Chapter 4 Taste Test
Taste Test
Hazel
There was not enough room in my kitchen for both me and Brok’s shoulders.
Technically, there was enough square footage. I’d designed the entire layout myself after buying the building, spending months perfecting the workflow stations. Every inch had a purpose. Every tool had a home.
But Brok didn’t operate according to normal physics. He occupied space the way a monument occupied a town square. Completely, unapologetically, as though he’d been there first and everything else had built up around him.
“You’re blocking the overhead light.” I nudged his hip with my elbow, trying to squeeze past him to reach the refrigerator. It achieved absolutely nothing except confirming that he was made of concrete. Wonderful. “I need to get the samples out.”
“I’ll get them.” He stepped directly into my path, cutting me off from my own refrigerator. “Where are they?”
Might as well. The man probably thought retrieving bakery boxes counted as cardio. And if you can’t beat them… “Bottom shelf. White boxes.”
I stepped back and watched him crouch down in a textbook-perfect squat.
Even getting desserts out of the fridge became a demonstration of proper form.
I wondered if he approached everything this seriously, or if it was just an occupational hazard.
Did he do squats even when he brushed his teeth in the morning?
It would explain his rather magnificent…
No, Hazel! Focus. Stop staring at the hot bodybuilder and focus on the job!
Brok straightened with all three boxes stacked in one massive hand. “Where do you want them?”
“Counter by the sink.” I gestured toward the marble workspace where I’d set everything up earlier.
Small plates, forks, water glasses, my professional tasting notes on a clipboard.
Everything ready for what I’d mentally dubbed Operation: Stealth Health.
The odds were not in my favor, but I’d managed to make Nana acknowledge my new life path.
One stubborn gym bro wouldn’t defeat me.
“Now, here’s how this works.” I picked up my clipboard and clicked my pen with what I hoped was businesslike authority.
“I’ve prepared three different options based on what you told me about Barnaby’s preferences and nutritional requirements.
You’ll taste each one, tell me what you think, and I’ll adjust from there.
This is a consultation, not a final menu. ”
“This is pointless.” Brok settled onto one of the stools, which creaked ominously under his weight. “Dessert is dessert. Can’t fix that.”
Oh, this was going to be delightful. I pulled out my clipboard and clicked my pen with more force than strictly necessary. “I offered to help. You agreed to let me try. How about we actually do that before you decide it’s impossible?”
“I only agreed because he won’t stop sneaking truffles.” His jaw set in that stubborn line I was beginning to recognize. The one that appeared right before he said something deliberately obtuse. “Discipline would work if he’d just—”
“Discipline wasn’t working,” I interrupted, keeping my expression pleasant despite wanting to hit him with my clipboard. “That’s literally why you’re in my kitchen right now instead of force-feeding him kale. So let’s start, shall we?”
Barnaby practically vibrated on the stool beside him, radiating the kind of nervous enthusiasm usually reserved for puppies meeting new people. His glasses kept sliding down his nose as he bounced. “I’m so excited! This is going to be amazing!”
Brok made a noncommittal grunt that suggested he entirely disagreed.
I opened the first box and revealed six small ramekins filled with mousse. I’d spent hours getting the texture exactly right. “Greek yogurt chocolate mousse. High protein, light enough to digest before cardio, and satisfying enough to curb a chocolate craving without sitting heavy in his stomach.”
I placed a ramekin in front of each of them along with clean spoons, then stepped back to watch the show.
Brok picked up his spoon the way someone might pick up a live snake. Cautiously. Reluctantly. With deep personal mistrust. He poked at the mousse experimentally, probably searching for evidence of poison or moral weakness.
Finally, he took the smallest possible bite. Microscopic, really. The kind of bite he expected to spit out immediately if it confirmed his worst suspicions about the fundamental wrongness of enjoying food.
I watched his pupils dilate slightly. The furrow appeared between his brows, deep and confused. He took another spoonful, this one larger, chewing with the kind of focused intensity most people reserved for solving complex mathematical equations.
Three spoonfuls later, he’d scraped the ramekin so clean it could go back in the cupboard unwashed.
