by Kate, Jiffy
“Okay, Mama. I really—”
“I know,” she says, cutting me off. “You gotta go. I love you.”
“Love you.”
Pocketing the phone, I pull the handle of the front door and practically dislocate my shoulder.
Locked?
Pulling my phone back out of my pocket, I check the time. It’s a little earlier than I thought. I must’ve been jogging faster than I realized. But someone is still usually here by now. If I had to guess, Shaw is upstairs in the apartment or in his office.
I scan the sidewalk and think about walking down to Café du Monde, but even from here, I can tell there are throngs of people walking around at the corner. But a beignet sounds amazing.
But being late and pissing Shaw off doesn’t.
Turning around, I think about sitting on the bench until someone opens the door, but then the sign hanging next door catches my attention.
Lizzie’s Cooking School.
Walking over, I peek in the window and see the lights on. When I try the door handle, it opens easily, a tinkling bell rings, signaling my arrival, but Sarah isn’t anywhere to be seen.
“Hello?” I call out.
Looking around, I take in the white walls and stainless steel shelving that holds cookbooks and cookware. The faint sounds of jazz filtering in, mixed with a hint of spices, makes me smile. This place is such a contrast to the bar next door.
Feeling comfortable enough in my budding friendship with Sarah, I walk toward the door that I’m assuming leads to the kitchen and prep area. When I swing it open, my heart bounces up into my throat and then plummets to my feet, kind of like when you’re on a roller coaster and you get at the top of the giant drop...then whoosh.
Shaw is sitting at the stainless steel counter, talking to Sarah...and smiling.
My eyes go wide, eagerly taking in every detail, greedy for the curve of his lips and the way his cheeks push up, making his eyes crinkle on the sides. He’s sexy when he’s broody. But Shaw is exquisite when he’s smiling. The way his lips part, showing off a set of perfectly straight, white teeth, completely transforms his face and makes my body feel like melted chocolate—ooey, gooey, and decadent.
Where has that smile been all my life?
Where has he been all my life?
“Avery.” It’s Sarah who speaks and makes me practically swallow my tongue. “Hi, come on in.” Her tone is easy and comfortable, like she was expecting me.
“I’m, uh...” I stutter over my words, pointing over my shoulder, trying to convey what I’m trying to say without speaking. “The bar was locked,” I squeak out. “I just was, uh...” I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can’t take my eyes off of Shaw and he’s now looking at me too, but the smile is gone and I feel an intense loss.
I didn’t know I could miss a smile, but I do.
And I want it back.
And I want it to be directed at me.
“Paulie must be running late. He went to pick up a backup keg of the new Abita that was backordered. I thought he’d be back already.” Shaw speaks to Sarah, but his eyes still glance back at me, where I’m still frozen in the doorway.
When he finally breaks the contact, I’m able to take a deep breath and get a grip. “I’ll just go wait outside.”
“No,” Sarah insists. “Stay. Are you hungry? I tried out a new recipe this afternoon and Shaw was being my guinea pig, but it’d be great to have a second, unbiased opinion.”
I laugh, because I do that sometimes when I’m nervous. “Oh, I don’t know about unbiased,” I reply. “I already kind of love your cooking.”
“Well, you’re not as bad as this one,” she says, pointing to Shaw who’s now standing, towering above the two of us, and backing away toward the door that must lead to the alley that the cooking school and the bar share. It’s like he’s not sure if he wants to leave Sarah and I alone, but he eventually lets out a huff and walks away.
“Don’t mind him,” Sarah says, placing a white bowl down in front of me and then ladling in a heaping helping of something mouth-watering. “He’s always extra grumpy on Tuesdays.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, suddenly starving for both the masterpiece in front of me and information about Shaw O’Sullivan.
Sarah shrugs, sighing. “I don’t know. I mean, isn’t everyone a little grumpy at the beginning of the week? I know I am. It’s like you just get into the weekend—letting loose, getting relaxed—and then reality is back and you have no choice in the matter. Shaw’s always been moody about things he has no control over.”
