Picky Eater

Thaddeus Gillcrest leaned back in his chair, his sharp gaze following the waitress as she placed the plate before him. His expression remained unreadable, but the slight twitch of his brow hinted at mild intrigue. When his eyes finally dropped to the dish, a quiet scoff left his lips. 

Braised chicken roulade, wrapped in crispy prosciutto, draped in a golden saffron beurre blanc sauce, and served over a delicate bed of roasted cauliflower rice—it was the kind of dish that belonged in a five-star restaurant, not some struggling little eatery. 

He rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose. "So, this is what she came up with," he murmured, tapping his fingers against the table. For all her earlier defiance, this shabby restaurant certainly put in the effort. But effort wasn't enough—he wasn't here to be impressed easily.

Thaddeus tapped his fork against the plate, eyeing the dish like it had personally offended him. With a slow inhale, he lifted his gaze to the waitress standing awkwardly by the table. 

"Where's the owner?" he asked, his tone just a notch above bored. 

The waitress blinked, shifting on her feet like she suddenly regretted taking this job. "Uh… she'll be here in a second." 

"Of course, she will," he muttered, drumming his fingers against the table. He sighed, leaning back in his chair. "She made me wait for the food—now I have to wait to eat it, too. Fantastic."

The waitress gave him a tight, nervous smile before scurrying away like she wanted no part in whatever was about to go down. 

Thaddeus exhaled sharply, glancing back at the plated dish. He tilted his head, assessing it with mild curiosity. It looked good—annoyingly good. Almost like someone had actually put effort into impressing him. 

He tapped his fork against the edge of the plate again, then checked his watch. "Any second now," he muttered under his breath, glancing toward the entrance. 

If she didn't show up soon, he might just start eating out of spite.

Just as Thaddeus was about to dig in—mostly out of boredom—he caught movement from the corner of his eye. 

There she was. 

That sassy woman from earlier carried another plate, her expression unreadable but her posture screaming confidence. He leaned back in his chair, arms lazily crossing over his chest as he watched her approach. 

Without a word, she set the dessert plate down in front of him, as if daring him to complain. The rich aroma of something warm, sweet, and decadent hit his nose. He glanced between the two dishes, then up at her with an arched brow. 

"Trying to butter me up with dessert before I even take a bite of the main course?" he drawled, smirking.

Sabrina huffed, crossing her arms as she shot him a look. "Eat in whatever order you want. I'm not here to babysit your palate." 

Thaddeus let out a low chuckle, picking up the dessert spoon and twirling it between his fingers. "Feisty. I like that." 

She rolled her eyes. "You liking it isn't part of the deal. Just eat." 

With a smirk still tugging at his lips, he finally turned his attention to the food. The golden crust of the peach cobbler glistened under the warm lights, the honey-whiskey caramel sauce pooling perfectly around it. He could smell the fresh mint garnish mingling with the sweet, buttery aroma. 

His stomach betrayed him with a low growl. 

Sabrina caught it and smirked. "Guess your appetite's answering for you."

Thaddeus cleared his throat, pretending he didn't just get called out by his own stomach. With an air of nonchalance, he took the spoon and scooped up a bite of the cobbler, making sure to get a good drizzle of the honey-whiskey caramel. 

The moment it hit his tongue, he paused. The warmth of the baked peaches, the slight crunch of the buttery crust, and the deep, smoky sweetness of the caramel all blended into something dangerously addictive. 

Sabrina raised an eyebrow, arms still crossed. "Well? Need me to spell out what you're supposed to do next?" 

Thaddeus exhaled slowly, placing the spoon down with deliberate care. He leaned back in his chair, meeting her gaze with something unreadable. 

"This…" He tapped his fingers against the table. "This is actually good." 

"Don't sound too impressed now. Wouldn't want you to choke on your pride."

Thaddeus let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?" 

"Nope. Especially when my business is on the line." She nodded toward the plate. "Go on. Finish it. Unless you're scared it might make you admit I'm better at this than you thought." 

His jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he picked up the spoon again, this time taking another slow, deliberate bite. 

Damn it. It was good. Too good. 

He hated to admit it, but this woman knew what she was doing. The balance of flavors, the way the warmth of the cobbler contrasted with the coolness of the melting vanilla bean ice cream—it was frustratingly perfect. 

Sabrina watched him with a smirk, clearly enjoying his internal struggle. "So?" she prodded, leaning on the table slightly. "Are you ready to call off your little takeover, or do I need to make you a five-course meal to drive the point home?" 

Thaddeus placed the spoon down with a quiet clink, his gaze locked onto hers. "You're confident," he murmured, tilting his head slightly. "I'll give you that." 

"I have to be." 

He took another bite, chewing slowly as if analyzing every flavor. After a long pause, he set his fork down and looked up at her. "Who's the chef?"

Sabrina crossed her arms, tilting her head. "I am."

He blinked, then rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "You?" he replied in disbelief and almost scornful.

She raised an eyebrow. "Disappointed?"

"Just... surprised. I expected someone with more experience, not a woman who looks like she's ready to stab me with a fork."

"Give me a reason, and I just might."

He smirked, then, as if needing to recover from his momentary slip of admiration, he straightened. "Fine. That was decent—I'll admit. But one meal isn't enough to convince me."

She narrowed her eyes. "Oh, here we go."

For a long moment, he just stared at her, as if trying to decide what to do next. Then, he exhaled, fingers drumming against the table. 

"Alright," he finally said. "Let's talk."