Barnaby had already finished his and was clutching the empty container to his chest with tears streaming down his face. Actual tears. Over chocolate mousse. “That was incredible. That was actually incredible. Can I have more? Please? I’ll be so good, I promise—”
I’d have loved to agree, but today wasn’t solely about feeding Barnaby. It was about deciding what to feed him. “In a minute, Barnaby.” Turning toward Brok, I tapped my pen against my clipboard. “Well? Verdict?”
Brok set down his ramekin with almost exaggerated care. One second passed, then another. “It’s too good,” he said at last.
I blinked at him. Surely I’d misheard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Too good.” He nodded to himself, visibly satisfied with his own logic. “Tastes too good. He’ll want it all the time. That’s indulgence, not discipline.”
My mouth actually fell open slightly. The man had just rejected a perfectly healthy dessert for the crime of being delicious. “You’re saying no because he’ll want to eat it?”
“I’m saying no because he needs control.” He crossed his arms, somehow managing to look even more immovable than before. “Not rewards for bad behavior.”
Barnaby looked between us with growing anxiety, his earlier excitement dimming. “If I eat more of that, you’ll make me run laps for an hour, won’t you?”
“I won’t make you run laps at all, Barnaby,” Brok said, “because you won’t be eating it.”
The man was serious. Completely, genuinely serious about rejecting food for having the audacity to taste good. I gripped my pen harder to keep from throwing it at his stubborn head. “Moving on, then.”
The second box contained six small glass jars filled with chocolate pudding, each one topped with a perfect swirl that had taken me three attempts to get right.
I’d soaked chia seeds in almond milk and cocoa powder overnight, creating something that looked deceptively innocent.
“Try this one. Let’s see if it’s more to your taste. ”
I placed a jar in front of each of them and watched Brok eye it with immediate suspicion. Barnaby snapped out of his temporary discouragement and dug in. He still seemed enthusiastic despite his brother’s dire predictions about the fundamental wrongness of enjoying dessert.
Then it happened. Pure confusion gave way to surprise, which rapidly evolved into dawning horror, and finally settled on complete betrayal.
“It’s crunchy?” He poked at the pudding with his spoon, nose wrinkling behind his glasses.
“But also slimy? How is it both at the same time? That shouldn’t be possible. ”
Brok took his bite and immediately grabbed for a napkin. He spat the chia seeds into it, then threw the napkin aside with a disgust that would have made Nana proud. “That texture is wrong. What the hell is in that?”
“Chia seeds,” I replied. A part of me couldn’t help but feel pettily amused at his reaction. “They’re a superfood. Omega-3s, fiber, complete protein.”
“I don’t care if they cure cancer.” Brok still looked genuinely disturbed by the experience, like the chia pudding had personally wronged him. “That shouldn’t exist in nature.”
Barnaby shot me a sheepish smile but pushed his jar away with one finger. “It is a little… much. Sorry, Hazel.”
“No need. All information is useful information. Besides, most people have that kind of response to chia. They either hate it or sing its praises.”
Also, it was nice to see that at least they agreed on something. It felt a little like we were going in the right direction. “Now, for option three.”
I grabbed the final box and opened it to reveal rows of small, perfectly round spheres dusted in dark cacao.
They looked almost too good to eat, which was exactly the point.
Visual appeal mattered, especially when trying to convince a stubborn bodybuilder that healthy dessert could actually exist. “Protein bites. Oats, almond butter, protein powder, cacao. These give you an energy boost about thirty minutes before training without weighing you down or causing any texture-based existential crises.”
I placed two on each of their plates and stepped back, crossing my arms. “Go ahead. Find something wrong with these.”
Brok picked one up slowly, examining it from every conceivable angle like he was quality-checking precision equipment.
He sniffed it. He squeezed it gently between his fingers, testing the density.
He was stalling, I realized. Searching for some visible flaw that would let him reject these before even tasting them.
“Just try it,” I said, my patience officially exhausted for the day.
He bit into it.
Complete stillness descended over the kitchen. He stopped moving entirely, stopped breathing. He just sat there frozen with a protein bite in his mouth.
He chewed slowly, then very deliberately swallowed. When he reached for the second one, he ate it faster than he had the first.