27. Tori
TORI
They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.
If that was true, then everything was going exactly according to plan.
Things had felt different after Stefan and I returned from New York.
It was hard to pinpoint precisely what had shifted for him, but it was indisputable.
He still worked late hours, but now he made an effort to be home early enough that we could have dinner together.
We’d sit in the living room or on the couch, chatting about our days (I always talked more, but that was par for the course and neither of us seemed to mind the dynamic) while Gretna served us one of her gourmet meals.
I paid attention to which dishes Stefan responded to most, planning to surprise him with my own home-cooked meal.
And now, the culmination of all my efforts was simmering deliciously right in front of me.
I’d pulled Gretna aside a week ago and asked her, “What’s a fancy dinner you can make for someone, that’s also not too hard to prepare?”
She looked me up and down. “Are you cooking for Mr. Zoric?”
I blushed. “I’d like to. And I’d give you the night off, of course. But I don’t have a lot of experience, and I want him to be impressed. Really impressed. What can I do?”
Gretna tilted her head, glanced around the kitchen, and nodded. “Risotto. It tastes like a million bucks but it’s just an elaborate preparation of rice. Everybody can make rice.”
Smiling, I said, “That sounds perfect. I know he loves seafood—can I put something like that in there, too? Or will that make it too complicated?”
“It’s not complicated,” she said. “But which seafood are we talking?”
I thought about Stefan’s preferences. “How about scallops? And shrimp? Maybe some clams or mussels?”
Grinning, Gretna nodded again. “Clams and mussels are easy—they open up their shells when they are ready. The scallops are a little more delicate, but we can practice.”
“You’d do that for me?” I was overjoyed.
“Of course. I’d never forgive myself if I left you to overcook a scallop. They get chewy. Tastes like rubber. A perfect scallop will melt in the mouth.”
I decided I’d sear the scallops and serve them beside the risotto, and then chose asparagus with poached eggs as the side.
Gretna gave me scallop-searing lessons for the whole week leading up to Stefan’s surprise.
I was shocked to find that it was easier than I’d expected—just a quick few minutes to cook each side—and that I was enjoying myself.
Learning to poach eggs was a different story.
I struggled time and time again, ruining countless eggs by turning them into disintegrating, inedible blobs.
“I just can’t get it right,” I’d told Gretna on Thursday evening. “I’m following the directions exactly. But every time I pull them out of the water, they fall apart.”
“It takes a lot of trial and error to poach an egg,” she said sagely. “Some people never master it.”
I frowned. “Is there anything else I can do? What if I fry them instead? I can fry eggs.”
“Of course you can.” Gretna brightened. “I should have thought of it myself. It will still be an elegant presentation. And he will love it.”
I took her words to heart and tried to convince myself to relax.
And now here I was, standing in the kitchen in a cute apron I’d picked up from a boutique near campus, a gorgeous pan of buttery seared scallops sitting on the stove beside my bubbling risotto.
The asparagus was in the broiler, almost finished, and my fried eggs and parmesan were waiting to become garnish.
I was sweating, and high on adrenaline, but I couldn’t wait for Stefan to get home.
I just hoped he wouldn’t walk into the kitchen and see the disaster I’d wrought.
The counters were covered in bits of parsley and lemon juice, spilled salt and pepper sprinkled left and right, grains of rice on the floor and shrimp shells in the sink.
Not to mention the dirty measuring cups and spoons and pans everywhere. I’d clean it up later.
Untying my apron, I dashed upstairs to change.
I hadn’t wanted to risk setting a sleeve on fire or splashing oil or clam juice on my silk dress, but I realized when I got to the closet that I was still covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
This would not do. I jumped in the shower to soap up and rinse off, then dried quickly and slipped the dress on.
But looking in the mirror, I saw that my mascara had run, my face was shiny, and my hair was a limp wreck.
I touched up my makeup and tousled my hair under the hairdryer, then put on the teardrop diamond necklace from Stefan.
Heels seemed like overkill for a dinner at home, but I still tried on a few pairs before finally settling on bare feet. I didn’t want to scuff the floors.
Stefan was going to be so floored when he saw what I’d done for him—when he tasted what I’d done for him.
He’d walk in, tired out from his long day at work, and come to find me in the kitchen in my sexy little dress, just about to put the finishing touches on the plates with sprigs of parsley and lemon wedges.
One thing was certain: Gretna deserved a fat bonus for all her help and guidance.
I couldn’t believe I’d actually pulled this off.
I had just given myself a last look in the mirror when I heard a shrill beeping sound. That’s when the smell hit me. Something was burning. Fuck.
I rushed to the kitchen amid the screeching of the smoke alarm and found smoke pouring from the oven.
The asparagus! It had only needed three minutes to broil, and I’d left it for—at least twenty minutes, maybe thirty.