Sabrina arched an eyebrow, arms still crossed. "Talk? Thought you were here to take over, not chat over dessert." 

Tapping the edge of his spoon against the plate, Thaddeus smirked. "Things change." 

"That fast? Must be some kind of record." 

He leaned back in his chair, studying her with an unreadable expression. "I'll admit, I expected something... passable. Not impressive. You surprised me." 

Sabrina narrowed her eyes, not entirely trusting the shift in his tone. "So? Does that mean you'll back off?" 

"Maybe. But I don't make decisions lightly, especially ones involving business." He gestured toward the empty plate. "One good meal doesn't change everything." 

"Of course, it doesn't. That would be too easy." 

A slow grin spread across his lips. "You get it now." 

She exhaled sharply, already regretting this whole ordeal. "So, what? Another challenge? A cooking duel? A full-blown restaurant war?" 

Thaddeus chuckled. "Relax. I'm just saying... I need more convincing." 

Sabrina groaned. "You're impossible." 

"And yet," he said smoothly, "you're still here, trying to prove yourself to me." 

She huffed, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm here because you barged into my life like some rich, entitled tornado, threatening to wipe out my restaurant." 

Thaddeus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, completely unfazed. "And yet, you took the challenge. Makes me wonder if you're enjoying this more than you let on." 

Letting out a dry laugh, she said, "Oh, absolutely. Nothing thrills me more than fighting for my livelihood against a smug billionaire with too much free time." 

"Flattery will get you nowhere." 

"Neither will this conversation. You said you needed more convincing. What exactly do you want?" 

Thaddeus took his time, as if savoring her irritation. "I want another meal. Something that proves this wasn't a fluke. And I want you to personally serve it in front of me." 

Sabrina's fingers twitched with the urge to fling a napkin at his face. "You mean another test." 

He rested his chin on his hand, smirking. "One more challenge. Another meal. Impress me again, and maybe I'll consider your little request."

She let out a slow exhale, resisting the urge to fling the dessert plate at him. "You really don't know when to quit, do you?"

Thaddeus simply lifted his glass in a mock toast. "What can I say? I enjoy a good game."

She sighed, rubbing her temples. "Fine. One more meal. But after that, you better have an answer."

He lifted his glass in a mock toast. "Deal."

In the kitchen.

Sabrina sighed, rolling up her sleeves like she was about to throw punches instead of prepping another meal. "One more meal, huh? Fine. Let's see if he can handle this."

If this guy thought he could keep throwing challenges at her, he had another thing coming. She wasn't just cooking to impress anymore—she was flipping the game on him.

This time, she wasn't just sticking to Western flavors. Oh no, she decided to mix things up—literally. She was going full fusion—blending bold, rich Western techniques with the deep, comforting spices of Eastern cuisine. If this man wanted another challenge, she'd make sure it was one he wouldn't forget.

She surveyed the ingredients on the counter, her mind spinning with ideas. Then it hit her as she grabbed fresh salmon, marinating it in a blend of soy sauce, honey, and a hint of bourbon. Then, she seared it to a perfect, caramelized crisp, placing it atop a fragrant saffron-infused jasmine rice. On the side, she prepared miso-glazed Brussels sprouts, adding a touch of heat with a sprinkle of Szechuan peppercorns.

For garnish, a delicate drizzle of yuzu hollandaise, topped with microgreens and edible flowers. She called it: "Whiskey-Glazed Samurai Salmon"—a dish as smooth as its name.

As the aromas filled the kitchen, Rayna peeked in, eyes wide with curiosity. "So, what's the game plan this time?"

Sabrina smirked. "Let's just say if he doesn't like this, the problem isn't my cooking—it's his taste buds."

Rayna snorted. "I'll grab the fire extinguisher, just in case."

They chuckled together, and for a moment, the stress faded away.

For the final touch, Sabrina plated with precision—slicing the duck into even pieces, fanning them over the truffle rice, then nestling the charred bok choy beside them. A glossy drizzle of honey-soy reduction over the duck, a delicate sprinkle of microgreens, and a few edible orchid petals later, the dish looked straight out of a Michelin-starred restaurant.

It didn't take long before she was plating up the final dish, her face flushed with pride. If this didn't impress him, nothing would. She could only imagine the look on his face when he tried it—the mixture of surprise and reluctant approval.

She wiped her hands on her apron, then paused, her gaze landing on the plate once more. For a moment, she let herself smile, basking in the warm glow of accomplishment.

Taking a step back, she nodded in satisfaction. "Alright, let's see if Mr. Mysterious can handle this one."

With the plate in hand, she strode out of the kitchen, ready to serve up not just another meal—but a statement.

When she walked into the dining hall, the man looked up, slightly surprised by her confidence. She placed the plate in front of him, then met his gaze with unwavering determination.

"This meal is inspired by a rare combination of cultures—just like certain people who pretend to be predictable when they're actually full of surprises," she said smoothly. "You see, food never lies. You can judge a person by the way they react to a dish. So, let's see—will you be the kind of man who truly appreciates something exceptional, or just another one who turns down what he can't understand?"

His expression shifted ever so slightly. A flicker of something—annoyance? Curiosity? Either way, she had him cornered.

If he turned down the dish, he'd look like a fool who couldn't handle complexity. If he ate it and enjoyed it, he'd be acknowledging her skills. And if he faked his reaction? Oh, she'd know. The touch of bourbon in the glaze, the yuzu hollandaise—those weren't flavors you could pretend to understand.

He picked up his fork, his smirk faltering just a little.

Game on.