I sniffed appreciatively. Butter, sage . . . “What are you making?”

“Duck breast with tart cherry confit.” He lifted the lid off a pot of boiling water. “And my mother’s pierogi.”

I watched his muscled forearms as he fished out dumplings with a slotted spoon, fighting the itch to take notes. Or pictures. Pictures would be good. I cleared my throat. “I haven’t seen those on the menu at Gusto. Pierogi, I mean.”

“Not yet. I am playing with the filling. Sweet potatoes instead of white, a little red cabbage.” He swirled the pierogi in the pan of browned butter, plated one, and slid it across the bar in one smooth move. “What do you think?”

Like my opinion mattered. I picked up the fork that appeared with the plate. The tender dough gave easily, the insides spilling like a sunset, red and orange and caramelized gold. The first forkful melted in my mouth with a kiss of butter and a bite of something savory.

“Yum,” I said. “I thought it would be sweet, but it’s not. Onion?”

He nodded, looking as pleased as if I’d left him a five-star review. My stomach hollowed. I really needed to tell him about my blog. Later. Tonight. Maybe.

I swallowed. “What does Ray think?”

“Ray.” A huff of amusement or acceptance. “He wants to elevate everything. Until you can’t taste the heart anymore.”

“He does have kind of a stick up his butt,” I said around another mouthful of pierogi.

“Ray’s a good guy. A good cook,” Eric said. Defending his sous. That was the kind of boss he was, seeing the best, encouraging the best, in everybody.

“So why hasn’t he left to become executive chef somewhere?”

“He has the résumé. He is ready for the responsibility. But he is afraid to take the risk, yeah? He holds back from putting himself on the plate. He wants too much to impress, I think.”

I thought of the pie. The sweater. The extra fifteen minutes I’d spent flat-ironing my hair, trying to get it smooth and straight. Right there with you, Ray.

I took another sip of wine. “I guess I get his point. I mean, that’s why people go out. Because they want something they can’t find at home.”

Were we still talking about food?

“Sure,” Eric agreed easily. “But not every dish has to amaze. Sometimes you simply want to eat. To be fed.” He looked up, that little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “To be satisfied.”

A great wave of lust and longing shook me to my knees. Good thing I was sitting. He could satisfy me, I thought. He could hoist me up on the counter. I could wrap my arms around his neck, my legs around his waist. We could . . .

He cracked the oven door to check the duck. “Almost ready,” he promised with another smile.

Definitely talking about the food this time.

I swallowed my disappointment along with another gulp of wine and slid off my stool. “Right. I just need to . . .” Don’t say pee, Aunt Phee instructed in my head. Southern ladies did not have bodily functions. “Wash my hands.”