Speaker 1: Caloroga Shark Media. Hello and welcome to Romance Weekly and
Thanksgiving Seduction. This is episode one Bittersweet. I've been lying
to food magazines for years. When I write that I
can taste the love in a grandmother's apple pie, readers
think I'm being poetic. They don't know. I literally taste
her worry about her grandson's health and the cinnamon, her
grief for her dead husband in the butter, her hope,
in the way she crimped the edges. I came home
to Westbrook expecting to write a fluff piece about small
town Thanksgiving traditions. I didn't expect to taste desperation in
every dish my mother made. I didn't expect the new
chef at our family inn to look at me like
he knew exactly what I was experiencing. And I definitely
didn't expect what happened when Adrian Blackwood walked into my
life with a single spoonful of butternut squash soup that
would ruin everything. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let
me tell you about coming home and how Thanksgiving became
something to survive rather than celebrate. The Westbrook Inn sat
exactly as I'd left it five years ago, three stories
of colonial charm wrapped in November's bare branches, my childhood
home and my whole world. What was different was the
empty parking lot on a Friday afternoon, and the taste
of panic in the apple cider Mum handed me the
moment I walked through the door. Norah, you're early. She
hugged me tight, and I could smell the strain on
her like burnt sugar. I wasn't expecting you until dinner.
Wanted to beat traffic. I took another sip of cider.
Under the cinnamon and cloves, I tasted exhaustion, fear, and
something else. Shame. Mum, what's wrong? Nothing's wrong, Everything's wonderful.
Come let me show you your room. We've renovated. The
renovation was just new curtains and a desperate coat of
paint that couldn't hide the water stain on the ceiling.
As she chattered about bookings for Thanksgiving week lies, I
could taste them in the cookies she kept pushing at me.
I wondered how long the inn had been failing. Where's Ben?
I asked about my younger brother, Oh, you know him,
always busy with his projects, more lies, bitter as burnt coffee.
I'm going to grab lunch in the restaurant, I said,
See what you're serving these days. Mum's face did something complicated.
Of course, James is cooking today. You'll love him. He's
been such a blessing. The restaurant was empty except for
one couple in the corner, and even they were just
having coffee. The dining room that used to require reservations
weeks in advance, now echoed with my footsteps. That's when
I saw him, James Brennan, visible through the kitchen's passed
through window, dark hair pulled back, focused expression as he
prepped something I couldn't see, moving with the economy of
someone who'd learned not to waste energy. He looked up
as I sat at the bar, and our eyes met.
I felt the recognition like a physical shock. Not that
I knew him, but that he knew what I was.
He could see it in me the way I could
suddenly see it in him. You taste it, too, he said, quietly,
coming to the bar. Not a question, how did you
The way you held that cider, the face you made
on the second sip when you tasted whatever your mom's
been hiding. He had warm, brown eyes, tired around the edges.
Plus your Marie Warren's daughter. She mentioned you had a
gift for food. She doesn't know it's literal, neither does
anyone else. He set a bowl in front of me,
butternut squash soup. Tell me what you taste. The first
spoonful nearly made me cry, not because it was sad,
but because it was so honestly itself. I tasted his loneliness,
not bitter, just present, acknowledged his worry about the inn
genuine and practical, His curiosity about me tentative and respectful,
and underneath it all contentment in the craft itself, the
simple satisfaction of making something nourishing. You love cooking, I said,
But you're worried it won't be enough to save this place.
He smiled, and it transformed his face. And you're wondering
why a chef with my training is working at a
failing in in the Hudson Valley instead of the city.
Are you tasting your curiosity? Yeah, it's like he paused,
searching for words like cinnamon warm, but with an edge.
No one's ever described my emotions as devices before. How
do you experience them temperature, mostly and texture. I took
another spoonful of soup. Your loneliness is cool, smooth like riverstones.
Your satisfaction is warm bread. We stared at each other,
two people who'd never met anyone else like them. How
long have you been able to do this? I asked?
