by Jill Winters
When he'd come to see her today, he knew she'd eventually cave and go with him. He hadn't even had to mention Brett's name; it was this silent thing between them, the thing that would urge her on. Once they grabbed a table, Rick asked her what she wanted to drink. "Um... just a latte with skim milk. Please."
"You got it," he said, eyes sparkling, and heading to the counter.
Moments later, he returned. "So how did you get interested in cooking?" he asked, setting her latte down in front of her, then taking a seat. At this time of day, sun streamed through the tall wall of windows that expanded across one whole side of the food court.
"I started when I was younger," she replied. "In junior high, maybe. High school. I was bored a lot, I guess. Then I discovered this cooking show that I loved. The woman on it, I don't even remember her name now, was like a goddess. She was so cool, and she'd have her family come on the show, too. Her kids, and... I just wanted her life," she finished with a little laugh.
Studying her, Rick waited for her to continue. When she didn't he said, "And?"
"Oh, well and then I became a chef. And when I found out about the opportunity to work for The Culinary Network, I had to try for it."
"How do you like it so far?" he asked, restlessly rotating his cup in his hands.
"So far, so good," she said. "I mean, it can be extremely stressful, but mostly it's good. No, it's fascinating, honestly. I'm learning a lot. It's a whole new career path. God, I sound like one of those commercials for TV Repair School," she said, just realizing.
He laughed. "So can you make key lime pie?" he asked.
She blinked at him. "Of course. Why?"
"That's my favorite," he explained.
"Dessert?"
"No, favorite meal. I'm serious," he said, and she laughed.
"Well, sure, I make an excellent key lime pie," Gretchen admitted with a smile. "It's actually really easy to do—like cheesecake."
Rick's eyes widened. "You can make cheesecake, too?" he said, sounding genuinely impressed.
"Yes," she said with a giggle. "I mean, I'm a chef, jeez. Hey, you know what else I can do? I can make key lime cheesecake—can you handle it?"
He slapped his hand to his heart dramatically and dropped his mouth open in awe. "Wow," he said, smiling and shaking his head. "Jesus, I'm not sure.
Gretchen took a sip of her latte and felt its warmth, a perfect complement for the moment. There was a certain easiness about Rick right now that made her feel almost at ease herself.
"So how is working for Susanna Tate?" he asked casually.
Before Gretchen could answer his question, a girl appeared in front of their table. Rick eyed her quickly. She had short brown hair and a doughy face and looked vaguely familiar. Then Rick realized he had first seen this girl at Brett's party.
"Hey, Gretchen," she said.
"Oh, hi, Cady," Gretchen said brightly. "Have you met Brett's brother, Rick?"
"No, I haven't. Hello," she offered, more shyly.
"Hey, how are you doing?" he said, reaching out to shake her hand.
"Cady is the star of Sinful Temptations," Gretchen explained.
"Right, sure," he said, nodding amicably, even though he wished like hell this Cady hadn't interrupted when he'd been about to dig for information about Susanna.
"I recognize you from Brett's party last weekend," she told him, pushing a clump of her short hair behind her ears; it flopped right back, almost instantly. "Um, you and Brett kind of look alike," she added, again fiddling with the hair that framed her face. Rick noticed that she wasn't making full eye contact with him, like she was nervous or something—Jesus, why did he make women nervous? He was a nice guy most of the time...
"Well, I saw you through the window, so I thought I'd come over and say hello. What are you guys talking about?" Cady asked eagerly, looking at Gretchen. Rick felt like saying, Nothing—yet.
"Just chatting," Gretchen replied.
"Mind if I join you?" she said, looking hopeful.
"Oh..." Gretchen fumbled. "No, not at all."
Rick concealed his irritation and held back an eye roll. Christ. There went his opportunity. He couldn't work Gretchen with an audience there. He wasn't going to take a chance that Cady would pick up on his curiosity about Susanna Tate, or suspect that he had any kind of agenda.
Hell, for all he knew, Cady could be the homicidal maniac he was looking for—but one suspect at a time.
