The Chef's Cutie (The River Hill Series Book 5)

by Rebecca Norinne

  Max laughed. “We mulled some cider this morning, and I’ve got just enough left for a large mug. Want me to spike it?”

  “Hard. Spike it hard.”

  He drew some cider out of the carafe on the back counter and added bourbon to it before handing it over. “Drown your woes.” He glanced at Noah. “Speaking of woes, how did it go?”

  The big man let go of his beer long enough to scrape a hand over his face, against the dark stubble that had grown in. Max suspected his own face was equally scruffy; why was it that facial hair seemed to grow faster when you were tired? “It’s actually not too bad. We didn’t anticipate actual snow, but the vines are dormant for winter. It was mostly a matter of checking on things and hauling out a bunch of downed limbs from various trees.”

  “If I never see another tree pruner I’ll be a happy woman,” Angelica chimed in, lifting her palms to show off a row of blisters.

  “We did the same thing over at the community garden,” Maeve said. “After we fed puppies at the shelter.”

  “Don’t say the P-word,” Max hissed. “She might hear you.” He jerked his head toward Mia, who was sucking down a milkshake that Wendy had inexplicably made her while she read what appeared to be a graphic novel.

  Maeve grinned at him. “When you’re ready, I’ll help you pick one out.”

  “I will never be ready.”

  Jess and Sean saved him from defending his no-puppy policy by showing up with Iain and Naomi in tow, all four of them blowing through the door with a gust of chill wind as Iain held it open for another customer departing.

  “How’d you get the hermits out?” Max asked Sean when they got to the bar, nodding his head at Naomi, who looked annoyed.

  “He promised me apple fritters,” Naomi said, pointing at Iain with an air of deep disgust.

  The Irish man put his hands up in self defense. “How was I to know they’d be out?”

  “You could have called ahead,” Jess said mildly.

  “You could have called ahead!” Naomi repeated. “See?”

  “Oh, don’t act like you thought of that until just now,” Iain teased her. “You could have done it, too.”

  “Nooooo,” she said slowly, as though he were a small child. “I was to be the beneficiary of said fritters. Nobel Prize winners don’t call up and make sure the medal’s ready before they head over to Switzerland. That’s the person handing them the medal’s job!”

  “Did you just compare my apple fritters to the Nobel Prize?” Sean asked. “Not to mention, you two showed up right after we closed.”

  Naomi flapped her hand at him. “Take the compliment and don’t sweat the details, baker boy.”

  Jess laughed. “Maybe we can put it on your advertising, honey.” She curved her hand over her still-flat belly as she hopped up onto a bar stool. “Fritters so good they’re like the Nobel.”

  “We’ll workshop it,” Sean answered, scooting in behind her to wrap his arms around her and drop a kiss on her head.

  Max watched them for a moment, resolutely ignoring the twinge of jealousy low in his gut, before turning away to gather food and drinks for his friends. There was too much to do right now for him to think about how Sean and Jess revolved around each other in easy harmony, or how Iain and Naomi’s friendly sparring led to them huddled together, low-voiced and kissing breathlessly like they hadn’t just spent the day together in bed. Or the way Noah and Angelica had come in together after spending hours in the least sexy way imaginable, still loving each other because they were partners and friends.

  It filled him with happiness to see his friends so settled. It also made him think things he wasn’t supposed to be thinking. He gritted his teeth as he handed Maeve her bowl of chili and slid a plate of tacos toward Ben as he inwardly vowed to let it go.

  But of course his friends weren’t going to let him. Angelica, curse her, only gave him enough time to get everybody settled in before she focused that laser glare on him. “Where’s Lizzie? I haven’t heard from her all day.”

  He shrugged. “At home, I guess.”

  That was apparently the wrong thing to say. Her eyes narrowed, and now Maeve was looking at him strangely, too.

  But it was Ben who said something, damn him.“You guess? You don’t know?”

