The One You Can't Forget

by Roni Loren

  “Rebecca—”

  “And for what it’s worth, I won’t apologize for doing my job, but I am sorry that I helped your ex get something she didn’t deserve. If I’d known the whole story, I wouldn’t have taken her money. Or helped her take yours.”

  Something softened in his expression and he nodded. “Thank you. I owe you an apology, too. I wasn’t fair to you. My disaster of a marriage was on me and my ex—as is the aftermath. I think seeing you and realizing who you were just brought all that crap rushing back. I was an asshole about it. So I’m sorry.”

  She absorbed his words and nodded. “Thanks.”

  “But that’s not why I called you.”

  She frowned. “No?”

  “I wish it were.” He leaned back in his chair and let out a breath. “One of my students came in Monday morning with an injury. A dog bite.”

  The words were like cold water in her face. “What?”

  Wes rubbed his brow, his face weary. “I don’t know if it’s related, but from what I remember of your attacker, it could’ve been him. And this kid…he’s a smart kid. Talented in the kitchen. But he’s gotten into trouble before, and I get the impression his home life is not great. It’s not out of the realm of possibility that he could be involved.”

  She sat back, her fingers curling around the arms of the chair. “Jesus.”

  “I haven’t called the cops yet because”—he shook his head—“well, one, his dad is a police officer, but also, I’ve built some trust with this kid and don’t want to put him through that kind of accusation if there’s no chance it’s him. Having said that, I obviously can’t ignore the possibility either. I wasn’t close enough that night to rule him out. You may have been.”

  She let out a breath. “You want me to try to ID him?”

  “Yeah. If he’s the one, I’ll call the cops. It needs to be reported. But if he’s not, then I can save him another run-in with the law and protect some of that trust I’ve built with him.” He glanced at the clock. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but if you have a few minutes, my class with him is about to start. I can tell the kids you’re there to learn about the program.”

  She chewed her lip, the thought of possibly seeing the person who’d put a gun to her head making her throat want to close. But if he was the one, she needed to know. “Um, yeah, okay. I can stay.”

  He nodded, face grim. “All right. I hate to ask you to do this, but I couldn’t think of a better way.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t want anyone to be falsely accused.”

  “Right.” He stood and stepped around the desk, putting a hand out to help her up from the chair. The warmth of his fingers seeped into hers as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. “Thanks for this.”

  She nodded and tried to ignore the tremor of pleasure the simple act of holding his hand inspired. “Of course.”

  Their gazes held for a moment, but then a bell sound came over the loudspeakers, announcing the end of a period and breaking the spell. He quickly let go of her hand and led her out into the hall.

  The hallway filled with teens, and she and Wes were swept into the flow. The noise rose to a level that made conversation impossible, and Rebecca just let herself watch all the kids as they passed. Teenagers laughing and talking. Some quietly making their way through the crowd like mice in a maze. Others rushing to the two vending machines for a drink or snack. And a few bumping fists with Wes or greeting him as Chef G.

  Rebecca’s muscles tensed as the crowd thickened, any reminder of high school life setting off that hyperalert part of her, but Wes seemed completely comfortable in the chaos, making sure to respond to any kid who acknowledged him. Rebecca focused on that and the obvious affection he had for his students. Maybe he was just teaching them how to fry an egg and it wasn’t his dream job, but anyone could see that it was more than just marking time for both him and the kids.

  Wes cupped her elbow and ushered her through a stream of people into a room at the end of the hallway. A few kids were already in chairs behind one of the tables in the room, and a short Hispanic girl was behind the big counter in the front, loading ingredients from a cabinet onto the tabletop.

  She raised a hand in greeting when they walked in. “Hey, Chef G, can we try that oven-fried chicken recipe Steven found? The one that uses pancake batter? I have an idea for a maple syrup sauce that might go with it. It’ll be like chicken and waffles without the waffle.”

  “Yeah, Lola, that’s fine. I defrosted the chicken before I left yesterday. It should be good to go. But let everyone else get here before you start anything.”

  Rebecca followed Wes to the front, her attention skimming over the kitchen area. The white Formica counters were chipped and the stove was electric, which even she knew was not ideal. And Wes hadn’t been kidding about the oven. It was legit avocado green—and not in a cool retro way, just an old, ugly way. But the girl, Lola, was humming to herself as she pulled ingredients out of the cabinets like she was about to cook at Le Cordon Bleu.

  More kids filed in, about ten in total, and Rebecca nervously skimmed over the faces of all the boys. When a tall, skinny white kid wearing a beanie walked in and greeted Wes with What up, Chef G? her breath stuttered in her chest. His voice didn’t sound familiar, but when Wes told the kid, Steven, to take off his hat and the guy removed his beanie, stringy dark hair fell into his face. Rebecca stilled, snapshots of memories flashing in her head. Snapshots she couldn’t trust. Friday night, she’d been hearing Trevor Lockwood’s voice, seeing his face. This kid resembled him, but had she seen this kid or was her memory just superimposing familiar features?

  “Hey, Steven, Chef G said okay to the waffle chicken,” Lola announced triumphantly.