They finished their coffees while Rick made small talk with both Cady and Gretchen. He tried subtly to find out what Cady thought of his brother, but he couldn't get a real sense. Every answer she gave him was generic. He tried even more subtly to find out about her personal life, but it seemed she didn't have one. (Given the motherly wardrobe and the monk hair Rick wasn't particularly floored.)
She'd mentioned something about how she'd planned to be a nurse and even studied nursing in college, but then life had taken a turn and she'd become a pastry chef instead. Apparently medicine was still her passion. Rick was struck by how bashful Cady seemed to be for someone who was on TV every day—maybe she was confident only when she was cooking?
When they got up to go, Rick managed to trail behind Cady enough to get Gretchen to fall in line with him. Touching her back, he got her attention. They both stopped in the middle of the wide walkway; she turned and looked up at him. "Alone at last," he said, grinning.
She blushed, averted her eyes for just a second. "I should get back to work now," she said, sounding a little disappointed. "Susanna will wonder where I am. Plus, I need to go over some stuff with the choppers—that's the crew who cleans and cuts the food: dices, minces, you know, whatever to have it ready to use when Susanna tapes. But I don't want to give you too much excitement in one conversation, so I'll stop now."
Rick's grin spread into a smile; opportunist or not, she was damn adorable at times. "Would it be okay if I gave you a call sometime?" he asked. "Maybe we could grab dinner."
It didn't surprise him when she said yes. He was waiting for her usual "let's invite Brett" clause, or its equivalent, but she didn't bother. Rick supposed she was trying to play it a little cooler from now on. "Okay," she said with a trace of a smile. "That sounds fun."
Yes, it did. He didn't want it to, but it did.
Chapter 19
Rushing from work, Gretchen nearly slid on sleet three times, but eventually made it unscathed to June Bug's on Tenth Street. A red upholstered restaurant with a muted glow and a wooden bar that wrapped around half the room, June Bug's was a cozy, warm reprieve from the cold. It was about halfway between TCN and Medieval Faire, which was why Dana had picked it.
"What's up?" Gretchen said on a breath as she approached the bar. "Sorry I'm late!"
"No problem. I got fired today," Dana said bluntly, then pulled out the stool beside her.
"What?"
"Fired," Dana repeated. "Canned, axed, dusted, call me soup-line girl."
"Okay. First of all, forget the soup lines," Gretchen said, putting her hand on her cousin's shoulder. "I'll make you soup—Clam chowder, if you want."
"Really?" Dana said, perking up slightly. "And turkey chili?"
"Sure," Gretchen agreed.
"With your macadamia nut blondies for dessert?" Dana pressed. "And lobster thermidore, if I get the craving... ?"
"Don't get greedy," Gretchen said with a twist of her mouth. "Like you've ever even had lobster thermidore, by the way. Now tell me what happened."
Shrugging, Dana straightened and said, "It's like this: some BS story about how I'm late too much and how I cut out too early, and I'm supposedly not"—mockingly, she made quotation marks with her fingers—"'responsible.' Please! Don't they understand that of course I'd be more responsible if I didn't need to take into account auditions and casting calls and trying to have a real life?" She heaved a sigh. "The final straw was when I came late today."
With a look of mild disgust, Dana picked up her drink and took a big gulp. She'd never specifically
said that she'd gotten passed up for that soap opera role, but Gretchen supposed it had been implied in the silences.
Once Dana set her glass down on the bar with a thud, she seemed to have found a new resolve. "Well, what can you do? These things happen," she declared. "It was just a job. It's not like this was my lifelong dream or something. It's not like when I was little I pictured myself serving 'wild boar'—also known as pork chops, by the way—to a bunch of tourists still hung up on the Middle Ages. And I'm sorry," she added, pressing a hand to her chest dramatically, "that I was unable to make the patrons feel 'transported in time.'" She was clearly quoting her boss, Al. "What a failure I am as a human being. Really, I am so sorry. I failed as a 'serving wench.' I am just so. Fucking. Sorry."
"You definitely sound sorry," Gretchen said agreeably and finally Dana smiled. Then she covered her face with her hands and even started to laugh a little. Supportively, Gretchen put her arm around her cousin's shoulder. "Like you said, Dana, it was just a job, and not one you even liked. We'll just have to find you a new job—a better one. Okay? I'll help you."