  Max’s fingers tightened around the edge of the bar involuntarily. He looked down and saw that his knuckles were white. “Not for sure, no.” He focused on loosening his fingers, one by one.

  “Did something happen, Max?” Jess spoke softly.

  His hands were free of the bar top, finally, so he ran one through his hair, remembering her hands doing the same hours earlier. “She, ah, quit her job. So I guess we’ll be getting a new caseworker.” They hadn’t talked about that either, actually. He perked up, realizing that he actually had a real reason to contact her. “I’m not sure of the details, but I’ll find out soon.”

  “Is that it?” Angelica was a bloodhound on the scent.

  He shot her a glare.“Yes. That’s it.” That was all he was going to say about it, anyway. Especially with Mia just a few feet away. He tried to communicate that with only his eyebrows, but he wasn’t sure it went through. Angelica’s lips thinned, but she didn’t press him any further about it.

  Before anyone could bring it up again, he decided to make a hasty retreat. “I’m going to have to take Mia home,” he told his friends. “Stay until close, if you want.”

  “Oh, we will,” Ben said with a laugh. He twined his fingers with Maeve’s, and Max tore his eyes away before he could resent his best friend even more.

  But as the week rolled on, he found himself thinking about that day more and more. Yes, he’d spent twenty-four glorious hours on top of, under, inside, and around Lizzie Teague in multiple ways both nude and semi-clothed and once, memorably, tied up. But he’d also cooked for her, and talked to her about topics ranging from TV shows to gardening techniques, and spent time simply laying with her watching the snow fall outside his living room window.

  And he’d enjoyed it all nearly as much as the sex.

  He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Lizzie at the New Year’s Eve party that he missed her friendship. Spending time with her had been one of the highlights of the last few months, and he was desperately afraid that he’d made a huge mistake when he’d told her he didn’t mind her walking out the door.

  Eventually, he received an email from the Department of Social Services, then another one from the new caseworker assigned to Mia. Everything was on track with his guardianship, and there would only be one more home visit before everything was signed off on in March. He typed and deleted a text to Lizzie about it twice, then didn’t send anything at all.

  His friends weren’t helping matters either. They were all blissfully domestic, and he kept seeing himself and Lizzie in his imagination every time he ran into Sean and Jess jogging together, or witnessed Noah and Angelica bent over a wedding magazine. Ben sent him texts that were increasingly short and to the point about getting his shit together, and Max mostly sent middle finger emojis back.

  The problem was, his shit was together. He wanted Lizzie. But he also wanted to be the parent Mia needed, and the restauranteur all those investors who kept emailing seemed to think he was. And Lizzie was on the cusp of something amazing, he was sure of it. On to bigger and better things, helping people the way she’d dreamed of. She might not realize yet that her explosive exit from her job had been the right move, but he knew her, and he firmly believed that she was destined for something amazing. It wasn’t a matter of if she found it; only when.

  How could he ask her to give up the future that she’d just blown wide open when he had so little to give her in return?

  14

  Lizzie was a Hufflepuff. At least according to the “Which Harry Potter House Are You?” quiz she’d just taken. At first, she took umbrage with the designation, but the more she considered it, the less offended she became. Hufflepuffs were known to be creative, patient, and loyal—traits s
he possessed in spades.

  But how did these qualities translate to a new career? She’d sat down to apply for jobs, but instead wound up analyzing her future, and the only thing she’d come up with to help her decide was online personality quizzes. There had to be a way to take everything she’d learned these past few years and apply it to something that didn’t have her pushing papers or driving all over kingdom come for suited bureaucrats who only cared about their bottom line instead of the people they were supposed to be helping. As far as she could tell, no office within a one-hundred-mile radius was in any better position than the one she’d just left. If she wanted to do something meaningful with her life, she was going to have to formulate a new game plan.

  Just as soon as she found out what her favorite food revealed about her taste in men.

