Which meant she would have to do it. Not just for a night, but indefinitely.
Teagan opened her mouth, the word no perfectly formed on her tongue, just begging to roll off.
But instead she said, “And you want to do this?”
“Absolutely.”
A thought popped into Teagan’s head, and even though it forced a wash of heat over her cheeks, she had no choice but to give it voice. “I don’t know how much I’d be able to pay you.” God, whatever she could scrape together would probably be a mere pittance in comparison to what Adrian made at La Dolce Vita. The place had a monthlong wait for reservations, for God’s sake.
“I’m not asking you to pay me. In fact, I don’t want to be on your books at all.”
Teagan jerked back, her shoulders bumping the timeworn cushion of her chair. “You want to run the kitchen for nothing?”
“Doesn’t look like nothing from where I sit,” he said, but oh no. No way was she letting him skate by without answers.
“Why do you want to help me so much?”
The question seemed to throw Adrian, and he paused, long and hard. “Because it makes sense. Because you need the help. And because . . . I need it, too. Look, six weeks off might sound like paradise to some people, but to me it’s hell on earth. I need to be in a kitchen, even if it’s a little unconventional, until I can get back to work for real at La Dolce Vita.” He shifted forward, locking his gaze with hers. “The only thing I need to be clear on is that everything here is on the up-and-up.”
Her skin prickled as the words registered. “Everything that goes on here is perfectly legal, if that’s what you’re asking. My father’s not stupid.” Keeping the frost from her tone was impossible, so Teagan didn’t even try. Just because they ran an establishment that was as much bar as it was grill didn’t mean they were delinquents, for God’s sake.
Adrian nodded, an expression she’d swear was relief flicking over his face before disappearing into his gruff demeanor. “Then we’re square. I can help you run the place. But you’re going to have to let me. What do you say?”
Her mind’s eye whirled backward, landing on the hazy image of a woman with rich, auburn hair, an apron tied tight around her trim waist as she watched her seven-year-old daughter roll out scraps of pastry dough.
One day, you’ll be a famous chef like your mama. You can go anywhere you want, my sweet. Paris, New York, anywhere you please . . .
A year later, her mother had walked out the door, and Teagan had sworn on the spot she’d never cook another thing for the rest of her life.
But Adrian was right. Letting him teach her to cook made sense, and what’s more, it was the only option she was going to get to save the man who’d raised her when her mother had chosen greener pastures over her own family.
“You’ve got yourself a deal, Superman. But trust me when I say teaching me to cook is going to take every ounce of what you’ve got.”
Adrian’s smile was dark and sexy and oh-so-good, and it arrowed all the way through her as he said, “Oh, trust me, sweetheart. I’m counting on it.”
Teagan parked her seen-better-days Toyota Corolla in the gravel driveway outside her father’s lakeside cottage and got out of the car. The late-morning sunlight threw tree-dappled patterns on the fresh carpet of spring grass surrounding her childhood home, conjuring a postcard-perfect scene that would put even the most ill-tempered mind at ease.
This conversation was going to suck.
She palmed the handles of the three grocery bags in the back of her car, steeling her resolve as she stared down the warm pine panels of her father’s front door. As much as she hated it, this had to happen, and fast. Teagan checked her sturdy Timex, calculating her words as she mounted the steps to the tiny stone porch and gave the front door a solid rap.
“And just what d’ya think yer doin’?” Her father’s good-natured tone made the words more teasing than heated, but they didn’t come from the front door. Teagan swung around, a sharp bolt of irritation panging through her at the sight of her father in his work clothes, carrying a hefty armload of firewood from the side yard.
“I should ask the same of you. Are you out of your mind?” Teagan asked, leaving the groceries unattended to march through the yard. “You’re supposed to be resting! As in, not exerting yourself, and certainly not doing yard work. What the hell are you doing hauling firewood in late April, anyway?”
“We’re supposed ta have a cold snap tonight. You never can be too careful about the weather in the mountains.” He paused, eyes sweeping over her wicked frown. “Ah, don’t make that face. It’s an armful’a firewood, pretty girl. It ain’t goin’ ta kill me.”
She swept her fingers in a tight motion, trying not to lose her cool. “No, but I might. Hand it over.”
Her father chuckled before doling out half the logs, keeping the rest nestled firmly in his grip. “Still haven’t taken my advice about honey seriously, I see,” he said over his flannel-clad shoulder, and damn it, she couldn’t help feeling the warmth of his charm.
“I will when you take my advice about slowing down. I mean it, Da, this isn’t good for you.” Her tone slid lower, voice going soft as they reached the steps. “Your health issues are a big deal. I’m . . . worried.”
“Well.” Her father froze for just a second before lowering his logs to the nearly gone stack on the far end of the porch. “I suppose you’ll be wantin’ me to take it easy on a permanent basis, then? Stay at home and whittle me days off like an old man should.”
Teagan huffed out a breath, measuring her words with extreme care. “No. I know that would make you miserable. But you do need to rest until Monday, when I can go with you to see Dr. Riley and we can get a long-term plan together. And we both already know that she’s going to tell you that you need to cut back. You’re working too hard.”
“And not hard enough,” her father murmured, so soft she nearly missed it. “There’s things that need takin’ care of. Things that don’t involve you.”
She dropped her logs to the pile with an unceremonious clatter, her face falling along with the firewood. “I can take care of you.”
“Oh, darlin’.” Her father’s dark brown eyes crinkled at the edges, a look of pride canceling out whatever had been there seconds before. “I just meant . . . bah. It doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t be takin’ care of my problems. You’ve got a job of yer own, one yer good at.”
