“And come down to talk to the new cook.”
“And fall in love, not because of a spell, but because of a blackberry pudding or a pastry swan, and a smile, and the way that new cook’s hands move, and the respect without overwhelming deference, as if they’re equals but not rivals.” Colby considered romance and enchantment, entranced. “It should be a story. Or a cookbook.”
“You could write both.”
“Perhaps someday. I do like the idea. Both.”
Jason, who’d helped with the arancini—his mother had them on her restaurant’s menu, based on a family recipe—grinned. “I’d read anything you wrote. And eat anything you come up with.”
Colby opened his mouth, blushed, shut it.
“Say it,” Jason tempted. “You know you want to.”
“Oh no…”
“Was it about cream? Things that come?”
“Things you can eat…”
“Hell