  It had been four days since Lizzie left Max’s house and set out to find herself. Ninety-six long hours in which she’d picked up the phone about a million and one times to ask his advice about her career. She hadn’t intended to ghost him, but the longer they went without speaking, the easier it was to tell herself that she was doing the right thing. Their night together had been the stuff dreams were made of, but that was just it: they were dreaming if they thought they could ever be anything more.

  And yet a small voice at the back of her head kept asking why. Why can’t you be with him? Why can’t you make this work? Why, why, why?

  And over and over again, she came back to the same answer: “Because it’s wrong. He’s my client.” But that wasn’t true anymore, either.

  So if he wasn’t her client, and she wasn’t Mia’s caseworker, what exactly were they? The ethics of hooking up with him were still murky given that she needed to retain her license to practice social work if she wanted to find a new job, so until she could see a clear path forward, she decided it was best to stay away altogether.

  “You’re avoiding us.” Angelica stood on Lizzie’s front porch with her arms crossed over her chest, her toe tapping the bricks at her high-heeled feet.

  Lizzie unlatched the screen door and pushed it open. “I’m not avoiding you,” she said, stepping aside to allow Angelica to enter. She pointed toward the coat rack in the corner of the foyer and then stood there awkwardly, unsure what to say as the curvy vixen divested herself of her scarf and winter coat.

  “I’ve texted you twice, and you missed book club.”

  “I—” Lizzie closed her mouth around the denial she was about to issue. There was no use arguing; she was avoiding them. She let out a sigh. “Have you had coffee yet?”

  “Two cups. But I need at least three to get going in the morning. Lead the way.”

  “Come on then.” She gestured toward the kitchen, and Angelica followed closely behind.

  “Cute place.”

  “I like it.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  Lizzie reached into the tall cupboard that housed her Nespresso capsules, and set the machine to brew a double shot of espresso. “Seven years. I bought it after renting a small one bedroom that was really just a garage in someone’s back yard. And before you say it,” Lizzie added as she passed Angelica her coffee, “I’m aware that Max has an apartment over his garage.”

  The existence of unexpected garage apartments in their lives was something she and Max had first bonded over. While they were still in that awkward ‘I don’t really know you but I’m spending a lot of time in your house’ phase of their association, she’d kept a running tally of all the little things she could get him to talk about. One night, she’d spied him coming down the lamp-lit staircase above his garage before coming inside to take over child care duties for the night. Curious, she’d asked him about it, and he’d explained he had a small apartment up there that both Iain and Ben had lived in when they’d first arrived in River Hill. At first she’d been surprised, but the more she got to know him, the more it made sense. Whether he realized it about himself or not, Max was a nurturer. If his friends or the community needed him, he’d find a way to be there for them.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” Angelica demurred over the rim of her cup, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “But now that you mention it, have you talked to him lately?”

  Lizzie joined her at the small round table. “No. Not since the storm.”

  Angelica nodded. “So many people are complaining about how horrible it was, but I kind of enjoyed it. There’s something really magical about being trapped inside with a handsome man while the world comes to an icy standstill all around you. You’d know that if you’d have come to last week’s meeting. Which reminds me, how’d you weather the storm?” Angelica’s face was a mask of innocence, which meant she knew perfectly well where Lizzie had been. She was a good actress, but she had a terrible poker face.

  “He told you.”

  Angelica laughed, and set her empty cup to the side. “No, but you just did.”

  “Damn it.” Lizzie’s mug joined Angelica’s. “Does anyone else know?”

  “Maybe? Probably? Maeve mentioned there was a second set of tire tracks in his driveway when she dropped Mia off, but he was cagey about it when she asked him.”

  “A regular Nancy Drew,” Lizzie mused. She hadn’t even thought of that as she’d pulled away. She’d been too busy alternating between congratulating herself for having ended her dry spell with the sexiest man she’d ever met and castigating herself over the fact that in doing so she’d crossed a huge line. And she hadn’t stopped since then. Frankly, she was developing a case of whiplash as often as she went back and forth.