I turned off the oven and flung the windows open to let the smoke out, breathing hard as the cold November air poured in all around me.
“What is this?” Stefan asked.
I whirled around. I hadn’t even heard him walk through the door.
“Um,” I stammered. “Hi. I made you dinner.”
“Is that what this is?” He looked around at the mess, the haze of smoke, the pans on the stove. The alarm continued to beep. Stefan got a chair and climbed on it to disable the alarm. The beeping finally stopped.
The whole kitchen smelled like burnt asparagus. I knew when I opened the oven door, they’d look like sticks of charcoal. But at least the risotto was okay.
I rushed over to the pot and pulled the lid off, waving my hand over it with a flourish.
“It’s seafood risotto,” I told him proudly. “We can just skip the veggies tonight.”
I dipped the serving spoon into the pot to show off, but it stuck fast into what had turned into a gluey brick of rice and bivalves. My heart sank as I realized I’d left the burner on the simmer setting for the last half hour. It was ruined. “Oh no.”
I nearly deflated right there. In my efforts to do something nice, I had basically destroyed our entire kitchen and almost set the place on fire. Stefan was probably furious right now.
Why had I tried to make a big, fancy dinner when I could barely make myself toast?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I wanted to do something nice for you—I’ll clean all of this up.”
My eyes stung with tears. I was upset that I’d ruined dinner, but more than that I was humiliated that he’d come home to find me like this. I was a total failure.
I looked up and saw the slightest hint of a curve at the corner of his mouth. Elmosolyodik. “Are you laughing at me?” I croaked.
“Shh,” he said, reaching out toward me. “Come here.” He pulled me against his chest.
“This is so embarrassing,” I moaned, covering my face with my hands.
“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about.
You know what you’ve made, Tori? The world’s most perfect appetizer.
” He led me over to the scallops sitting on the stove, speared one out of the pan, and popped it into his mouth.
As he chewed, I could see the gratification in his eyes.
“This is flawless,” he said after swallowing. “You’re a pro.”
He turned me to face him and traced the curve of my cheek with his palm.
“You look nice,” he said. There was heat in his eyes, and that smile still teased his lips.
“Thank you,” I murmured.
“I’m going to make a call right now and have someone come in to straighten up in here,” he said, gesturing at the destroyed kitchen. “You, get your coat. I’m taking you out.”
I bundled up and we got in the Town Car.
I still felt bad that I’d botched what was supposed to be a romantic gift to Stefan, but at least he seemed charmed by my complete and utter lack of culinary skills.
When I heard Stefan tell the driver where to go, I was pretty sure that I had heard him wrong.
I turned to him. “That restaurant has a waiting list six months long. We’ll never get in.”
He shrugged. “I know the Executive Chef.”
I sat back, still worried. There was no way we’d get in on a Friday night during the dinner rush. I could only hope that Stefan had a back-up plan when we got turned away.
But when we arrived at the restaurant, there was a hostess waiting out at the curb for us. We were escorted inside and shown immediately to a table.
“Did you think we wouldn’t get in, kitty cat?” Stefan teased as we sat down.
I could only nod, trying to take everything in.
The restaurant itself was fairly unassuming for a place that people were clamoring to eat at.
It had a quiet, rustic vibe, with live edge wood tables and industrial fixtures.
There was no menu, either—everything was prix fixe, like our meal at Atera in New York had been.
Based on that experience, I couldn’t wait to see what kind of courses would be brought out for us.
While we waited, the waiter brought us a bottle of champagne.
“Are we celebrating something?” I asked Stefan.
“Just a night out,” he said. “You can have a small glass.”
I nodded, sipping at the drink and trying not to feel too dejected about the dinner I’d ruined. As excited as I was to be here, we’d only gone out because I’d made something inedible.
“What is it?” he asked, noticing my silence.
“I wanted dinner to be a gift to you,” I confessed to him. “I wanted to impress you. And now you’re taking me out.”
Stefan’s glass of champagne stilled just before it reached his mouth. He paused, took a sip and then lowered it.
“You do impress me,” he said. “And you don’t have to be the perfect housewife to do it.
My mother couldn’t cook either. She loved food, she appreciated food—but there were other things that mattered more to her than spending hours in the kitchen each day.
Sounds like someone else I know.” He grinned.
“Don’t knock yourself if your talents lie elsewhere.
And I’m not just talking about your schoolwork. ”
I felt my cheeks heat, my heart leaping in my chest. When I looked back up at him, his gaze was intense, as always, but there was something else there too. Something softer.
He had just finished telling me a story about the time his mother set their kitchen on fire with a pan of frying bacon when the waiter brought out our first course. We were still laughing together as the plates were set before us.
I couldn’t believe this was my life. That I was married to this man.
Stefan raised his glass in my direction.
“Enjoy,” he said.
I fully intended to.