His hunched shoulders, the way his back is turned to me, the way he refuses to look at me say it all. I’ve hurt him, and he doesn’t care to even look at me right now.

The longer I stand there engaging in this staring contest with his back, the more unbearable my faux pas becomes. I scurry through the door and out of the kitchen, unconcerned that I’m breaking my own “do not leave the kitchen” rule.

I stumble a few steps before noticing the dull roar of comments coming from the dining area.

“Crazy delicious,” someone sings.

“The flavors are on point.”

Curiosity takes hold of me, and I dart behind a nearby plant so I can eavesdrop more without blowing my cover. From behind the overgrown ficus, I strain my neck for a look at the diners. The soft murmur of conversation fills the room. Every single person at the tables is chewing or raving about how good the food tastes. Inside I’m bursting. Every foodie big shot in Maui is head over heels for my and Callum’s food.

I scan across the room and zero in on the familiar blond man bun I’ve been looking for. Matteo shakes his head back and forth, eyes closed, lips puckered while chewing. An older man in a sport coat sitting next to him starts to speak, but Matteo cuts him off by holding up his hand.

Everyone else at the table stares at Matteo, brows raised, eyes unblinking, waiting for him to say anything. I do an internal eye roll. The way his foodie groupies hang on his every word in person and on his blog is a bit over-the-top.

After several seconds of making “mmm” sounds and exaggerated faces, Matteo swallows and smiles. He opens his eyes, patting the arm of his sport coat–clad companion.

“My sincerest apologies, Jonas, but sometimes when you’re enjoying an otherworldly bite of food, all of your senses must be focused on it to fully appreciate the flavor overtaking your body.”

His companion nods, as does everyone else at the table.

Matteo holds up a forkful of fish. “Just take this exquisite bite of fish. The way it plays on your tongue—the salt, the richness, the luscious texture.”

A wave of “oohs” and “aahs” travels across the table.

“And the crunch on the outside.” He practically sings the words. “Goodness me.”

Matteo chomps on his forkful. The rest of his dining companions do the same, then rave about the perfect flavor.

Matteo takes his butter knife in his left hand and brushes a mound of pineapple fried rice on his fork. He holds it up in front of him, catching the light of the nearby overhead chandelier. It’s like he’s an appraiser scrutinizing a gemstone in the light.