Her words seem honest, but also like they hold hidden meaning. The way she looks at me with knowing eyes has me feeling like she’s asking me to look below the surface or read between the lines, but I’m not sure what I’m supposed to see.
“I guess I get that. I mean, I’m never in a bad mood when the new week rolls around, but then again, I don’t have a lot to do over the weekends since I don’t have a permanent place to live or...people. Plus, I grew up on a farm and every day was a work day. No time to get all lax and lazy,” I tell her, taking my first bite and moaning my appreciation. “Oh, my God. This—”
“Shrimp Malacca,” Sarah says with a smile as her eyes grow wide in delight. “You like it?”
“That’s not the appropriate word,” I mumble around another bite. “It’s not sufficient,” I add, moaning like a whore.
Sarah’s laugh makes me feel good and her smile reminds me of her brother’s. Now that I know what Shaw looks like when he smiles, it’s easier to see the resemblance between him and Sarah.
“Please know this is not a Meg Ryan moment. I would never fake a foodgasm,” I tell her with a smile, laughing a little when she laughs harder.
“Good to know.” Sarah’s smile is still there, but her eyes change a little, like she’s trying to figure me out or something. “So, you grew up on a farm?” The change of topic is casual and easy.
“Yeah, in Oklahoma.”
“Shaw mentioned that,” Sarah says thoughtfully, her eyes still on me.
I don’t know why, but the knowledge that Shaw has said my name in private, while talking to Sarah does something to me. What else has he said about me?
I nod, unsure of what else to say.
“You don’t want to farm?” Sarah asks.
“No,” I reply honestly with a renewed laugh and a shake of my head, digging in for another bite of this orgasmic Shrimp Ma...calla? “Shrimp Macalla?” I ask, needing to be sure of what I’m putting in my mouth so I can tuck it away for future reference when anyone asks me what the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth is.
“Shrimp Malacca,” Sarah corrects. “It has curry in it. That’s what gives it that extra oomph.”
“Delicious,” I tell her. “It’s my new favorite dish.”
“Thanks for the stamp of approval.”
“If you ever need an extra taster, I’m your girl.”
“I’ll remember that,” she says with a smile. “Sometimes, I think Paulie and Shaw would tell me a week-old ham sandwich tasted good.”
“Paulie’s nice.”
“He is,” Sarah says with a more practical tone, nodding her head. “He’s a great asset to the bar and to Shaw.”
We sit in comfortable silence for a minute while I finish my bowl. When I’m finished, I pick up my empty bowl and walk over to the large wash station.
“You don’t have to wash your own dishes,” Sarah says teasingly. “We have a fancy-shmancy dishwasher for that.”
“Okay,” I reply, setting the bowl on the counter and turning to her, asking something I’ve been wondering since I started working for Shaw and found out about the cooking school, “Who’s Lizzie?”
Sarah’s face falls a little before she quickly recovers and takes a deep breath, exhaling with a sigh. “That’s not my story to tell,” Sarah finally says with a small, soft smile.
“Shaw named the school?” I ask.
Sarah nods and I can tell she’s not giving
me any more information. Her shoulders are a little straighter, not as relaxed, as she turns around and pours the rest of the food into containers.
Conversation over.
Chapter 12
Shaw
Holy shit, what a day.
And the night shift hasn’t even started.
First, one of the soda dispensers at the bar stopped working and then, one of the toilets got stopped up. The cherry on top, though, was when some asshole blew chunks all over a female customer at the bar. It would seem, his three Come Agains didn’t mix well with the room-temp shrimp po’boy he’d eaten while on a business lunch before coming to the bar.
Color me fucking surprised.
After kicking the bastard out for refusing to pay his tab, cleaning up the mess he left, and offering to pay for the lady’s dry cleaning, I’m now kicked back on the couch in my office. Best case scenario: I can hide out in here for the rest of the night. In reality, I know I’ll be lucky if I’m able to close my eyes for a few minutes before someone needs something.
