Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Finn had the compote idea on Thursday.
He started developing the Cherokee Purple compote for the menu the same day.
A reduced component whose sweetness would be concentrated with a small amount of local honey and a single sprig of thyme.
Even though he'd compromised with Ivy's brown butter in their shared recipe, he couldn't work with it on his own.
He'd made three test batches, and on the third one he'd gotten it right.
The compote wanted a fat base beneath it and something caramelized and salty that cut richness, and those were not the flavor conditions of his menu. Those were the flavor conditions of Ivy's.
On Saturday he arrived at the rally at five and noticed within twenty minutes that Ivy's display had something new: small cards tucked beside three of the items that read, in her market handwriting, featuring Cherokee Purple from Boots Ivy's fingers in his, the way they fit without hesitation, as if she’d already decided this was how it would be.
Like he had no say in it. Or like he’d already said yes.
He took the next step. The burn was still there. But it faded. Her hand in his. That was all he could feel. So he held on.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yes."
He had a small spoon and a jar of the compote, and he talked about the Cherokee Purple's flavor profile. The crowd listened with the attention of people who were there for the food and also there for the thing they expected to happen between him and Ivy.
Ivy cut a small piece of the blondie. She put it on a napkin. She held it out. She was not going to feed it to him. That was not what was happening. She was handing him a piece of blondie on a napkin. He didn't take it from her.
Once again, they spoke in that unspoken shared language of theirs. Ivy understood what he wanted. She took the treat from the napkin. Held it pinched between her index and thumb. He lifted it to his mouth.
He ate it.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't snag a taste of her fingers. He savored that more than he did the flour and sugar and compote.
"It's good."
He meant it's extraordinary. He meant that she was extraordinary.
He meant that he couldn't stop thinking about her, even though it was possible she was going to leave after they won this competition.
He meant that he wanted her to ask her on a real date.
One not in front of the camera. One that wasn't performance.
One that was in a kitchen where they played in cookbooks and mixed ingredients and didn't use utensils when it was time to taste-test.
Instead, he said those two words.
Ivy laughed. Not the professional laugh, not the performance laugh. It was a genuine sound of delight; the sudden kind, the one that got out before she could organize it, full and real and slightly surprised. Like she'd expected something and gotten something else entirely.
The crowd ate it up. That, more than anything, told Finn they were going to win. So why did it feel like he was on the verge of losing it all?