"How?" Dana mumbled, before her eyes lit up suddenly. "Oh, wait, you mean you'll get me hired as Romeo Ramero's personal masseuse? Something in that vein? Oh, thank you, G! Thank you!"
"What I mean is I'll help you with your resume and cover letters."
"Oh," Dana slumped with defeat.
"And I said help—not write them for you."
"God, this just gets worse and worse... "
"Fine, I'll do some of the writing," Gretchen said, which cheered Dana right up.
"Okay, thanks! I'll start surfing the Internet for jobs tomorrow. What do you think about something totally different? Something exciting, like maybe a bank teller?"
Gretchen nodded. "Yeah, that's a good job. I don't know how 'exciting' it is, but—"
"Come on, what about when they uncover all those embezzlement schemes and stuff? 'Well, Mrs. Winston, we see you've withdrawn ten million dollars here—problem is, the account only had a thousand.' That kind of thing. "Smiling feebly, Gretchen didn't know whether to humor her or not. "Or, no, even better! What about a private eye? I could start my own practice."
"And run it out of Marcia's apartment?" Gretchen said skeptically, hoping her cousin would come back to earth on her own.
"Yeah, that's kind of unrealistic, you're right. Oh, oh! I know—how about a professional cheerleader on those ESPN competitions?"
Clearly Dana was going to need some additional landing gear.
"Dana, if you're looking for job security—I mean, until you land that big break—cheerleading is probably not the way to go. I think you need to be a little more... well... " Gretchen stopped short of using the word "mature" and instead settled on "level-headed."
After what seemed like a meaningful pause, Dana pressed her hand on the bar. Dramatically, she shut her eyes, shook her head. Then said, "Okay, then. I think it might be time to do what I've tried to avoid for so long."
"You don't mean...?"
"That's right," Dana said with deliberate seriousness. "Corporate America, sweetheart—the land of the cute boys with ties. Paperwork and water coolers. I think I'm finally ready."
But was it ready? That was the question.
* * *
It was eight o'clock that same night, after Gretchen had settled in for a night of sweats and slothdom, when her cell rang. She followed the less-than-soothing sounds of the I Dream of Jeannie theme song until she tracked her phone down inside her bag. "Hello?" she said, not recognizing the number.
"Gretchen." Her breath caught at the distinctively masculine voice. "It's Rick," he said (as if she didn't know).
"Hi," she said, managing to sound casual. "Have you eaten?"
"Oh... actually I have," she said, thinking of the cheeseburger deluxes she and Dana had gotten at June Bug's.
Undeterred, Rick said, "Well, I know it's short notice, but any chance you'd be free for a drink later? Assuming there are no problems, I should be out of here by nine. I'll be in your neighborhood anyway; 'I'd love to see you." It was that last part that did her in. God, that voice., it just raked over her, teasing her, arousing her. With her pulse racing, she bit her lip, feeling her excitement build. Then she agreed.
"Good. Oh and I have a set of wheels tonight, so I'll pick you up."
"Really?"
"Yeah, my neighbor's having family over tonight, so he begged me to free up my parking space for them. Well, begged me and paid me."
"Do you remember where I live?"
"Absolutely," he said. "If I forget, I'll follow the smoke."
Flirtatiously she said, "I know you think you're funny." Rick laughed. As anticipation fluttered in her belly, Gretchen smiled into the phone. "Just buzz me when you get here. Bye."
"Who was that?"
Startled, Gretchen jumped. Dana was standing in her open door-way, leaning against the doorjamb. "It was Rick—that guy I told you about at dinner. He asked me out for a drink later." Then she glanced at the clock on her cell phone. Shoot, she had only an hour to get ready! Normally that would be doable, but because she was in sloth mode—which included a knot for a hairdo and a thin veneer of Clearasil—this would be trickier.
Then abruptly she realized something. "Wait, do you think I look too desperate? Just accepting at the last minute with no plans?"
"It's Monday," Dana said. "What plans are you supposed to have?"
