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Caloroga Shark Media. Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly and
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Thanksgiving Seduction. This is episode one Bittersweet. I've been lying
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to food magazines for years. When I write that I
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can taste the love in a grandmother's apple pie, readers
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think I'm being poetic. They don't know. I literally taste
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her worry about her grandson's health and the cinnamon, her
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grief for her dead husband in the butter, her hope,
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in the way she crimped the edges. I came home
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to Westbrook expecting to write a fluff piece about small
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town Thanksgiving traditions. I didn't expect to taste desperation in
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every dish my mother made. I didn't expect the new
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chef at our family inn to look at me like
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he knew exactly what I was experiencing. And I definitely
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didn't expect what happened when Adrian Blackwood walked into my
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life with a single spoonful of butternut squash soup that
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would ruin everything. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let
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me tell you about coming home and how Thanksgiving became
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something to survive rather than celebrate. The Westbrook Inn sat
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exactly as I'd left it five years ago, three stories
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of colonial charm wrapped in November's bare branches, my childhood
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home and my whole world. What was different was the
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empty parking lot on a Friday afternoon, and the taste
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of panic in the apple cider Mum handed me the
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moment I walked through the door. Norah, you're early. She
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hugged me tight, and I could smell the strain on
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her like burnt sugar. I wasn't expecting you until dinner.
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Wanted to beat traffic. I took another sip of cider.
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Under the cinnamon and cloves, I tasted exhaustion, fear, and
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something else. Shame. Mum, what's wrong? Nothing's wrong, Everything's wonderful.
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Come let me show you your room. We've renovated. The
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renovation was just new curtains and a desperate coat of
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paint that couldn't hide the water stain on the ceiling.
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As she chattered about bookings for Thanksgiving week lies, I
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could taste them in the cookies she kept pushing at me.
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I wondered how long the inn had been failing. Where's Ben?
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I asked about my younger brother, Oh, you know him,
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always busy with his projects, more lies, bitter as burnt coffee.
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I'm going to grab lunch in the restaurant, I said,
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See what you're serving these days. Mum's face did something complicated.
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Of course, James is cooking today. You'll love him. He's
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been such a blessing. The restaurant was empty except for
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one couple in the corner, and even they were just
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having coffee. The dining room that used to require reservations
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weeks in advance, now echoed with my footsteps. That's when
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I saw him, James Brennan, visible through the kitchen's passed
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through window, dark hair pulled back, focused expression as he
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prepped something I couldn't see, moving with the economy of
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someone who'd learned not to waste energy. He looked up
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as I sat at the bar, and our eyes met.
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I felt the recognition like a physical shock. Not that
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I knew him, but that he knew what I was.
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He could see it in me the way I could
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suddenly see it in him. You taste it, too, he said, quietly,
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coming to the bar. Not a question, how did you
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The way you held that cider, the face you made
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on the second sip when you tasted whatever your mom's
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been hiding. He had warm, brown eyes, tired around the edges.
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Plus your Marie Warren's daughter. She mentioned you had a
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gift for food. She doesn't know it's literal, neither does
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anyone else. He set a bowl in front of me,
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butternut squash soup. Tell me what you taste. The first
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spoonful nearly made me cry, not because it was sad,
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but because it was so honestly itself. I tasted his loneliness,
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not bitter, just present, acknowledged his worry about the inn
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genuine and practical, His curiosity about me tentative and respectful,
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and underneath it all contentment in the craft itself, the
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simple satisfaction of making something nourishing. You love cooking, I said,
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But you're worried it won't be enough to save this place.
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He smiled, and it transformed his face. And you're wondering
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why a chef with my training is working at a
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failing in in the Hudson Valley instead of the city.
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Are you tasting your curiosity? Yeah, it's like he paused,
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searching for words like cinnamon warm, but with an edge.
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No one's ever described my emotions as devices before. How
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do you experience them temperature, mostly and texture. I took
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another spoonful of soup. Your loneliness is cool, smooth like riverstones.
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Your satisfaction is warm bread. We stared at each other,
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two people who'd never met anyone else like them. How
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long have you been able to do this? I asked?