Just as I start to doze off, there’s a knock on my door.
Of fucking course.
Is there a full moon tonight?
When I don’t answer right away, hoping they’ll go away, they knock a second time and this time the knock is followed by a female voice saying “knock, knock”. I recognize the voice right away as belonging to Avery. Part of me wants to answer the door, while another part wants to keep hiding. Yet another part is shaking its head and calling me a “pussy” for, well, being a pussy.
“I know you’re in there, Shaw. The light is on and your music is playing.”
Son of a bitch.
I can’t help but snicker at being called out like that, but I don’t do it loudly. There’s no reason for Avery to know she made me laugh.
Accepting the fact I’ve officially been busted, I eventually roll off the couch and open the door. Immediately, I feel like an ass for making her wait so long because her hands are full. Also, she smells delicious.
Wait. No, what she’s holding smells delicious...and familiar.
“Here, let me help you.” I reach out and take the container from her before she has a chance to argue.
“Thanks.” Her voice is a bit timid and her cheeks have a dark pink tint to them.
Is she blushing?
Of course she isn’t blushing. That’d be ridiculous. She’s probably just overheated from walking to work. Ever since her asshole ex-boyfriend came and took her car, she’s been walking everywhere. To say I’m not fond of him, or her walking all over the city, is the understatement of the year.
I look down at the container in my hands and instantly recognize the label. That label plus the mouth-watering cinnamon sugar aroma swirling around can only mean one thing: bread pudding from The Crescent Moon.
Sweet, fucking mother of pearl.
“Is this—” I start to ask but she quickly interrupts me.
“Bread pudding, yeah. Wyatt said it was your favorite. It’s mine, too. The best I’ve ever had, actually, even better than my mama’s.” A rambling Avery is a cute Avery, even I can admit that. The way she’s twisting her fingers and avoiding eye contact, though, makes me wonder if something else is bothering her.
I know she’s said she isn’t scared of me, but I thought she was relaxing more around here and adjusting pretty well. A healthy amount of intimidation and respect for a boss is fine, but I want her to feel safe around me and know I won’t treat her like she’s been treated in the past.
“What’s this for?” I ask, holding up the container. Before I dig in, I want to know what I’m agreeing to or being swindled into. There’s gotta be a catch.
She shrugs before replying. “It’s my way of saying thank you. I would’ve made you something myself but I don’t really have access to a kitchen. I thought this would be good enough until I get my own place.”
A lot of thoughts fly through my mind at her words, but I need to understand something first. “What are you thanking me for exactly?”
“Well, for taking a chance on me...giving me this job, defending me when Brant showed up, and...uh, just because.” She gives me a small smile, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, and shrugs her shoulders.
So fucking cute.
Now, she’s looking directly at me and there’s something there. Determination, definitely, but also hope and anticipation maybe? But that can’t be and if it is, I have to nip it in the bud. I don’t need her following me around like a lost puppy; I thought she was different from all of the other women who come here.
I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest. “Listen, Avery, I know I haven’t made it easy on you but you’ve proved yourself to be a really good and hard worker and I appreciate that. You don’t have to go out of your way to thank me, just continue doing what you’ve always done while on the clock and that’ll be enough.”
My stomach drops as I watch the light in her eyes dim. Why can’t I just fucking talk to her like a normal person?
“Yes, of course. Feel free to share the bread pudding with the others, if you want.” She smiles again, but this time it’s fake and it’s what I deserve for being such an asshole.
She moves to leave but stops when I ask, “Did you say you can make bread pudding?”
“No, but I used to bake all the time back home.” She twists her plump lips to the side as she thinks about it for a second. “I miss being in the kitchen but that’s probably because I don’t have one yet.”
What the fuck?
I mean, her lips are plump, but why the hell did I just think that? I clear my throat and she must take it as a sign of irritation because she takes a step back and starts to leave again.