"True. But still... maybe I should call him back and tell him I'm busy. That I just realized I'm booked."
"Yeah, he'll buy that," Dana said sarcastically, then made a fake phone call with her hand. "Hi, Rick? I realized I'm booked—pretending I'm busy, it's gonna take all night."
"Okay, okay," Gretchen said with a thready laugh, her palms itching, her heart pounding, and her time slipping away.
* * *
When Rick climbed the steps of Gretchen's building, he'd had to remind himself, yet again, that he was on a mission. Helping his brother, protecting him. As serious as all that was, Rick seemed to lose his focus whenever he was around Gretchen. Even their brief phone call earlier had stirred his excitement. When he was on the job, he prided himself on being thorough, precise. But Gretchen had a way of distracting him—scattering his focus. She relaxed his guard when it needed to be up. Pathetic, he thought now as he knocked on her door.
When it swung open, he came face-to-face with a redhead who was smiling brightly at him. This must be her cousin. "Hi, come in," she said, ushering him in with her hand. Rick walked in, remembering the impressive place instantly. He still didn't understand how Gretchen could afford an apartment like this. "Would you like to have a seat?" the redhead asked.
"No, thanks," he said.
"I'm Marcia. Marcia Rabe—as in broccoli? You probably don't recognize me."
Rick shook her hand and introduced himself "Recognize you?" he said curiously.
"I know I look different in person. A little shorter, a little less blond, a little younger..." He just looked at her, confused. "Well, you obviously never heard of Marcia Rabe so that was wasted on you," she said glibly, then crossed her arms. "So. You're really Romeo Ramero's brother, huh? Gretchen told me all about it."
"I'll bet she did," Rick said swiftly, grateful for the reminder that Gretchen was out for one thing—and right now so was Rick. Different agendas that both pertained to Brett.
"What's your brother's deal anyway? Is he single?"
"You'll have to excuse her."
Rick's head turned—and his mouth dropped. Holy hell. Arousal stirred in his groin as his eyes scanned down Gretchen's body. Her silky hair flowed over her shoulders, and her dark eyes were bright, inviting. She wore an electric blue dress that pulled tight over her full, heavy breasts and slid right over her curvy hips. His fingers itched to touch her, to run his hands over her hips and down over that round, sexy butt of hers. In an ideal world he'd go to her right now, haul her up against him, kiss her lips, lick inside her mouth, grip her hair, d
rive her back against the wall, grind against her, and bury his face in her breasts.
Damn it all—what was his mission again?
"Don't mind my cousin," Gretchen explained as she came closer. "She's got a huge crush on your brother. But then, who doesn't?"
Rick's gut tightened. "Yeah, it's definitely been known to happen." Another reminder.
When Gretchen grabbed her coat from the counter where she'd left it, Rick took it and slipped it over her shoulders. She turned back to thank him and noticed Dana giving her an ostentatious thumbs-up in the background.
Once they stepped outside, Rick said, "So Marcia seems nice."
Marcia? Oh, Lord, Gretchen thought, realizing but not bothering to try to explain her cousin's antics. "Yes, she is."
* * *
"So tell me something I don't know about you," Gretchen said when her glass of wine arrived and Rick's glass of beer was set down on the table with a clunk.
"Like what?" he said.
"I don't know... but this should be easy because I barely know anything about you."
"There's not much to know. I'm a pretty simple guy."
"Deceptively simple," she corrected with a smile. With a soft laugh he asked, "What do you mean?"
She paused, squinted a little to appraise him. "I mean, ever since I met you I've been trying to figure out if you're a total enigma or just—" She stopped herself. God, what was she doing? She was at it again! Rushing into this, revealing too much of her crush on him, way too quickly. Here she'd already revealed how much she'd been thinking about him—about what was underneath his attractive but brooding surface.
She had to admit, she felt much more comfortable around Rick now. Nervous, yes, and excited, aroused, rattled... but at the same time, she felt like she could be herself more. Now that everything had been laid out between them, and Rick had said flat out that he wanted to get to know her, it really seemed to take the edge off their interactions.