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Always you same? I became a food critic because I
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thought everyone could taste emotions in food. Took me until
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college to realize I was experiencing something others weren't. He
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leaned on the bar closer but not invasive. Must make
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restaurant reviews interesting, You have no idea. I once gave
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a terrible review to a technically perfect meal because I
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could taste that the chef despised his customers. James laughed,
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and I wanted to make him do it again. When
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was the last time I'd met someone I could be
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honest with about this? Order anything you want, he said,
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on the house. I'm curious what you'll taste in my cooking.
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What if I taste something you don't want me to know?
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His smile turned rueful. Then you'll know the truth about me.
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Seems only fair since I can taste yours. I was
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about to respond. When the restaurant door chimed. The couple
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in the corner looked up eagerly, and James's expression shifted
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to something careful guarded. Adrian, he said, neutrally, We're not
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open for dinner yet, James. The voice was rich, cultured, amused,
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I'm not here for dinner. I turned and forgot how
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to breathe. Adrian Blackwood moved through space like he owned it,
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not arrogantly, just with absolute certainty of his place in it. Tall, lean,
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dressed in chef's whites that somehow looked like haute couture
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on him, black hair, blue eyes that belonged in a
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Renaissance painting, and a smile that suggested he knew exactly
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what you were thinking and found it charming. But it
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was more than his looks. The air around him tasted different, complex, layered,
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like a wine that revealed new notes with every breath.
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You must be Norah Warren, he said, and hearing my
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name in his voice did something to my spine. Your
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mother mentioned her daughter was coming home the food critic, Yes,
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how did you small town news travels? He moved closer,
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and I caught his scent, something between burnt caramel and
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night blooming jasmine. Impossible, addictive. I'm Adrian. I own Harvest,
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the new restaurant on Main Street, the place that's been
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stealing all our customers, James said flatly. Adrian's smile didn't waver,
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offering alternatives, not stealing. Competition is healthy, isn't it. He
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turned that smile on me. You should come by. I'd
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love to cook for someone who truly understands food. She's
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eating here, James said, of course, the inn soup is adequate.
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Adrian pulled something from his pocket, a small glass jar.
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A welcome gift, my butternut squash soup. I'd be curious
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to know how it compares. He set the jar on
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the bar, fingers brushing mine as I reached for it. Automatically,
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the touch sent electricity through me, but not the painful
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static kind. This was warm, honeyed, making my skin hum.
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Just a taste, he said, producing a silver spoon from somewhere.
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Unless James objects to competition, James's jaw tightened, but he
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gestured for me to go ahead. I could taste his
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reluctance in the air, metallic sharp. I opened the jar,
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dipped the spoon and brought it to my lips. The
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world exploded. It wasn't just soup. It was autumn mornings
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and first kisses and the feeling of silk on skin,
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and the moment before a thunderstorm, and chocolate melting on
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your tongue, and that ache when you want someone so
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badly you can't breathe. But more than that, I tasted desire,
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not his desire, but mine. I tasted how much I
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wanted him, had always wanted him, would always want him.
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I tasted the shape of him fitting into the empty
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spaces my life I hadn't known were there. I gasped,
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nearly dropping the spoon. Interesting, Adrian asked, and his voice
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sounded like it was coming from inside my bones. How
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I managed? I've been perfecting that recipe for years. Food
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is emotion, don't you think? Why not craft the feeling
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as carefully as the flavor? James stepped forward. What did
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you put in that? Nothing but traditional ingredients, squash, cream sage,
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brown butter, and intention. His eyes never left mine. You
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taste the intention, don't you? Norah? I did God help me?
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I tasted his intention like it was my own one need,
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hunger that had nothing to do with food. Have dinner
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with me, Adrian said, tomorrow night, let me cook for
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you properly. She's helping with the Inns Thanksgiving preparations. James
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said quickly, one dinner won't interfere with that. Adrian finally
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looked away from me, and I could breathe again. Unless
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you're afraid of the competition, I'm not afraid of anything
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you're offering. The testosterone between them was thick enough to
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spread on toast, but I was still reeling from that soup,
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from the way it had rewritten my emotional state with
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a single spoonful. Tomorrow, I heard myself say eight o'clock.
