“Once.” I winced internally at the memory. “My little brother still makes fun of me for it. He calls me the worst Italian in Brooklyn.”

That earned me another charming smile. They were fucking dangerous. “What were you makin’?”

“Alfredo,” I replied. “Mine came out lookin’ more like risotto.”

At the very least, my kitchen failings were brightening his mood. That counted for something.

“That’s the problem with most cooking classes.” King took over the mixing once the honey was in, and he whisked it all together with a practiced touch. “They give you a recipe to follow and entertain you with the origin of the main ingredient, fun anecdotes about that one time the chef was in Tuscany and tried homemade pasta for the first time, and then they give you some wiggle room about the time it takes to bake something, because, you know, all ovens are different.” Oh, he was passionate about this. He added some more spices too. A pinch of this, a pinch of that. “What they fail to introduce many times is a flavor profile. Just like with wine, whiskey, and coffee, a recipe is about bringing together the perfect combination of flavors.” He leaned into me to throw the whisk in the sink, which gave me a whiff of his cologne. Cazzo. “A marinade can be the character in a movie with only one line, or it can be more of a significant secondary character. For barbecues in the South, you wanna taste the marinade properly.”

I was on board for tasting.

In the bigger bowl, he started adding chunks of meat that he cut at a pace I couldn’t keep up with. “I’m making kabobs tonight, so I want the marinade to bring out something extra in each ingredient. The chili goes well with the bell peppers. Nutmeg with mushrooms, and…” In quick succession, he finished adding the meat, poured the marinade, and, lastly, emptied half a bottle of beer into the mixture. “Beer tenderizes the meat.”

I was a little turned on, to be honest.

“Don’t listen to the people who say you should only add the beer an hour before grilling,” he told me. “They’re wrong.”

Okay. I wasn’t going to listen to those people.

“Honey for sweetness, lemon for tartness, and black pepper that binds it all together,” he finished.

When all was said and done, he’d put plastic wrap over the bowl with the meat, he’d wiped down the counter, and he handed me the unopened beer.

“Let’s have a seat outside.”

“All right. Shouldn’t the meat be in the fridge?”

He chuckled and clapped me on the back. “God no.”

Was this the test? I should ask why. Right?

“Why not?”