I gaze back, the ball still held between my fingers.
For a split second, time freezes. I feel stuck, unable to move, pinned under the weight of his intensity and his attention. He watches me like a boxer watches his opponent: wary but ready, practically begging me to take my next swing.
I blink. Then my heart kickstarts. The moment is over.
I bite into the fried ball, my teeth crunching through the outer layer and sinking into the middle, savory flavors flooding my mouth as my eyes go wide.
It’s good. Really good. So good that for a second I forget where I am or who I’m with.
“Mmgaw,” I say. “Thishi mazin.”
Something like relief flickers across his face and then it’s gone, replaced by his usual half-hitched smile.
“Told you so,” he says.
I don’t bother arguing. The ball is crunchy on the outside and chewy in the middle, light and fluffy and bursting with flavor all at once with notes of lemon, garlic, thyme, and a dozen other things I can’t even name. Plus, the center is filled with perfectly melty mozzarella, pulling from my mouth to the other half of the ball, still in my hand.
I shove the rest into my mouth before I finished chewing the first half. I can’t stop myself. I want a dozen more.
“What are these?” I ask, swallowing and taking another one off the plate.
“Better than mac and cheese balls,” he says.
I just chew, swallow, take the third one one off the plate, and wait for him to answer my question.
“They’re called arancini,” he says, pronouncing it errran-cheenee. “They’re Italian. Sicilian, I think. It’s mozzarella in the middle of a ball of risotto, covered in breadcrumbs and deep fried.”
“So, basically a mac and cheese ball,” I say, biting and chewing. I manage not to moan.
Eli snorts.
“They’re nothing like mac and cheese balls,” he says. “There’s no mac. Completely different.”
“Please, they’ve got all the same stuff,” I go on, contemplating the half still in my hand. “Cheese, carbs, they’re fried…”
“Except mac and cheese balls are bad, and these are good,” he points out. “Porsches and Chevys have all the same parts, too, and you’d never call those the same.”
“They’re both cars. They’d both get me to work and back.”
“You might not notice a difference, but I wouldn’t show up in Monaco with a Tahoe.”
I chew. I was on my third, contemplating the fourth, but I need to save it.
“You still have to make mac and cheese balls for the wedding,” I tell him.
He shifts his stance, his body tensing into a fight mode. Despite the years since high school, I’d know Eli Loveless’s fighting stance anywhere.
“That thing is ten times better than some gummy, overworked and undercooked monstrosity of Americana and you know it,” he says, eyes flashing.
“It’s good,” I saidy, shrugging. “But it’s not on the menu.”
“So change the menu.”
“Menu’s not up to me,” I say. “It’s up to the bride and groom who, I’m sure I told you this before, decided on it months ago and aren’t even here to approve changes.”
“When do they get in?”
“The menu’s done.”
“When?”
Eli is quiet, intense, and he’s still standing tall and rock-solid in the middle of my office, not giving an inch. Not that I’d expect him to. As far as I know, the man’s never backed down from an argument in his life.
“They’re not interested in last-minute menu changes,” I finally say.
“Are you this sure about what everyone wants?”
Hell no.
“You’re acting like I haven’t been doing this for years already,” I say, finally in danger of losing my cool. “People don’t want to worry about picking appetizers the day before their wedding. Just make the mac and cheese balls. You’re not going to ruin your reputation or whatever it is you keep going on about. Sometimes people like bad things, just let them be happy.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to make bad things for them,” he says, uncrossing his arms.
“For fuck’s sake, it’s one appetizer.”
“Just tell me when they get in.”
I take a deep breath, my spine ramrod-straight, and remind myself that it’s a reasonable question from a coworker.
“Friday morning. They’re driving down from D.C.,” I say.
“Was that so hard?”
I resist the urge to throw a pen at his head, even though he’s being a dick.
“Don’t fuck this up,” I tell him instead.
One eyebrow twitches.
“By trading out appetizers?” he says.
“By doing something flashy and dumb to prove to everyone that you’re some amazing chef even though you’re running the catering kitchen at a wedding venue,” I tell him. “If you fuck something up and it comes back on me, Eli, I swear I’ll —”
Eli snags the plate off my desk, one fried ball still on it.
“ — hey!”
Still smirking, he pops it into his mouth whole.
“No promises,” he says, turns, and leaves my office. I jump to my feet, leaning forward on my desk.