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Adrian's smile was triumphant, perfect. Harvest will be closed to
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everyone but you. He turned to leave, then paused. James
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makes good soup, honest, simple, Sometimes that's exactly what you need.
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The door chimed as he left, and I realized I
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was gripping the edge of the bar hard enough to hurt.
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Don't go, James said, quietly, jealous. I tried to make
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it light, but my voice shook Concerned. He took the
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jar of Adrian's soup capped it firmly. That wasn't normal.
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What you tasted. That wasn't just emotion, it was it
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was incredible. It was manipulation. James's eyes were serious. I've
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been watching him for three months, Norah. People who eat
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at Harvest don't just enjoy it. They become obsessed. They
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stop eating anywhere else. They look at him like he's
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their whole world. Maybe he's just a better chef. The
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hurt that flashed across James's face made me feel like
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a bitch. Maybe, he said quietly, Or maybe he's doing
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something to the food, something wrong, like what adding msg
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for emotions. I don't know, but I can taste it
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in the people who come back from his restaurant. They
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taste altered, like their emotional palette has been changed. I
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wanted to laugh it off, but I could still taste
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Adrian's soup in my mouth, still feel that artificial desire
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humming in my veins. It should have scared me. Instead,
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it made me want more. I can take care of myself,
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I said. I'm sure Rebecca thought that too. Rebecca woman
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who disappeared last Thanksgiving. She ate at Harvest every night
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the week before she vanished. James turned back to the
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kitchen shoulders tents. But hey, I'm just the help. What
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do I know, James, Your lunch is ready, Let me
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get it for you. He brought me a grilled cheese
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and tomato soup, simple comforting, nothing fancy. But when I
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tasted it, I got the truth of him. Worry for me,
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genuine and protective attraction, tentative and respectful fear of Adrian
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that went deeper than professional rivalry, and hurt that I'd
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chosen the flashy newcomer over his quiet sincerity. This is perfect,
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I said, meaning it but not exciting. James. Enjoy your
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dinner tomorrow, he said, and went back to the kitchen.
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I sat alone in the empty restaurant, eating soup that
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tasted like safety, while craving the one that tasted like
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dangerous desire. Through the window, I could see Harvest down
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the street, its windows glowing amber in the November afternoon.
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Adrian was probably in there, cooking emotions into his sources,
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preparing to feed me feelings that weren't my own. I
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should have been terrified, should have listened to James, to
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the warning in my gut that said something was very
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wrong here. Instead, I was counting the hours until tomorrow night.
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Mum appeared as I was finishing lunch. How was everything good?
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Really good? She glanced toward the kitchen where James was
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cleaning up. He's wonderful, isn't he so steady? Reliable? Nothing
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like that Adrian Blackwood. The way she said Adrian's name
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made me look at her sharply. You've met him. Everyone's
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met him. He makes sure of that. She started clearing
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my dishes, movements shot with disapproval. Three months he's been
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here and already half the town eats nowhere else. It's
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not natural the way people fawn over him. Maybe the
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food's just that good. Mum's laugh was bitter as espresso.
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Food that good doesn't exist. Trust me, honey, stay away
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from that man. He's the kind who takes what he
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wants and leaves nothing but empty plates and broken hearts.
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But I was already lost. I could still taste his
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intention on my tongue, feel his desire like it was
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my own. Tomorrow night, he would cook for me, and
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I would let him feed me whatever he wanted. James
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knew it. I could feel him watching me through the
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kitchen window, tasting my anticipation in the air. His worry
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followed me out of the restaurant, clinging like smoke. I
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should have listened to him, should have recognized the difference
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between real concern and manufactured desire. Should have known that
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any emotion you can taste in a single spoonful of
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soup isn't love, It's poison. But I wouldn't figure that
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out until it was almost too late, until i'd betrayed
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the one person who'd ever understood my gift, until I'd
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been seasoned like a turkey for something's Thanksgiving feast, or
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because I couldn't resist the chef who could make me
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feel anything he wanted me to feel, whether it was
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real or not.