Always you same? I became a food critic because I
thought everyone could taste emotions in food. Took me until
college to realize I was experiencing something others weren't. He
leaned on the bar closer but not invasive. Must make
restaurant reviews interesting, You have no idea. I once gave
a terrible review to a technically perfect meal because I
could taste that the chef despised his customers. James laughed,
and I wanted to make him do it again. When
was the last time I'd met someone I could be
honest with about this? Order anything you want, he said,
on the house. I'm curious what you'll taste in my cooking.
What if I taste something you don't want me to know?
His smile turned rueful. Then you'll know the truth about me.
Seems only fair since I can taste yours. I was
about to respond. When the restaurant door chimed. The couple
in the corner looked up eagerly, and James's expression shifted
to something careful guarded. Adrian, he said, neutrally, We're not
open for dinner yet, James. The voice was rich, cultured, amused,
I'm not here for dinner. I turned and forgot how
to breathe. Adrian Blackwood moved through space like he owned it,
not arrogantly, just with absolute certainty of his place in it. Tall, lean,
dressed in chef's whites that somehow looked like haute couture
on him, black hair, blue eyes that belonged in a
Renaissance painting, and a smile that suggested he knew exactly
what you were thinking and found it charming. But it
was more than his looks. The air around him tasted different, complex, layered,
like a wine that revealed new notes with every breath.
You must be Norah Warren, he said, and hearing my
name in his voice did something to my spine. Your
mother mentioned her daughter was coming home the food critic, Yes,
how did you small town news travels? He moved closer,
and I caught his scent, something between burnt caramel and
night blooming jasmine. Impossible, addictive. I'm Adrian. I own Harvest,
the new restaurant on Main Street, the place that's been
stealing all our customers, James said flatly. Adrian's smile didn't waver,
offering alternatives, not stealing. Competition is healthy, isn't it. He
turned that smile on me. You should come by. I'd
love to cook for someone who truly understands food. She's
eating here, James said, of course, the inn soup is adequate.
Adrian pulled something from his pocket, a small glass jar.
A welcome gift, my butternut squash soup. I'd be curious
to know how it compares. He set the jar on
the bar, fingers brushing mine as I reached for it. Automatically,
the touch sent electricity through me, but not the painful
static kind. This was warm, honeyed, making my skin hum.
Just a taste, he said, producing a silver spoon from somewhere.
Unless James objects to competition, James's jaw tightened, but he
gestured for me to go ahead. I could taste his
reluctance in the air, metallic sharp. I opened the jar,
dipped the spoon and brought it to my lips. The
world exploded. It wasn't just soup. It was autumn mornings
and first kisses and the feeling of silk on skin,
and the moment before a thunderstorm, and chocolate melting on
your tongue, and that ache when you want someone so
badly you can't breathe. But more than that, I tasted desire,
not his desire, but mine. I tasted how much I
wanted him, had always wanted him, would always want him.
I tasted the shape of him fitting into the empty
spaces my life I hadn't known were there. I gasped,
nearly dropping the spoon. Interesting, Adrian asked, and his voice
sounded like it was coming from inside my bones. How
I managed? I've been perfecting that recipe for years. Food
is emotion, don't you think? Why not craft the feeling
as carefully as the flavor? James stepped forward. What did
you put in that? Nothing but traditional ingredients, squash, cream sage,
brown butter, and intention. His eyes never left mine. You
taste the intention, don't you? Norah? I did God help me?
I tasted his intention like it was my own one need,
hunger that had nothing to do with food. Have dinner
with me, Adrian said, tomorrow night, let me cook for
you properly. She's helping with the Inns Thanksgiving preparations. James
said quickly, one dinner won't interfere with that. Adrian finally
looked away from me, and I could breathe again. Unless
you're afraid of the competition, I'm not afraid of anything
you're offering. The testosterone between them was thick enough to
spread on toast, but I was still reeling from that soup,
from the way it had rewritten my emotional state with
a single spoonful. Tomorrow, I heard myself say eight o'clock.
