Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin

surprise. “Anthony made you fritters?”
    “Yes.”
    “And he brought them to your house?”
    Vivi hesitated, confused by the excited look in Michael’s eyes. “Yes.”
    Michael’s excitement was now elation. “Oh my God, that’s great! Do you know how great that is?”
    “It’s not what you think.”
    “What do you think I think?”
    “You think your brother and I are romantically involved. It’s not so,” Vivi said very quietly. She knew the kitchen staff was listening to every word being said, restaurant kitchens being a hive of gossip. She wanted to think the radio might be muffling some of the sound of her and Michael’s voices, but you never knew.
    Michael regarded her skeptically. “You made him an apple tart just for the hell of it?”
    Vivi was taken aback. “How do you know about that?”
    “Because I devoured half the damn thing!” Michael’s eyes shone with admiration. “That was the best apple tart I ever tasted in my life, Vivi. Seriously.”
    “Thank you,” Vivi murmured, blushing with pleasure. Maybe Michael wasn’t so pushy after all.
    “What did you think of the fritters?”
    “I thought they were wonderful,” Vivi confessed, “though comparing a tart with a fritter is like comparing apples and oranges.”
    “I agree completely. I think you two need to keep your dessert Olympics going, appointing me as the main judge.”
    “Do you cook, too?”
    “No. I’m a hockey player. Former hockey player.” His voice sounded strained. Had she said something wrong? The light in Michael Dante’s eyes seemed to have flamed out. Time to leave, Vivi thought.
    “Well, thank you for your time,” she said politely, edging in the direction of the kitchen door.
    “You can go out the front,” Michael said. “I unlocked it just before you came in.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Of course.”
    Vivi nodded appreciatively and headed through the swinging doors of the kitchen, stopping short at the sight of a small, portable playpen set up in the middle of the dining room. An adorable, apple-cheeked baby girl with lustrous black curls was gurgling happily to herself. Michael Dante’s daughter? Or maybe—no, it couldn’t be. The thought disturbed her, so she pushed it away. The baby was looking at her now, smiling. Vivi put her hands over her face then pulled them away, saying “Peek-a-boo,” sending the child into a cascade of giggles. It was a lovely, mellifluous sound.
    “Au revoir, ange,” Vivi said, blowing a kiss to the baby. Then she pulled open the restaurant door, coming face-to-face with Anthony.
     
    “W hat are you doing here?”
    Anthony knew he sounded abrupt, maybe even rude, but the last thing he expected to find when he opened the door to his restaurant was Vivi.
    “I came to return your container.”
    “Thank you.” Anthony shoved his copy of the Post under his arm and folded his arms across his chest. “Actually, I’m kind of glad you’re here. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”
    Vivi crossed her arms across her chest. “Yes?”
    “What happened last week? That kiss? Pure aberration.”
    “Oh, I’m so glad you said that,” said Vivi, relieved. “You were simply carried away by all that ecstatic talk about cooking, yes? As was I.”
    “Exactly,” Anthony agreed, though he could have done without the happy look on her face. What, kissing him was such a horror show?
    “It’s funny how those things happen sometimes, isn’t it?” Vivi continued with a nervous little laugh. “How talking about food can make you so passionate you do things that seem crazy to you afterward?”
    “Absolutely,” Anthony agreed with a forced chortle. “If anyone knows about the bizarre effects food can have on some people, it’s we chefs, right?”
    “Oui,” said Vivi, nodding her head vigorously. “I’m so delighted to know we’re in agreement about this.” She edged closer to the door. “I have to go now. I need to speak with the DiDinato brothers about