  Steven grinned. “Sweet. I was thinking we should add something spicy to the maple sauce. Straight-up sweet is just, uh, whaddya call it, Chef G?”

  “One note,” Wes supplied.

  The kid snapped his fingers. “Yeah, that’s it. I’m not doing no one-note chicken. This is going to be like a rock song.” He mimicked moving his fingers along guitar frets. “All kinds of notes.”

  Wes laughed, but Rebecca could tell it was a little forced. His gaze slid to her, questions there. And she could see it in his eyes, that desperate hope that this wasn’t the kid, that his student wasn’t capable of putting a gun to a woman’s head and shooting a dog.

  She found herself shaking her head.

  No? he mouthed.

  She swallowed hard, glancing at Steven, who was now joking with another student and taking ingredients out of the fridge. From behind, he reminded her so much of Trevor that it made her insides cramp. But that was the problem. Her memory was screwing with her. Everything about that night was a mix of past and present, images blending.

  She already knew the stats on eyewitness memory and how faulty it was. She’d learned that as far back as Long Acre when conflicting accounts from students on how many shooters and what had happened had been the norm in the days following. Friday night, she’d been in the middle of some traumatic flashback during the holdup. Her brain had barely been functional. There was no way she could positively identify this kid. Resemblance was a possibility, but it wasn’t proof.

  She stepped over to Wes and pulled him out of earshot of the group. “I can’t say no for sure, but I don’t…think so.”

  He frowned. “He was right next to you when the dog attacked.”

  She licked her lips. “I was panicking. My head was somewhere else, and my attention was on the dog. It was all happening too fast.”

  Wes crossed his arms and eyed the group, evaluating. “Okay, how about this? Why don’t you stay for the class? I’m going to watch him when I introduce you. You may not recognize him, but if he was the one, he’ll recognize you.”

  She frowned. “Not necessarily.”

  Wes glanced over at her, a come-on-now look on his face.
“He would remember you, Rebecca. You’re…”

  She raised a brow. “A carrot top? Tall?”

  “Pretty hard to forget,” he said finally. “Believe me, I’ve been trying with little success.”

  The words hit her with a pleasant rush. “Oh.”

  His lips lifted at one corner. “So, will you stay for class?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. Okay. I could do that.”

  “Good.” He looked genuinely pleased that she wasn’t going anywhere. “Hope you like spicy waffle chicken, lawyer girl, because we’re about to rock your taste buds.”

  He took a step toward the front, but in a fit of bravery, she reached out and touched his shoulder. “Wes…”

  He turned back to her. “Yeah?”

  She shifted on her feet, a weird bout of shyness trying to overtake her. “I would like to issue a formal request for…further conversation. And possibly some Indian food on Friday night.”

  His smile went full sex appeal now, and the impact of all that masculine charm hit her in her gut. No, not her gut. Lower. Definitely lower.

  “I thought I wasn’t your type of friend,” he said.

  “I’m”—she cleared her throat and straightened her suit jacket—“expanding my palate.”

  “A food metaphor. Nice.” His gaze narrowed. “And did you just flirt with me in a room full of children?”

  She crossed her arms and gave him her best haughty lawyer look. “Of course not. This is a request for a friendly meal.”

  He laughed, a deep, melodic sound. “I like it.” He moved his hand around, indicating her general person. “I like this whole version of Rebecca who doesn’t hate me.”

  “Keep picking on me about it, and the tide may shift again, chef.”

  His grin didn’t abate. “Noted. I’ll be on my best behavior…for now.”

  There was a dare in his eyes—Ask me what it’s like when I’m not—and a hot shiver went through her, but she managed to keep her expression neutral.

  He turned and clapped his hands. “All right, chefs. My friend Ms. Lindt is a very fancy lawyer, but she works too much and doesn’t know how to cook a thing. Who’s going to teach her how to make some spicy waffle chicken?”

  The kids all turned to her with curious eyes. Steven glanced up from measuring out spices but didn’t show any particular reaction. Just looked at her and then went back to what he was doing like he couldn’t care less.

  Rebecca let out a breath of relief and lifted her hands. “Oh, I just came to watch. I don’t need to cook.”

  Lola, the girl who seemed to take charge of everything, walked over and hooked her arm with Rebecca’s. “Come on, Ms. Lindt. Watching is boring. Chef G says if you’re not getting your hands dirty, you’re not doing it right.”

  Wes smirked, the devil in his eyes.

  Rebecca tried to ignore the ripple of heat that look sent through her. She slipped off her suit coat and laid it across the back of a chair.

  Guess it was time to get dirty.

  chapter

  ELEVEN

  The setting sun cast swaths of rusty-orange light over the worn picnic table as Wes set a falafel sandwich in front of Rebecca, a fatoush salad in front of himself, and unloaded containers of hummus, baba ghanoush, and pita bread for them to share. “Dev parked the truck outside a concert tonight so no Indian food, but the Middle Eastern place is fantastic, too. I figured I’d get a little bit of everything for you to try.”

  She smiled. “This all looks great.”

