Page 25 of That Prince is Mine
“We fight to the death… with rock, paper, scissors.” She winked. “Or we could always share.”
Unable to wait any longer, she sliced into the filet mignon, revealing a perfect, pink center, and took an eager bite. Her eyelids fluttered shut as a happy hum escaped from her. She would have to search deep for a reserve of willpower to pass her plate to Michel.
When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her with an expression she could only describe as hungry—as though he wanted to snatch the filet mignon out of her mouth. She hurried to swallow just to be safe.
“Wine,” he said with enough urgency to make her jump. He pushed away from the table and shot to his feet. “Let me bring you some wine.”
“Uh, okay.”
He was halfway across the dining room when he rounded back and came to stand in front of her. His shirt stretched across his broad chest as he inhaled deeply, and his words spilled out in an embarrassed rush. “Do you prefer red or white? Do you even drink wine? I should’ve asked you that first.”
“I drink all forms of alcoholic beverages,” she murmured distractedly, absorbing how well he filled out his impeccably fitted suit. Tailor made for sure.
“I… see.” He cupped his chin, strategically placing his fingers across his twitching mouth. If she peeled his fingers away, the mirth she could see building up inside him would spill out of him. She loved the sound of his laughter, but embarrassing herself wasn’t the best way to hear it.
What possessed her to say that? It wasn’t something you said on a first date. It probably wasn’t something you said at all. Never mind that it was true. Her love of food extended to adult beverages. The perfect drink could elevate a meal to the next level. Korean fried chicken was a delicious meal—but Korean fried chicken with ice-cold beer was a celebration.
“Maybe you should bring a bottle of each since we haven’t chosen what we’re having for dinner yet,” she said, deciding she wasn’t humiliated enough to refuse wine.
Why just have dinner when they could have a celebration?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Michel didn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so much.
In the end, they skipped rock, paper, scissors to the death and decided to share three of their favorite dishes—the chicken under a brick, the tagliatelle with chantarelle mushrooms, and the Dover sole. When he reached over to refill Emma’s chardonnay, she covered the top of her glass with her fingers and shook her head.
“No more for me. I’m a lightweight.” She narrowed her eyes at his skeptical expression. “Just because I enjoy adult beverages doesn’t mean I drink a lot. For me, it’s more about how the flavors meld with the food, adding another layer to the experience.”
“The experience?” He chewed thoughtfully on a morsel of mushroom.
“I think every meal has the potential to be a special experience… a memory,” she explained, building the perfect bite of chicken on her fork—chicken, crispy skin, and a dollop of creamy mashed potato. “I haven’t even told you what I do for a living, have I?”
“No, you haven’t.” Michel blinked in surprise.
The initial awkwardness of the evening had melted away, and the last hour had flown by as they talked and laughed. It felt as though he’d known Emma for a lifetime—their connection solid as a deeply rooted tree—but he actually didn’t know anything about her.
“I’m a culinary instructor.” She smiled as though just thinking about her job made her happy. “I teach people how to cook Korean royal court cuisine.”
Michel choked a little at the words royal court but managed to pass it off as a cough. “That’s fascinating. How did you know that’s what you wanted to do? Did you always know?”
Never having had that choice, he found it intriguing how people decided on a profession—how some are guided by their passion while others stumble into it. Either way, he envied them the process of discovering who they were.
“Huh.” Emma tilted her head to the side and studied him curiously. “That’s not the first thing people usually say when I tell them that.”
“Then what is?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Something like, ‘You’re Korean? I love BTS.’” She shrugged. “Or sometimes they tell me their cousin’s friend’s sister’s boyfriend is Korean.”
“Well… that’s strange.” His eyebrows furrowed. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Right?” She huffed an exasperated breath. “Anyway, I’ve always loved cooking, even as a kid. There’s something reassuring about being able to create something delicious, a slice of happiness, with a little time and effort. And I wanted to teach others to do that for themselves.”
“That’s lovely.” Warmth spread across his chest. “Why did you choose Korean royal court cuisine specifically?”
“Gungjung yori takes a bit more effort than other cuisines, but it’s harmonious and beautiful, not to mention healthful and delicious. I feel like cooking and eating Korean royal court cuisine feeds the soul as well as the body.”
He nodded, unable to look away from the amazing woman. Emma tucked her hair behind her ear and cleared her throat. Damn it. He was staring again.
