Chapter 40
Chapter 40:
Brinley followed Austin into the dining room, her gaze catching on the lavish spread laid out on the table.
Golden-seared foie gras glistened beneath a drizzle of fig sauce. Lobster rested on a bed of garlic-slick vermicelli. A bowl of pumpkin soup shimmered like liquid velvet, and rosemary-scented lamb chops released a mouthwatering aroma that curled through the air.
Every dish looked flawless—a cruel contrast to the charred, oversalted failures she had scraped together in the kitchen over the last few days.
Austin pulled out a chair with deliberate grace, his smile edged with a teasing challenge. “What are you standing there for? Sit down and see for yourself p>
Brinley lowered herself into the seat with stiff reluctance, hands folding in her lap, the polished silverware left untouched. “I’ll pass. I’m not hungry p>
Her voice carried quiet defiance, her wary eyes fixed on the feast as if it were a carefully baited snare rather than a meal.
𝖰𝘂а𝗹ity tr𝘢𝗻𝘀𝗹𝖺𝘁𝗂оո𝘀 oո
The search in the study had yielded nothing, leaving Brinley simmering with frustration. Austin’s sudden culinary display felt like yet another test—just as deliberate as his careful erasure of everything tied to her.
Even so, Austin set the knife and fork neatly in front of her.
“Just have a taste,” he urged.
“I told you. I’m not hungry,” Brinley said, her voice tight with annoyance.
She shoved the utensils aside and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling window, pretending the fading twilight held her attention. Still, her eyes betrayed her, drifting back to the foie gras on the plate.
The golden crust gleamed with caramelized oil, the curled edges crowned with a streak of crimson sauce and honey’s amber sheen. Just the sight of it was enough to stir her appetite.
Brinley hadn’t had a decent meal in days.
Her cooking always turned out either painfully salty or burnt beyond recognition. With the staff away, the fridge held nothing but a stack of instant sandwiches she couldn’t stand anymore.
Still, she refused to give in to Austin’s gesture, unwilling to let a taste of his food feel like an endorsement of the vague kindness he kept showing her.
“Just one bite,” Austin said.
He slid the utensils back toward her, his tone softening into patient coaxing. “If it’s awful, you can throw the plate at my face p>
The corner of her lips almost curved at his ridiculous offer, but she caught herself, smothering the spark of laughter with a low, noncommittal hum—her reluctant surrender.
Her fingers finally closed around the utensils, every movement taut with resistance. She cut off a sliver of foie gras, hesitating so long it seemed she might set it down again, before slipping it past her lips.
The crisp shell yielded beneath her bite, releasing a rush of velvety oil that coated her tongue, the buttery richness tempered by the delicate sweetness of the sauce—surprisingly light rather than cloying.
Her eyes widened before she could stop them. As the flavor melted away, her gaze darted over the plate, already searching for her next morsel.
She had never imagined Austin could refine his cooking so dramatically in a matter of days.