  Rebecca had met him here at the food-truck park after work and had told him to order whatever he recommended. Her easy trust in his taste did more to him than it should. One of his greatest pleasures in life was cooking for people, but feeding them was a close second, and Rebecca was someone who was fun to feed. He’d learned on that first night that she savored each bite and didn’t edit her visceral responses. Watching her enjoy that first meal had made his mind wander into dangerous territory, made him wonder if she luxuriated in other physical delights just as wholeheartedly.

  The white twinkle lights blinked on in the trees above them as he finished arranging the food, and the Friday night crowd milled around nearby. He took his seat opposite her and pointed to each dish. “Hummus, eggplant dip, your sandwich has deep-fried chickpea patties. That’s their specialty. My salad is marinated veggies with chunks of bread. Feel free to share mine if you want some of that, too. And then you have your various yogurt, tahini, and garlic sauces. We will have excellent breath after this. Flowers will wilt in our very presence.”

  She laughed and unwrapped her sandwich. “I’ll take the risk. This smells amazing and looks about a hundred times better than that chicken I attempted to make in your class the other day.”

  He smirked. “Hey, that was a valiant attempt.”

  She gave him a surely-you-can’t-be-serious look. “The batter fell off into a soggy mess, and the chicken was undercooked. It was not just inedible but potentially deadly.”

  “You got your wet-dry steps mixed up and battered your hand more than the chicken. It happens. But yeah, maybe don’t quit your day job just yet.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said wryly. “I’m sticking with what I know. Your kids are great, though. They were sweet to try to make me feel better about my very sad chicken.”

  His kids. That sounded so odd but also…kind of nice. Which freaked him out. He wasn’t supposed to get comfortable in his teaching job. It was supposed to be a temporary stop, a stable income while he figured out how to save enough to open his own business again.

  His classmates at culinary school had always used the old joke Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach to make fun of their militant professors. And though he didn’t necessarily buy into that sentiment, he’d known at least two chefs who’d gone to teaching after failed restaurants. He didn’t want to be that guy. He wasn’t even teaching at a respected culinary institute. He was at a shoestring-budget after-school program. That was like planning to be a rock star and ending up a wedding singer. Or taking your shirt off and cooking for a bachelorette party.

  “They’re a good group of kids.” They weren’t the star students at their schools, but in the kitchen, misfits almost always had a home. It was where he’d found his place once upon a time, too. “And if you want to feel better about the chicken, just blame the crappy oven. That’s what we do when a recipe fails.”

  He spooned some of the hummus onto his plate.

  “It wasn’t the oven,” she said after she swallowed a bite of her sandwich. “But you do need a new one. Two new ones, really.”

  “Believe me, I’m well aware. We don’t have the funds for that yet. Any donations the school gets are usually earmarked for the technology program. Just give the kids a tablet, and that will fix everything, right?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “You know, Silicon Valley tech executives send their kids to fancy schools that don’t allow technology. They think it hampers creative thinking. I think what you’re doing with the kids is great. They get to flex all those creative muscles plus learn some life skills.”

  “I hope so. I know cooking saved me. But we’re on our own to raise money. So the class will be selling some of their favorite dishes at a fair in a few weeks as a fund-raiser. I’m hoping that will raise enough money for the first oven.”

  Rebecca wiped her fingers on a napkin and rummaged in her navy-blue bag, which was next to her on the bench. She took out a square of folded paper and held it out to him. “Here.”

  “What’s this?” He took the paper from her and unfolded it. His stomach bottomed out at the sight. “Uh…”

  Rebecca took a sip of her lemonade. “Will that cover it?”

  He stared at her. “Rebecca, this is a check for three grand.”

  “I know. I looked up prices on gas ranges after I left your class. That should be able to ge
t you two decent ones. You also may be able to work a discount on installation if you go to a local place and tell them it’s for a charitable organization.”

  A tight feeling crawled up the back of his neck, gripping him. “No way.”

  She glanced up. “On asking for a discount? I mean, I could talk to a store if you want—”

  “I’m not letting you give me money. That’s… No.”

  A line appeared between her brows. “I’m not giving you money. It’s for the program, for those kids in your class. I have the money to give and believe in what you’re doing. The school takes charitable donations. What’s the problem?”

  Wes stared at the neat handwriting on the check, some weird combination of irritation and embarrassment moving through him. “The problem is this feels like some sort of pity payment. Or guilt.”

  “Guilt?”

  “Yes. Like now that you know about what happened in the court case, you’re going to throw some money at me either because you feel sorry for me or because you want to make yourself feel better. Either reason sucks. I don’t want a handout. The class can raise the money.”

  She pursed her lips. “That’s not what this is. I know your kids can fund-raise, and they should. That will be a good experience for them. But your program needs a lot more than new ovens. This can be a start. I want to—”

  “Well, hey there!” a loud voice said before Rebecca could get out her next words.

  Wes scowled at the conversation and the shrill interruption, but automatically turned toward the intruder. A vaguely familiar blonde was a few steps away, smiling wide and making a beeline for him.

  What the hell?

  She sidled up next to the table, her hand pressed to her chest like she was just so surprised and delighted. “Oh my gosh, I cannot believe you’re here. It’s like fate!”