Page 294

He snorted. “I never would have made it even half as far without his intelligence keeping me on the right path.” He opened the fridge, pulling out ingredients. “Any objection to pancetta-wrapped pesto pork tenderloin paired with truffle parmesan polenta with sage? Normally, I do risotto with it, but I’m not brave enough to try that in front of you.”

“That sounds great, actually.”

He lit up at the simple praise. It brought a boyish youthfulness to his face that made him look almost angelic. It was a joke when he was so devilish.

I watched as he placed the pancetta in the pan. My hands itched to get involved since being a passive observer in a kitchen was something I couldn’t stand. “For what it’s worth, I’m not nearly as harsh in real life as I am on TV.”

“You sure about that?” Adler asked with a grin as he prepared the pork tenderloin. “That tongue of yours is pretty sharp, sir.”

“I thought you liked that.”

“Oh, Idefinitelydo. That wasn’t a complaint.” He used a mallet on the tenderloin, stopping to laugh. “Sorry, I just realized you’re watching me beat my meat.”

I joined him in snickering. “Indeed.”

“Guess I should put on a show.” He resumed pounding the meat to the right thickness with more vigor than was necessary.

“Besides, you act like you weren’t sending zingers back at me.”

“Because that’s the fun part.” He began placing the tenderloin in the center of the pancetta, perpendicular to the strips. “Making you flushed and sweaty was the other good thing.”

“It’s a shame. I was doing so well until that last one.”

“I assumed you’d be begging for mercy after the second dessert, so you did well.”

The notion was ridiculous. “I beg for nothing.”

He grinned at me. “Yeah, you strike me as the ‘I don’t ask, I take what I want’ type.”

“I didn’t get this far in my career by being passive. I’m a man who knows what he wants, so I’m not wasting time denying myself.”

“And how does one become something you want to take? Hypothetically speaking, of course.” His cheeky grin was irresistible.

“Be a temptation I can’t resist.” I watched as he seasoned the pork, then spread pesto over it, layering it with cheese and spinach. He moved with the confidence of a true chef, which further intrigued me.

“I don’t suppose you have a weakness for mouthy smart-asses who like to challenge your authority for the sheer fun of having you hold them down and have your way with them?”

His boldness astounded me. “You aren’t being even a little subtle.”

“Well, I recently heard it’s better to take what you want than beg, so I’m trying it.” His unrepentant grin made me want to do everything he was tempting me with, but I didn’t like being played. Then again, was he playing me when I had reacted to him while blindfolded?

I watched as he closed the tenderloin, then wrapped the pancetta around it. He tied it with kitchen string with a dexterity that suggested this was a meal he made all the time. He secured the ends with toothpicks and carried the tray over to the large stove to transfer the meat to a skillet. “Does this meet with your approval?”

“Looks great so far.”

“I’ll try not to fuck it up,” he replied with a laugh, turning on the burner to sear the meat on all sides. “While this is resting, I’ll do the polenta.”

I rested my hip against the counter as I watched him tend to it. “Tell me about yourself.”

He glanced at me in surprise. “You really want to know?”

“My gut tells me you know every detail of my Wikipedia page, so I’m at a distinct disadvantage knowing about you.”

“You mean things like the fact you once got kicked out of a five-star Parisian restaurant for yelling, ‘This soufflé is softer than your brain,’ at the chef?”

“Hardly a punishment,” I said with a disdainful sniff. “Pierre Delamandre is everything that’s wrong with fine dining. His soufflé was an insult to French cuisine.”

“And I’m sure it has absolutely nothing to do with the fact he said, ‘Your food is like a carnival ride—bright, loud, and guaranteed to make you nauseous if you have any taste at all.’”