one, seemed to have twice as much garlic as the first. Inconsistency was a bad sign.
“I know.” She looked at the food on her plate and her dimples disappeared. “Good. Not magic.”
She felt it, too. Something was missing. “I enjoyed it. Why didn’t you make your signature dish?”
“My chicken cacciatore?”
“Hell, yes. I had it in New York. It was seriously one of the best dishes I’ve ever tasted.” If she’d made it for him, she would’ve been a shoo-in for the job and yet she went with seafood? She didn’t know how risky that was.
“I created that dish for Alfieri’s. I won’t make it anymore.”
“Why not? It was fantastic.”
“I’m sorry... I just...can’t.” Her voice choked and she gulped the rest of her wine.
Was it his imagination, or had her cheeks gone pale? Wait. Were those tears in her eyes?
What the hell had he said?
“Miss Cox, is there something wrong?”
She put her glass down and looked him in the eye. “It’s nothing. Thank you for being so kind. I’m not used to it.”
No one had ever called him kind before. “I’m honest.”
She waved her hand over the table. “The candles? Sharing your food? Your wine? It’s a sweet thing to do when we both know I’m not getting the job.”
That gave him pause. Why was she trying to talk herself out of the position? “Have you changed your mind?”
“No! I desperately need...” She pressed her lips together, cutting off her thoughts. “I want to work for Harper Industries. I really do. I’m just...this is embarrassing. I didn’t cook an award-winner tonight. I’m not sure I know how to anymore.”
He couldn’t fathom why, but his senses told him that whatever she was hiding scared her. Was she in trouble? “You’re selling yourself short.”
“No, I’m not.” She bit her lip. Was it quivering?
Was she that sensitive about her food? Chefs needed to be creative and strong, bold and thick-skinned. Tears in the kitchen wouldn’t work.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll clean up the dishes for the next contestant.” She reached for his plate.
He stopped her by putting his hand on hers. “Miss Cox? What do you desperately need?”
She froze. Her expression seemed serious and troubled as if the answer was the key to everything. “To find what I lost so I can take care of my sister.”
What the hell did that mean?
As he tried to decipher her words, she pulled her hand back and reoffered it as a handshake, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Harper. I wish you luck in finding the perfect chef. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”
Shaking her soft, delicate hand produced a stab of disappointment. He said nothing. He couldn’t. She had the right to walk away from the job; people walked away all the time.
So why did it feel like she’d just quit him?
He watched her leave and drank his wine. Alone.
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