15. Delilah
Chapter 15
Delilah
“ D o you mind if we stop by the store so I can get some groceries, Damien?” I ask as he pulls into traffic.
When the end of the working day rolled around, Spencer said he had things he needed to finish up at the office and organised for his driver to take me home. Going back to his apartment without him is going to feel weird, but I plan to make him a home-cooked meal while I wait. A thank-you for everything he’s done for me thus far.
I spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my mum growing up. Abigail was always daddy’s girl—and kind of my mum’s as well—but baking or preparing meals was one thing we often did together.
My mum’s cooking prowess was limited since my father’s tastes were quite bland. Her goal in life has always been to please him. He’s like her puppet master and constantly controlling those invisible strings in some way or another. I’d frequently encourage her to cook other things—something different to the boring old norm—but she always said, “Oh, I don’t think your father would like that. ”
Now was my chance to step outside of my comfort zone. To cook something other than steak and three veg. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s following a recipe.
Spencer is used to eating finer foods, which is out of my realm, so I do a quick Google search on the way to the store, trying to formulate some kind of game plan. At first glance, I see nothing that takes my fancy.
Opening a new window, I type in, Popular dinners for mature gentlemen . I can’t help but laugh when a heap of seniors’ meals pop up. My nose screws up as I move down the list of soft foods, mash, purees, and soups. Poor Spencer. I probably should stop referring to him as old, as he has a full set of beautiful, white teeth and is more than capable of tearing into a juicy steak. There may be ten years between us, but society would still class him as a young man.
“Damien?” I ask, glancing up from my screen.
“Yes, Miss St. James.”
“If you had to choose one meal for Mr Prescott, what would it be?”
He lifts one shoulder. “Seafood.”
Of course. His crazy regimented lunch orders always contain some kind of protein from the sea … scallops, prawns, lobster, squid, or fish.
“Thank you.”
I close the window I’m in and open another. Popular seafood dishes is my next search. This time I feel like I’ve hit the jackpot as I screenshot the list of ingredients that I’ll need for the dishes I plan on preparing.
“Damien, can we go to the fish market when we leave the grocery store?”
“I’ll take you wherever you need, Miss St. James.”
Squee.
This is going to be so much fun.
When I arrived back at Spencer’s apartment, I prepped all the food for the three-course feast I plan on serving him when he gets home, and then I showered and changed into a pair of cut-off denim shorts and a worn, pale-blue T-shirt. My hair is still wet and I’m tempted to put on some makeup to cover the bruise on my face, but I don’t bother … this isn’t a date. I left my feet bare because although his apartment is tiled, the underfloor heating makes it cosy.
I’ve instructed Damien to text me when he’s on his way to collect Spencer, so I can have everything ready when he gets here.
I’m serving a Moreton Bay bug and avocado salad for the first course. I was wary when I chose this dish because I’d never cooked or eaten sea bugs before. The name alone almost put me off, but they’re actually a crustation. They look like small, flat, lobster-type animals. The fishmonger assured me they tasted good and gave me some tips on how to cook them.
The main course is a whole roasted barramundi, with a ginger and soy dressing. I’ll serve this dish on a bed of rice with some lime wedges.
For dessert, I made a simple fluffy chocolate mousse, which I’ve put in the fridge to set, and I have whipped cream, fresh raspberries, and chocolate shavings to garnish.
When I get the alert from Damien that they’re on their way, the butterflies in my stomach take flight. I don’t even know why I’m so nervous.
I slide the baking dish into the oven, which is so pristine, I’m quietly confident it’s never been used. Just like the rest of this kitchen. My mum would go nuts in here. Her kitchen looks like a child’s plaything compared to this. I’m tempted to snap a few pics and send them to her, but I don’t. They may be interpreted as gloating, which is something I’d never do.
The base of the salad and the creamy lemon dressing are done. I just need to pan-fry the bugs in some butter when Spencer gets here. I’ve set the table, so all I need to do now is wait. I take a seat on one of the barstools, then immediately stand. I’m too edgy to sit still.
I head to the fridge and grab the bottle of white wine I put in there earlier to chill. A drink should help calm me down.
The man in the liquor store recommended sauvignon blanc, saying it was a great pairing with fish. I don’t know if he made that up or not, but I took his word for it.
Before I have time to open the bottle, I hear the elevator ding from the foyer.
Shit.
I set the wine down on the countertop and frantically wipe my damp palms down the sides of my shorts as the panic takes over.
I’m suddenly second-guessing myself for doing this. I hope he doesn’t get the wrong idea. This is a thank-you dinner … nothing more .