“What, um, would you have made for me if you had a kitchen?”
At this point, my mouth has completely detached itself from my brain and I can’t stop the words from leaving. I don’t know why I ask. Maybe I’m trying to make up for being such an asshole. Small talk and bullshitting used to be my specialty, but nowadays, I can’t seem to hold a normal conversation without sounding like a dick.
A smile that’s small but real graces her face and I’m thankful for the relief that floods my body.
“Brownies, probably. Unless you don’t like chocolate and if that’s the case, I’d make blondies. They’re my favorite.”
“I’ve never had a blondie before.” I close my eyes and mentally slap the shit out of myself for sounding like such a dumbass.
She laughs, but I try my hardest to ignore how it makes me feel. She’s off-limits, end of story.
“Well, here’s hoping I find an apartment soon so I can make you some.” She gives me a wink then leaves, while I remain standing, wondering what the hell just happened.
I’m so fucked.
The bar closed over an hour ago and I find myself in the same predicament I do every night: waiting to see if Paulie is gonna take Avery home or if I need to step in and make someone— other than Jeremy—do it. I know it’s asking a lot of Paulie, since he’s usually the one who does it, but I also know he doesn’t really mind. Everyone is fond of her and wants her to be safe, just like I do. They also don’t mind the extra money I add to their check every week for this special service.
I overheard her telling one of the guys about her adventures in apartment hunting and it doesn’t seem to be going well but I’m confident she’ll find a place soon and, hopefully, it’ll be a safe complex that’s not too far away.
“You ready, Avery?” I hear Paulie ask and I’m relieved.
“Sure,” is her answer but her voice sounds a little funny, so I look up, catching her watching me. I have a feeling it offends her in some way that I never offer to take her home, but I just can’t. I can’t even let myself imagine what that would be like.
Just as they’re about to leave, Sarah steps in from the storage room. “Hold on, Paulie. I need your help back here,” she calls out. “Shaw, you can take Avery home, right?”
I
know my eyeballs are bugging out of my head when I turn and look at my sister, but I can’t help it. Surely, she’s yanking my chain.
“I can help you with whatever you’re doing back there. Paulie, go ahead.”
“No.” Sarah’s response is firm and final and it’s pissing me off she’s doing this in front of my employees. “I need Paulie for this and only Paulie. Since everyone else is gone, you can take Avery home and then go home and get some rest. You look exhausted.”
Since when did my ma take over Sarah’s body? What the fuck is happening here?
My sister turns and leaves with Paulie right behind her, without even a backward glance. I’m so angry I’m afraid to move or speak or do anything right now. Sarah and I will be having words tomorrow, that’s a fact. And, if I find out she and Paulie are fucking in the storage room, heads will roll.
That’s a long-standing rule around here: no fucking in the storage room.
And, if it’s not already, it’s getting ready to be the new rule number 1.
Well, except for me. I’m fucking exempt. No pun intended.
“It’s okay, Shaw. I can walk by myself.” The sound of Avery’s soft voice is the cool water that calms the fire in me. Why is she so damn sweet? After all these weeks of me being an asshole on a consistent basis, other than standing up for herself when she needs to, she’s never been anything but sweet.
I collect myself and turn her way. “Nah, it’s fine,” I mutter, shaking my head. There’s no way in hell I’m letting her walk alone this late. Not on my watch. “But instead of walking, we’re taking the bike.”
At least this way, we won’t have any awkward silence. We also won’t have a chance for any more deep, meaningful conversations like the night she slept in the apartment. That night almost killed me. I can’t take another interaction like that. I was on cold shower duty for a week solid getting those images of Avery naked, in the shower, out of my head.
What the fuck, Shaw?
Yeah, now is not the time for that train of thought.
Get your shit together.
I don’t turn around to see if Avery is following me as I make my way for the backdoor, but I know she is. I can sense her behind me. And like always, her sweet smell lingers when she’s close by. She smells like vanilla and sugar, even after a night at the bar.
