Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) by Moss Brooke

Author:Moss, Brooke [Moss, Brooke]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2013-08-08T03:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

I lifted a dolma out of the pan with painstaking gentleness and examined it. The grape leaf had held up beautifully while I cooked it, and now there was nary a fleck of rice or lamb sticking out of its perfectly tucked envelope. Drawing in a long pull of the aroma, I smiled to myself. Lemon, cinnamon, pine nuts, cardamom. The salty, briny scent of grape leaves. It was perfection.

This was it. The batch that would prove my superior ethic food cooking skills. I couldn’t wait to call Lexie at home to brag about it.

“Looks like I didn’t need to seduce Demo Antonopolous after all.” I muttered to myself, blowing on the dolma. “He can suck it.”

Okay, so I was bitter. It had been a week since my little pow wow with Yiayia, and I still hadn’t heard from Demo. And sure, I could call him myself. God knew I’d never been afraid to pursue a man before. I was probably a little more adept at that than what was socially acceptable.

But not when it came to Demo. He was different. He threw me off of my game, made me self conscious in ways I’d not been since puberty, and he made me feel the ultimate worst way any woman could ever feel: vulnerable.

Shuddering, I turned off the burner and slid the pot of dolmades off of the heat. The Eats & Treats kitchen was empty, and the late evening sun was pouring through the windows, which was how I preferred it when I was trying new recipes. It was no fun to screw up a recipe with a hungry coworker standing there, waiting to be fed.

Hopping onto the stainless steel table, I gathered my hair into a messy bun on top of my head and un-tied the strings of my apron. When I tugged it off, chunks of parsley and rice fell from the front of my shirt. I’d been cooking all day long and most of my makeup had melted off while I sautéed shitake mushrooms in red wine earlier. I was pretty sure I looked and smelled like a drunken lesbian.

Not that there was anything wrong with that.

There was a knock on the glass door at the front of the shop, and I rolled my eyes. The neighboring music store employees were infamous for coming over to score free foods off of us, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d been rolling these dolmades for two hours, and I wanted to be left alone to relish in my accomplishment.

“We’re closed!” I hollered, before gazing lovingly at the dolma. “Here goes nothing, my pretty,” I whispered, taking a big bite.

As soon as my teeth cut into the grape leaf, it disintegrated, and the contents—which were mushy and clumped into on giant wad of what tasted like Greek bubble gum—rolled down the front of my black shirt, leaving greasy spots of olive oil in its wake. The consistency of the bite in my mouth was what I was pretty sure would happen if Elmer’s Glue and wet paper towels had a baby.

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