His face twisted at the taste, and he smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “It tastes like…nails.” “Nails? Do you mean the pain or the taste of metal?” “Both.” He grimaced. “Remind me never to let you cook for me.” He took a sip of my scotch to wash it down. “I can cook just fine. Just don’t vex me, and I will exclude the cyanide.” I finished jotting down my note before picking up the next spoon. “Now this one.” “We have tried four already,” he protested. “Be a good sport.” I glared. “You agreed to be my subject,” I said pointedly. I leaned in and whispered seductively in his
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