A Date with a Foodie (The Dating 7)

“Because you used to be a screamer and while I love the deep throaty moans you give me, I think you’re holding back because you’re afraid people will hear you.” I push her hair to the side and kiss the nape of her neck. “I want to hear you say, ‘Oh, god fuck me harder, Adam.’”

Maddy turns, her cheeks red as tomatoes. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“No… yes… I…”

“What is it, Maddy?”

“You bring that out in me,” she says. I take a step back.

“Do you mean to tell me your sex life has been lackluster?”

She shrugs. “It’s more like I respond better to you. It’s like—”

“We were meant for each other.”

Maddy rolls her eyes and dips her head until he rests on my torso and sighs. When she looks at me, her eyes dart back and forth. “You say things I’ve never heard any man say before.”

“It’s because I know what I want, Maddy, and that’s you.” Her phone rings, breaking the bubble we’re in. “You should get that. I’ll get dressed so we can get downtown.” I kiss her on her nose and leave her to answer her call. When I come out of the bathroom, she’s pacing.

“Everything okay?”

She nods. “I’m just nervous. I should be down there, making sure the pulled pork is right.”

“It’s just a contest,” I remind her.

“It’s not just that. August Cahill is in town, he’s reviewed one restaurant—not favorably—I might add and now he’s downtown, judging this contest. My stomach is in knots.”

“He’s just a food critic, Maddy. You can’t let his words get to you.”

Maddy scoffs. “Easy for you to say.”

She’s right, it is easy for me to say. I’ve learned from experience to not add fuel to the fire. I grab my things and gesture for her to head to the door. I hold her hand to the elevator, pull her close when we are inside and kiss her softly, hoping to ease her tension. When we exit the hotel, we only have a couple blocks to walk until we are at the festival.

It seems as soon as she crosses the imaginary threshold, her anxiety eases. She’s in her element and making a beeline toward the tent where the pulled pork contest is being held. While she goes to her spot, I watch her face as she samples her concoction.

“Good?” I ask her.

She nods and the relief is clear on her face.

“Come with me.” I motion for her to follow me. When we are out of the ear shot of her employees, I cup her cheeks. “Please stop stressing. I don’t like to see you worried.”

“I can’t help it.”

“I know, it’s nature. But trust me, okay. Please.”

She nods. I know my words are easy to say, but I really want her to stop stressing about something she has no control over.

We walk to the beginning of the tent and stop at the first table. Each sample is in a small paper cup, just a bite size. The both of us pick up a cup and taste the sample, and with each one we try, I ask her what she thinks is missing, what is good about it, and if there is anything she’d change.

When we arrive at her table, she doesn’t take her own but watches me with rapt attention to see what my response is going to be. I keep my face neutral. I don’t want things going to her head. Everything I’ve tasted from her kitchen has been perfect.

“Well?”

“Well what?” I ask as we go to the next station.

She pushes my shoulder and groans. “What did you think?”

I shrug. “It’s good.”

“Just good?”

I nod and avoid eye contact with her knowing that if I look at her, I’ll crack.

“You’re unbelievable.” Only she doesn’t mean it because she’s laughing.

We finally come to the end, just as an emcee steps onto the stage. People gather around, mostly restaurant owners or their chefs to hear the news.

“How is everyone loving a Taste of Chicago this year?”

People clap.

“And how about this pulled pork contest. I don’t know about you, but I am full.” The emcee rubs her belly and laughs. “So, as you know we invited the elusive foodie, August Cahill, to judge our pulled pork contest, and as you know, he accepted. If you remember correctly, when you paid your table fee, we had you sign a form, telling you that no photography will be allowed. This is part of the agreement we made with August and we request that you comply when he comes on stage to announce the winner.”

Maddy looks around, watching for August. Her hands wring together in nervousness.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, showing her my phone and setting it to my ear. I walk through the opening between the stage and last table, turn around toward the steps that lead to the stage and take a deep breath.