering flavor of chili in my mouth.

On to the next course – crispy duck breast with a creamy vegetable puree. This one looks more like a Western dish but still has the comforting Asian flavors in the perfectly cooked duck. Yum.

“Duck was my mother’s favorite food,” Ethan tells me.

My eyebrows go up. “Really?”

He nods.

I pause in the middle of cutting another piece of duck. Wait a second. He said “was,” right?

“My mother’s gone, too,” Ethan says. “She died when I was twelve.”

Twelve? And here I thought I lost my mother too early.

I put my utensils down. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

I somehow knew Mrs. Hawthorne was no longer around, but I never thought she left Ethan when he was still so young.

“How old were you when your mother passed away?” he asks.

“It happened just three years ago,” I answer as I pick up my knife. “And my father died two years before that.”

“So it’s just you now?”

I nod.

“No siblings?”

I shake my head.

“No roommate?”

I shake my head again. “I’ve heard too many roommate horror stories.”

“What about a cat or a dog?”

“I used to have a dog,” I say. “But I don’t have time to take care of one now. I’d just feel sorry for it. I was thinking of getting a cat one time, but I guess I didn’t have the time for it, either.”