Page 114 of Delicious (Delicious #1)
Chapter Three
Niccolò
“M y kisses are hotter than my desserts, but you aren’t ready for that,” Adler’s voice teased me. Even though I was blindfolded, I could easily picture his cocky smirk.
My competitive nature couldn’t resist being condescending. “It’s cute you think you have more skills than someone who is twice your age and far more experienced.”
“Well, if you’re inviting me to find out for myself, I’m definitely interested.”
I chuckled at his absurd offer. “You should be so lucky.”
“Can you identify what you ate?”
“It was a creamy cheesecake that was subtly sweet from honey, with a whisper of heat from sriracha. Hardly a challenge.”
“Ah, but was it delicious?”
Without being able to see him, I could hear the slight hope in his voice that sought my approval. Mindful of the cameras recording every interaction, I figured it couldn’t hurt to be nice for now. “It was quite good for a cheesecake, although unorthodox.”
“Here’s a sparkling water with lemon to cleanse your palate,” he offered, guiding my hand to accept the cold glass. His touch felt almost electric when I couldn’t see, but I accepted the drink gratefully. It was indeed a refreshing reset for my taste buds.
“ Grazie ,” I said before handing the glass back to him.
“As you know, I ask questions in between bites. This cheesecake is sweet, creamy, and just a little fiery, like you on a good day. Speaking of balance, what’s the one dish that defines your career, the one that says who you are as a chef?”
I took a moment to consider my answer. “Perhaps my tagliatelle al ragù . It’s the ultimate comfort food, with rich flavors that’ll leave you feeling like you’re in the arms of someone who knows how to treat you right.”
“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to make that for me after we’re done?”
I chuckled at his unbridled enthusiasm. “That depends on whether you destroy all my taste buds before we’re finished.”
“Speaking of which, are you ready for the next dessert? This is a 50,000 SHU.”
“Your sadistic glee is disconcerting, my dear,” I complained, making him laugh. “But I suppose so, even though those numbers sound made-up.”
“This one tastes like a bonfire that just learned how to bake,” he said, once again pressing the spoon to my lips to accept his offering. In doing so, I caught a whiff of his tantalizing cologne.
Rich, fudgy chocolate with a kick of spice exploded on my tongue. It was wonderfully moist and flavorful. “The cinnamon and cayenne in the brownie are a bit cheeky, but I like it.” I finished chewing the bite, enjoying the slight hint of heat on my tongue. “It’s nice that the spice doesn’t take over, so you can still appreciate the brownie.”
“Right again,” he said, his voice full of pride rather than the annoyance I expected over guessing the correct answer so easily. He offered me the sparkling lemon water to refresh myself. “This one has a subtle burn, but it lingers—kind of like when people criticize you on social media. What’s the harshest criticism you’ve ever received about your cooking, and how did you handle it?”
I shrugged. “I don’t pay the critics any mind. They’re in the business of saying outrageous things in reviews for people to read who would never darken the doors of one of my restaurants. My philosophy is if you’re going to spill the tea, make sure it’s as tasty as my risotto.”
“There must be a few reviews that have gotten under your skin over the years. Especially assholes like B.B. Hull, who said, ‘Chef Niccolò seasons his dishes like someone who thinks shouting Mamma mia! is a personality trait.’ Surely, that pisses you off?”
I snorted at the absurd quote. “Do the armchair critics in your comments section affect you?”
“Not usually, but sometimes they make me do things out of spite,” Adler admitted, making us both laugh.
“Fair enough. But for me, there’s no point in reacting to someone like Hull, who enjoys personal attacks like, ‘If this is what food made with love tastes like, it’s no wonder Niccolò de Rosa is still single.’ It’s merely clickbait on his little articles. I don’t have to humor him, especially when chefs like me are the reason he’s famous. He’d be no one without our talents and audience.”
“I’m pretty sure he’s also the same reviewer who said, ‘The food was bad, the ambiance was worse, and as for Chef Niccolò? He has the vibe of a man who’d text u up? at two in the morning after ghosting you for six months,’ right?”
I snorted. “Yes, because he’s still mad I refused to indulge him with a hate fuck when he propositioned me after having a few too many glasses of wine at the opening of Lucciola.”
Adler gasped in shock, as did whoever was behind the camera. “Seriously?”
“He’ll deny it, even though I have the texts to prove it.”
“Wow, you heard it here first, folks,” Adler said in an amazed tone. “On that bombshell, let’s move on to the next dessert. It should be a little more challenging, with an SHU of 100,000.”
“I should hope so. I’m almost offended that you haven’t made me sweat yet.”
“Oh, we’ll get to that, don’t worry.” The sound of his laughter was light and melodic, with a natural vibrancy that seemed to ripple through the air like a song carried on a summer breeze. It wasn’t loud or forced for the cameras but warm, easy, and unguarded. There was something about it that tugged at my chest, softening edges I hadn’t realized were sharp. It felt intimate in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
“Okay, this next one is the fruit saying, ‘Let’s party,’ while the chili says, ‘Hold my beer.’ Are you ready for it?”
