One More Taste by Melissa Cutler

Author:Melissa Cutler
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466883109
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

Chapter Twelve

With the heady aroma of simmering tomato sauce filling the air, Knox stood in his empty kitchen and surveyed the mess. It looked like Emily had paused mid-dinner prep. An unopened bag of Fritos chips sat on the counter, along with a cold bowl of grits topped with melted and cooled white cheese. On the island, a glass jar sat, the shrimp inside visible through a layer of condensation. More ingredients were strewn over the counters.

The pan on the stove was cool to the touch. He opened the lid and found chili, cold. His eyes again found the bag of Fritos. Frito Pie? Really? That was hardly the obvious choice for an accomplished chef.

Then again, Emily was no ordinary chef. Frito Pie had been his father’s favorite meal. No doubt Knox’s mother had given Emily the idea, but he no longer cared that she’d used his mother for insider information because the relief that his exile to Gastronomyville was over superseded all annoyance over her methods.

The question now was, where was the chef? The house felt empty, but Emily’s silver hatchback sat squarely in the driveway, right in front of the steps leading up to the main entrance as though she owned the place, so she had to be around somewhere. Asleep on his bed again, perhaps?

Doubtful. That was a slippery slope that neither of them dared start down.

He walked through the house calling her name, then stepped out to the deck. The evening was blustery. Wind whipped at his hair and dried leaves scuttled across his deck. The time change was a couple of weeks away, so the glow of dusk still saturated the hills, even at the dinner hour. He strode with purpose along the deck, then down to the lake’s edge, peering in the boathouse and along the trail that led to the lookout point on the hill above his home. It was as though Emily had vanished into thin air.

Back in the kitchen, he texted her. Where are you?

He held the phone, awaited her reply. Nothing.

He felt like a whiny, 1950s-era husband. Where’s the little woman and why isn’t she in the kitchen ready to serve me dinner when I get home from work?

Yes, she was probably still furious about their momentary insanity at his mom’s house, but there was no way she’d go from creating culinary masterpieces to brushing him off with a lowbrow dinner cooling on the stove. Impossible that she’d leave the kitchen such a mess. She was a professional, and she wanted the restaurant too much. The truth reminded him that, as opposed to a whiny husband, he was her boss. He was entitled by their arrangement to expect her here, cooking for him, every night this month.

And what of next month? he caught himself wondering. Then fear jolted him out of his selfishness. What if something were wrong with Emily—an emergency, an accident? Could she have been kidnapped? Impossible. But what if?

Are you okay? he texted.

The minutes ticked by. Nothing.

Rather than text again, he called, but her phone flipped to voicemail instantly.

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