He grinned at her and then
murmured, “Pleased to know you're concerned about my manhood, love.”
“Just drink,” she ordered, rolling her eyes.
It was the right combination of tart and sweet. Despite the off-putting color, he found himself finishing it. “Another good one,” he said as he scribbled notes. Maybe pork medallions with a raspberry coulis.
And so it continued on down the line. When they'd gotten to the last drink, he sipped and then said, “This needs citrus. Maybe a squeeze of orange?”
She narrowed her eyes, took the glass from him and sipped. “Dammit. You're right. Let me grab some.”
He watched as she slid off the stool, groaned and then wandered around the bar. A moment later she produced a small orange wedge and then came back around the bar. It was then that he spotted the slippers. He'd been right.
“Nice bunny slippers,” he said as he watched her squeeze the wedge into the glass.
She kicked a heel up, grinned, and then said, “I thought they went well with my work ensemble.”
He nodded and sipped the drink again. “Mm. That helped. This is really lovely.” Then he passed the glass to her.
She studied him for a moment and then took a sip, her eyes never leaving his face. Then she set the glass down, considered for a moment then grudgingly admitted, “The orange makes it better.”
“It does,” he agreed, writing furiously. “Orange glazed salmon would be nice with this. I think I've got enough to work with now. We can reconvene in a few days and you can sample the food.”
“Sounds good,” she said, sliding off the stool. “I can't wait to get out of here. I've got some Easy Mac and a hot bath with my name on it.”
He blinked at her, horrified.
“What,” she asked, alarmed.
“You said Easy Mac! That stuff is vile. Jesus. Come to the kitchen with me. I've got leftover from tonight's service.”
“Simmer down, Judgy McJudgerson. I'm fine with my microwave meal.”
“I swear to god. I'm going to pick you up and carry you to the kitchen if you don't come with me.”
“Whatever. My feet hurt. Be my guest,” she said, smirking at him from behind the bar. Clearly she thought he was bluffing.
He watched her wash the last glass and then said, “You're tying my hands here. I'm going to physically carry you to the kitchen if I have to. I have mushroom ravioli with smoked Gouda. It's a cheese sauce but not neon yellow.”
“Fine, fine. Christ. I'll come peacefully if you just stop nagging me. You sound like my mother.”
“Can't help it. You talked about a microwave meal and my heart broke a little. That's not food, love.”
He heard her following behind him as they cut through the dining room. She said, “You really don't have to feed me. I'll be fine on my own.”
“No. You clearly can't be trusted,” he accused.
“My feet hurt and I want to go home. You're killing me, here,” she complained.
“If you don't stop bitching, I swear to god I'm going to toss you over my shoulder. You're not eating microwave crap, Caroline. That's awful stuff. Filled with all kinds of chemicals and unnatural garbage.”
“Jesus. Who are you? Jamie fucking Oliver?”
“I'd like to think I'm better looking,” he admitted as they walked through the swinging doors.
“That may be the case, but I bet he's not entirely crazy,” Caroline complained.
“But you still think I'm more attractive,” he asked, grinning.