I opened my mouth to allow him to feed me, which was a sensuous experience as he slid the spoon against my lips. I expected a normal texture, so it caught me off guard that this bite was so different from the previous ones. The presence of rice threw me momentarily, as did the combination of sweet mango and a spicy heat that took me back to my fun adventures in Thailand. It was a delicious contrast between soothing coconut milk and the vibrant mango, with that fiery zing of chili that contrasted with the rice’s softness.
“Did I stump you?” Adler asked, the excitement clear in his tone.
I scoffed at his presumption. “Do you think a chef who has traveled around the world as much as I have wouldn’t be able to identify spicy mango sticky rice? Be serious, my darling.”
“Getting called your darling makes me a lot of things, but serious isn’t one of them,” he teased.
I chuckled as he brought my hand up to accept another glass. I sniffed it when I brought it under my nose, smelling the coconut milk that would neutralize the Thai chilis that packed a punch, even if it didn’t make me sweat because of my years of familiarity with them. It added to the tropical flavors while also cleansing my palate. I handed it back to him when I finished. “I’d be calling you different things if you were actually bringing the heat. This has all been child’s play so far.”
“Which is a great segue into my next question. Mango sticky rice is the perfect sweet-and-spicy reminder of those romantic getaways everyone dreams about. If you could take a break from the heat of the kitchen, where would you escape to—and please , take me with you.”
I arched an eyebrow. “You want to go somewhere—just the two of us?”
He snickered. “I mean, yeah, if we’re living out my dream fantasy, why not?”
That was an interesting piece of knowledge. It also was too fun to exploit. “Perhaps somewhere like Fiji with warm sand, crystal waters, and absolutely no distractions in our private villa? Maybe if you ask nicely, I’ll even consider indulging you with a spicy cannoli.”
An interesting noise escaped from Adler at my flirting. Although I couldn't see, his desire was almost palpable. “That sounds like such a naughty euphemism.”
“Hide the spicy cannoli?” I laughed at my own joke. “Perhaps if you’re a good boy and I’m feeling indulgent as we spend the evening under the stars, sharing bites and making secrets. That is, if you can handle the heat, my dear.”
“Oh, I can handle the heat,” he replied with a sexy growl that did surprising things to me, igniting a fire in my belly. It was a dangerous feeling that made me want to pin him down and kiss the sass right out of him until he was mewling and pliant beneath me. I didn't understand my own reaction.
The moment of tension between us was thick. He broke it by clearing his throat, and his professional voice was back in place. “So far, you’ve proven you can handle mild to medium spice like a champ, but this next dessert will be the true test of your ability to take the heat.”
“Oh, are you finally bringing some kick into these desserts?”
“This is if summer brought a flamethrower to the beach party.” He pressed the spoon against my lower lip. “Open wide, Chef.”
I didn’t understand why it was such an erotic experience to be fed while blindfolded. The maelstrom of flavors going to war immediately chased that thought out of my head. Juicy, caramelized peaches and buttery pastry tasted sweet, but the chili in the dessert set fire to my tongue. The sharp heat intensified as I chewed, and I covered my mouth as I coughed. Even after I swallowed, the heat burned all the way down.
I held out my hand for a drink as I coughed again. Tears leaked from my eyes as Adler obliged me with a chilled glass. I gulped down the contents gratefully, realizing it was a mango lassi, which helped neutralize the spice. “ Dio mio , you call that a dessert? That’s a war crime with a honey glaze!”
It was hard to stay mad at Adler’s peals of laughter. “What were you saying about these desserts not being spicy enough?”
I took another swig of the drink, which helped soothe the disaster zone left in my mouth, but not by much. “It’s so spicy that I’m sweating like a sinner in church.” I wiped my brow, which had grown damp from sweat. “I swear, I can feel the heat of Hell itself. Did you season that with pure spite?”
“Scotch bonnet, which is kind of the same thing, considering this particular kind has an SHU of 300,000,” he answered in an amused tone. “Any guess on what the dessert was?”
It took a moment for me to sort through the burning sensation to process what I had ingested. “Scotch bonnet in a peach galette? You’ve officially lost the plot, my friend. That was a spoonful of beautiful agony.”
“Let’s dig deep on this next question. Other than eating scotch bonnet in a dessert, what’s the biggest professional mistake you’ve ever made, and how did it shape you as a chef?”
It was hard to think with my mouth still on fire, and it made my nose burn, so it took me a few moments to reflect. “Probably opening a restaurant too quickly without taking the time to perfect the details. I rushed it in my youthful eagerness, thinking my charm and a few good recipes would be enough. But the truth is, no amount of personality can fix poor planning. The critics tore me apart, and I deserved it. After that, I learned to slow down, do it right, and never be afraid to turn up the heat when it matters.”
“Oh, I know you can bring the heat, Chef,” Adler practically purred. “But can you handle this grand finale finish?”
“What's next—tear gas tiramisu? Pepper spray pavlova?”
His ominous laughter didn’t bode well for me.