Page 13 of Chef’s Kiss (A Knights Through Time #20)

“When it coats the spoon like this.” He lifted the wooden implement, showing her how the sauce clung to its surface. “And when it tastes of everything and nothing—complex enough to hold your interest, but balanced enough that no single flavor dominates.”

He offered her the spoon, and their fingers brushed as she took it from him. The contact sent sparks racing up her arm, but she forced herself to focus on the taste rather than the way his thumb had traced across her knuckles.

The sauce was perfect. Rich without being heavy, bright without being acidic, complex without being confusing. It tasted like comfort and sophistication rolled into one, like the kind of thing that would make food critics weep openly in restaurant dining rooms.

“Tristan,” she breathed, meeting his eyes across the narrow space between them. “This is extraordinary. This is the kind of sauce that changes lives. That makes people remember why they fell in love with food in the first place.”

The naked vulnerability in his expression at her words made something tight and painful unfurl in her chest. This proud, strong man looked at her as if her opinion was the only one that mattered in the world.

“You truly think so?” he asked, and his voice was so soft she almost missed it over the crackling of the dying fire.

“I know so.” She moved closer without conscious thought, drawn by the need to make him understand. “I’ve tasted food prepared by chefs with decades of training, in kitchens that cost more to equip than most people make in a lifetime. This is better than anything I’ve ever encountered.”

“Rachel...”

She could see the moment he realized how close they’d gotten, how the space between them had narrowed to barely more than a breath. His eyes darkened, and she felt the heat radiating from his body, caught the sharp intake of air as he breathed in her scent.

“You should return to your chamber,” he said, but he made no move to step away. If anything, he seemed to lean closer, his free hand coming up as if to touch her face before falling back to his side.

“Should I?” she asked, her voice coming out breathier than she’d intended. The kitchen suddenly felt smaller, more intimate, filled with shadows and firelight and the incredible tension that seemed to crackle between them whenever they stood too close together.

“Aye,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction, and his gaze had dropped to her lips with an intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Before...”

“Before what?”

Instead of answering, he reached out to brush a strand of hair back from her face, his fingers tracing the line of her cheek with devastating gentleness. “Before I forget that I am not the man I once was. Before I forget that I have naught to offer save a crumbling castle and a ruined reputation.”

“What if I don’t care about castles or reputations?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, honest and raw and completely terrifying.

“What if all I care about is this—” she gestured toward the sauce, toward him, toward the magical thing that had happened when he’d shared his gift with her “—this passion, this talent, this incredible ability you have to create beauty from simple ingredients?”

He stared at her for a heartbeat that lasted an eternity, his thumb tracing across her cheekbone with a reverent touch. “Rachel...”

“Yes?”

But before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say, the kitchen door burst open with a crash that made them both jump apart like guilty children.

“Tristan!” Hugo’s voice boomed through the sudden silence, followed immediately by the man himself, massive and slightly drunk and completely oblivious to the tension he’d just shattered. There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for — oh.”

He stopped short, taking in the scene before him with rapidly sobering eyes. “Am I... interrupting something?”

“No,” Tristan said quickly, stepping back from Rachel with jerky movements that made her heart sink. The careful walls she’d watched him lower were already slamming back into place, his expression shuttering like storm clouds rolling across a clear sky. “Nothing at all.”

Hugo’s gaze moved between them, shrewd despite the ale he’d obviously consumed. “Right. Of course. Nothing.” He cleared his throat meaningfully. “Well, since I’m here, perhaps our... guest… might return to her chamber? ’Tis late, and folk will talk.”

The spell was broken. Whatever fragile connection she and Tristan had built over sauce and shared understanding was dissolving like sugar in rain, swept away by the harsh reality of medieval propriety and his own stubborn pride.

“Of course,” Rachel said, proud of how steady her voice sounded despite the disappointment crushing her chest.

“I should go. Thank you for... for showing me. The sauce. It was educational.”

She turned to leave, but Tristan’s voice stopped her at the door. “Rachel.”

She looked back, hoping to see some trace of the man who’d shared his mother’s recipe, who’d created art from cream and wine and expensive spices. Instead, she found Lord Greystone, remote, controlled and carefully distant.

“Sleep well,” he said, and the words were polite and proper and completely meaningless.

“You too,” she replied, then slipped out into the dark corridor before either of them could see the tears that threatened to spill over.

Behind her, she heard the low murmur of male voices, but she didn’t stop to listen.

She’d learned what she needed to know. Tristan de Valois was still in there, beneath all the bitterness and broken pride.

He was still the passionate cook who could create magic from simple ingredients, still the man who honored his mother’s memory by making beauty in a world that had tried to strip him of everything beautiful.

Now she just had to figure out how to convince him that being that man wasn’t something to hide from, but something worth fighting for.