Brad laughed because it was so like a chef to comment on the snap of a sausage and not the taste.
They each ate a few bites off each other’s plates. Brad was impressed by how creamy and well-seasoned Lindsay’s potatoes were. Lindsay ate a bit of Yorkshire pudding and said, “Oh, right. I remember this now.”
“There’s kind of an art form to getting them right. They’re sort of like a souffle in that way. If you nail it, they are fluffy and delicious like this. But if you do one thing wrong, the whole thing deflates into a flat, dense, flavorless hockey puck. I made you eat a lot of them because I was practicing.”
“Sure. I remember now. Like how you made me eat a hundred éclairs while you were trying to master choux pastry.”
“I don’t recall you being that mad about it. Who can be mad about eating an éclair? Or five?”
“Not all of your early batches were good.”
“True, but I make great éclairs now. I should make mini ones for the café, maybe.”
“Are you going to try to make them feline in some way?”
He had a flash of making icing with stripes, like a striped cat. He might be the only one who thought stripes looked feline, though, so he filed it away to mull over later. He’d think of something. “I will certainly try.”
Brad was pretty full by the time the waitress handed them dessert menus, but he agreed to split a slice of chocolate stout cake with Lindsay.
By the time they were sinking their forks into what turned out to be an excellent slice of cake, the tension between them had dissipated. When Michelle swung back out at the end of the meal to ask if everything met with their approval, Brad was polite but kept an eye on Lindsay, who still seemed irritated he’d torpedoed her review.
He thought about inviting her back to his place once they left the restaurant, but he was still annoyed, too, so he just said, “Well, this was fun.”
She sighed. “Was it?”
“I will admit, arguing with you was not super fun. But, look, we know where we stand, I think.”
She stood there on the sidewalk for a long moment with her lips pressed together.
“You invited me to dinner,” said Brad. “I thought we were making progress. If thiswasn’ta date, what was it?”
“I don’t know.” Lindsay shook her head. “I need more time to think.”
Brad didn’t know why she’d need more time, but he nodded. “All right. Well, let me know when you decide something.”
Lindsay hooked her thumb to point south, in the direction of her apartment. Brad’s was a few blocks north. “I mean, do you want to come to my place for a cup of coffee or something.”
“Not tonight. Gotta get up at four to make cat treats and all that.”
“Right. Of course.”
“And I don’t think it’s fair for us to…well, act on our physical feelings when we’re still tied up mentally.” He gave Lindsay what he hoped was a meaningful look, because his feelings were pretty well sorted out at this point.
“Makes sense,” she murmured.
“Right. Good night, Lindsay. I’ll see you sometime.” There. Let that just be in the universe. He could only chase her for so long; she needed to come to him next.
“Of course. Good night, Brad.”
Brad nodded and turned to walk home before he could change his mind.
Chapter 18
Lindsay hadn’t stretched her culinary muscles in a while, but she was taking full advantage of Paige and Josh’s kitchen. It was a little too small and simple to be categorized as a chef’s kitchen, but it was double the size of the little kitchen in her own apartment. She’d never understood why so many Brooklyn landlords only put tiny kitchens in apartments. Did they think everyone used their ovens for storage like aSex and the Citycharacter? If they were legally required to buy appliances anyway, would it really have put them out so much to build some dang counters? Lindsay’s kitchen at least had a single square foot of counter space, but she’d seen some apartments in her day that were little more than a cube fridge and an Easy-Bake Oven.
So, yeah, she was jealous that Paige and Josh could afford a place with a kitchen this nice, especially since, given how clean everything was, they hardly ever cooked or else had a really good cleaning lady.
Paige’s big, fluffy white cat sat on the counter, close enough to the platters Lindsay had set out that she was worried cat hair would get in the food. The other cat, George, was hanging out on the floor as if he expected Lindsay to drop food for him to eat.