  “Maeve’s protective of Max, so she sees things about him others might not,” Angelica answered.

  That sounded … not ideal. “He and Maeve haven’t … you know?”

  Angelica waved away her suspicions. “Oh god, no. They’re more like brother and sister than anything. It’s kind of adorable, actually. Max hasn’t had a serious girlfriend since I’ve been here, and since Maeve was single when she moved out here, I thought about playing matchmaker, but it was obvious they’d never be anything more than really good friends. With the rest of us coupled up, they kind of formed their own little coalition.”

  “That’s … interesting.” Of everything she and Max had discussed these last few months, they’d studiously avoided their romantic histories. There’d really never been a reason to discuss it, and yet she couldn’t deny she’d often wondered. A man like him was a catch with a capital C. Why hadn’t he had a girlfriend?

  “I can see the question in your eyes,” Angelica continued, her ability to guess Lizzie’s thoughts disconcerting. “It’s not my story to tell, but I will say this: Max guards his heart very closely, but I’ve never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you.” With that, she pushed her chair back and stood, raising her wrist up to look at her watch. “Sorry I have to chat and run, but I’m meeting with the wedding florist in forty-five minutes and I want to beat traffic.”

  Dazed, Lizzie accompanied her to the door. “I’m sorry,” she said when Angelica had donned her jacket once again. “I didn’t mean to shut you out. Things are … complicated.”

  “Of course they are. If love was easy, it would be far less rewarding, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, we’re not—”

  Angelica smiled, and patted Lizzie’s arm as if to say You keep on telling yourself that. Then she opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop. Before striding down the walk—there was really no other way to describe the way Angelica moved through life—she turned back to Lizzie. “And by the way. We like you for you; not just because you’re Max’s … whatever. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

  Bowled over by this unequivocal declaration of friendship, Lizzie found her head bobbing up and down in agreement. “Yeah, okay.” She didn’t know if she had any intention of honoring the commitment, but it was nice to know that she was wanted.

  Maggie sent over another page of job listings, and by some small miracle one of them sounded right up Lizzie�
��s alley. Assuming, of course, she was willing to relocate to Miami. She liked the beach, but the humidity? Not so much. And hurricanes? Definitely not. Still, it was a job. And a well-paying one at that. So before she could talk herself out of it, she typed out a short letter listing all the reasons why they should consider her for the position, attached her resume, and hit send.

  Lizzie stared at Patterson University’s website. It’d been two days since a random internet quiz had revealed she should be a therapist, and she hadn’t stopped thinking about the possibilities since. She’d written a few papers in college about therapeutic techniques, and she’d really enjoyed the pilot wellness program she and Maggie had run, but generally speaking, she’d always thought of herself as a caseworker, not a counselor.

  Last night she’d stayed up late again poring over articles on the various types of therapy that were explicitly geared toward children. Through a stroke of good luck—and really excellent Facebook stalking skills—she discovered that a former classmate ran a practice focused solely on child play therapy. From the way it was described on her website, it sounded incredible. It wound up being the inspiration Lizzie desperately needed to guide her way forward. She finally felt like there was something she really wanted to do with her life.

  The problem was, while she had many of the qualifications one needed to pursue a position as a play therapist, she was lacking a Master’s degree in counseling. She was a licensed social worker—an LCSW, not an LCPC, a licensed clinical professional counselor—and the degree made a major difference in what she could do.

  It had been a long time since Lizzie was in school, and she was scared to think what it would be like going back at the ripe old age of thirty-four. But starting a new job in a city she’d never lived in before was just as frightening a prospect, and choosing between moving to Miami to do the same thing that had been burning her out (assuming she even got an interview) versus pursuing this new, rewarding dream seemed like a no-brainer. If she was going to do something scary either way, why not pursue the one that fed her soul?