Adrian's smile was triumphant, perfect. Harvest will be closed to
everyone but you. He turned to leave, then paused. James
makes good soup, honest, simple, Sometimes that's exactly what you need.
The door chimed as he left, and I realized I
was gripping the edge of the bar hard enough to hurt.
Don't go, James said, quietly, jealous. I tried to make
it light, but my voice shook Concerned. He took the
jar of Adrian's soup capped it firmly. That wasn't normal.
What you tasted. That wasn't just emotion, it was it
was incredible. It was manipulation. James's eyes were serious. I've
been watching him for three months, Norah. People who eat
at Harvest don't just enjoy it. They become obsessed. They
stop eating anywhere else. They look at him like he's
their whole world. Maybe he's just a better chef. The
hurt that flashed across James's face made me feel like
a bitch. Maybe, he said quietly, Or maybe he's doing
something to the food, something wrong, like what adding msg
for emotions. I don't know, but I can taste it
in the people who come back from his restaurant. They
taste altered, like their emotional palette has been changed. I
wanted to laugh it off, but I could still taste
Adrian's soup in my mouth, still feel that artificial desire
humming in my veins. It should have scared me. Instead,
it made me want more. I can take care of myself,
I said. I'm sure Rebecca thought that too. Rebecca woman
who disappeared last Thanksgiving. She ate at Harvest every night
the week before she vanished. James turned back to the
kitchen shoulders tents. But hey, I'm just the help. What
do I know, James, Your lunch is ready, Let me
get it for you. He brought me a grilled cheese
and tomato soup, simple comforting, nothing fancy. But when I
tasted it, I got the truth of him. Worry for me,
genuine and protective attraction, tentative and respectful fear of Adrian
that went deeper than professional rivalry, and hurt that I'd
chosen the flashy newcomer over his quiet sincerity. This is perfect,
I said, meaning it but not exciting. James. Enjoy your
dinner tomorrow, he said, and went back to the kitchen.
I sat alone in the empty restaurant, eating soup that
tasted like safety, while craving the one that tasted like
dangerous desire. Through the window, I could see Harvest down
the street, its windows glowing amber in the November afternoon.
Adrian was probably in there, cooking emotions into his sources,
preparing to feed me feelings that weren't my own. I
should have been terrified, should have listened to James, to
the warning in my gut that said something was very
wrong here. Instead, I was counting the hours until tomorrow night.
Mum appeared as I was finishing lunch. How was everything good?
Really good? She glanced toward the kitchen where James was
cleaning up. He's wonderful, isn't he so steady? Reliable? Nothing
like that Adrian Blackwood. The way she said Adrian's name
made me look at her sharply. You've met him. Everyone's
met him. He makes sure of that. She started clearing
my dishes, movements shot with disapproval. Three months he's been
here and already half the town eats nowhere else. It's
not natural the way people fawn over him. Maybe the
food's just that good. Mum's laugh was bitter as espresso.
Food that good doesn't exist. Trust me, honey, stay away
from that man. He's the kind who takes what he
wants and leaves nothing but empty plates and broken hearts.
But I was already lost. I could still taste his
intention on my tongue, feel his desire like it was
my own. Tomorrow night, he would cook for me, and
I would let him feed me whatever he wanted. James
knew it. I could feel him watching me through the
kitchen window, tasting my anticipation in the air. His worry
followed me out of the restaurant, clinging like smoke. I
should have listened to him, should have recognized the difference
between real concern and manufactured desire. Should have known that
any emotion you can taste in a single spoonful of
soup isn't love, It's poison. But I wouldn't figure that
out until it was almost too late, until i'd betrayed
the one person who'd ever understood my gift, until I'd
been seasoned like a turkey for something's Thanksgiving feast, or
because I couldn't resist the chef who could make me
feel anything he wanted me to feel, whether it was
real or not.