I looked at my watch and then outside. Night was creeping in on us. How did this happen again? When I was with Elliott, time just seemed to float away.

He glanced at the windows too. “I wish I could say I planned this. I am not that smooth of an operator. But I prepped a light supper, a little tasting menu. I hate the word, but: tapas.”

“I absolutely detest that word. That word should go away, just like emojis.”

He laughed. “You don’t have strong opinions about anything, do you? I love that. Now let me see if I can pass your test. I know I have big shoes to fill.” Had he been reading my mind? He excused himself and I heard the busyness of cooking going on.

“Do you want any help?” I asked, hoping he would turn me down.

“Something tells me you should stick to what you do best—the vision thing—and you should let me do what I do best: cooking.”

After a few minutes, Elliott came toward me. He carried a drink in one hand and a plate of food in the other. “I hope this will become one of our signature drinks, Bailey. I call it the Maraschino Moscow Mule. It has lemon, citrine, and ginger beer mixed with Luxardo and topped with a whimsical maraschino cherry.”

I took the drink from him, said “cheers,” and took a sip. It was delicious. He had paired it with a plate of lightly battered oysters and tiny pasta with slices of ruby red grapefruit and celery. I loved the marriage of color and flavors.

Elliott seemed pleased that I was eating with such gusto.

“I should warn you,” I said. “I’m not one of those girls who just picks at her food.”

“I would be disappointed if you were.” He nodded in appreciation and disappeared. I left one bite behind on the plate for good manners. Next came another drink and a delightful braised pork belly. The Bulleit bourbon spiced old-fashioned made a wonderful union with the barbecued braised pork. I was eating and drinking so fast on this course, I simply nodded my appreciation and satisfaction at him.

“I think I’m going to need a cab to get home. These drinks are tasty, but I can tell they’re pretty potent!”

“I’m glad. I want you to enjoy yourself. Don’t worry, I’ll get you home. Safe and sound. That is the end of the alcohol portion of the program, I promise. Next comes dessert.”

“And the long-awaited cappuccino you promised.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” He gave a sly smile and disappeared. I didn’t care how good a chef Elliott was, and admittedly these two dishes were simply delicious, but I doubted he could hold a candle to Griffin’s cappuccino—and I wasn’t sure I wanted him to.

Finally, darkness took possession of the day. He brought a cup and saucer brimming with steam along with a warm brownie topped with what he called “fig ragu” and brown sugar and maple syrup ice cream.