She looked up at John. He sat across from her, hands clasped, chin resting on them. His gaze was unreadable, but it lingered on her.
"Aren't you hungry?" she asked.
"I am."
He cut into his steak with unhurried precision. His tone was serious, but a playful undertone lurked beneath. "But just this won't be enough for me."
Grace's face flushed. She knew what he meant.
John was always direct—both in words and actions.
Through the flickering candlelight, he arched a brow. "What's on your mind, Miss Quinn? Why is your face so red?"
Grace shot back, "You're smiling with ill intent, Mr. Amster. What are you thinking?"
John continued slicing his steak. "Naturally, about meat."
"Rogue," she muttered under her breath.
"There are many ways to cook steak," he mused. "Braising, dry pot—but frying in butter is best. Simple, right? Yet it takes skill."
He placed a cut piece in front of her. "Try it."