“And one that’s not nearly as important as this. I talked to my battalion chief about an hour ago. He granted my request for temporary family leave, effective immediately.”
Actually, he’d been more understanding than Teagan could’ve hoped, offering to transfer a fill-in paramedic from Riverside’s larger crew until she could get her father back on his feet, both literally and figuratively.
Her father stopped short on the stone, halfway to the threshold of the cottage. “So you mean ta do this, then? Run the Double Shot without me for a bit?” His face was grave, more serious than she’d seen it in a long time.
Twenty-two years, in fact.
His expression tore at her, hot tears involuntarily pricking behind her eyelids. “I do. Just until we can get you well-rested and find someone to help out more.”
Her father looked at her, his trademark charm spilling over in his gaze as he gave a bare hint of a smile. “Shoulda known you wouldn’t give up on that vinegar, not even for your old man.”
“I’d say I’m sorry, but . . .”
“But yer not. And anyway, I didn’t raise you to apologize for who ya are.” He kept his smile in place, but something serious sparked in his eyes. “I’ll give you the bar for a spell, if that’s what needs ta be done. But you need to leave me the books.”
Damn it, she should’ve known he’d try to compromise. “I’m not negotiating with you. You need to rest, and that means no work.”
“And I’m not negotiatin’ with you, pretty girl. If you want me out of the bar ta rest up, you’ll leave me the books. I
’ll do ’em from here, no heavy liftin’. I promise. But I will do ’em.”
“Does this have to do with the paychecks?” Shit. Shit. Good conscience dictated that she should tell her father about Lou, she knew. But if she let it spill that she was out a cook, her father would barge back into the place no matter what she and Dr. Riley said.
Her father froze for just a breath, the movement gone as fast as it had arrived. “Ah, that’s just an accountin’ error. I’ll fix it up right quick, no harm. Don’t you worry your pretty head over it.”
Teagan’s gut pinched, but she maneuvered around the percolating emotion. “Whatever it is, I can—”
“No.” Her father squeezed her shoulders with enough tension to stop her words midflow, but his eyes remained warm. “I’ll do everything else ya want without a fuss, but you’ll not have this. Sometimes a man’s got business only he can take care of.”
She opened her mouth to fight him, but the look on his face snapped her argument in half.
He wasn’t going to back down.
“That is the most sexist thing I have ever heard,” Teagan finally said, giving in to her father’s good-natured expression with a wry twist of her lips.
He stepped toward her, arms outstretched. “Take it however ya like. But do take it.”
Teagan wrapped herself in his embrace, exhaling with the first true relief she’d felt in over a day. Her father felt thinner, more brittle than usual, but she was going to make him better. She had a plan.
“All right, you win. For now, anyway.” Teagan waited an extra second before letting him go, bending to scoop up the groceries she’d left on the doorstep. “Now get the door for a lady, would you? I want to get these put away before your guest arrives.”
Her father pushed the door from ajar to open, brows upturned. “I’m not expectin’ a guest.”
Teagan pressed a cat-in-cream smile between her lips and headed for the kitchen. “Ah, but you are. Mrs. Teasdale is coming over to keep you company both today and tomorrow while I’m at the restaurant. Did you know her brother is diabetic?”
Her father’s eyes narrowed by a scant degree, and he followed her into the cozy but neat space. “Is that so?”
“Yup. So she knows all about how to test blood sugar, and how often. She was more than happy to offer to come over and help you with yours. Isn’t that the nicest?”
“Mrs. Teasdale is a nice woman. How is it again that you ran in’ta her?”
Teagan dialed her smile up to its brightest setting and held up one of the grocery bags. “I saw her at Joe’s.” Otherwise known as Pine Mountain’s social center, where Teagan had known full well the woman would be.
“Ah. What a coincidence.” The doubt in his voice was plain, but not angry. Patrick O’Malley might dig in his heels when it came to work, but his polite and charming side was way more norm than exception. Of course, Teagan had been counting on that when she scoped out Mrs. Teasdale in the produce department in the first place.
She hid her expression in the cupboards, unloading groceries just a little too fast to be natural even though her father was clearly onto her. “I thought so, too. She’ll be here in five minutes.”
Her father burst out with a laugh. “Minx. You did that on purpose.”
Teagan gave up, her own laughter spilling out to mix with his. “I love you, Da. But I sure did.”
The sudden emotion in her father’s eyes caught her right in the chest. “I take it back, love.”
“Take what back?” she whispered, her throat going tight.
But he just smiled and shook his head like he was stuck in a faraway memory.
“Yer not so bad at honey after all.”
Chapter Nine
Adrian wrapped his cast in a couple of plastic bags, snapping a rubber band tightly around the edges before stepping into the hot, welcome spray of the shower. His joints and muscles throbbed from both yesterday’s impact and last night’s overuse, but it was familiar territory, same song, second verse. A spectacular display of purples and blues marred his left shoulder, but he did his best to ignore the Technicolor bruise as he clumsily ran the soap over his skin.
Christ, he was grateful to be rid of the sling, even if it was only long enough to bathe. Lifting his arm more than a few inches without ripping pain was still out of the question, but it didn’t matter. Being able to strip the sling from his body along with his clothes was liberating, like he was on his way back to normal.
He’d found a kitchen, a purpose. Maybe, just maybe, this whole broken-arm thing wouldn’t be as bad as he’d thought. Even if he couldn’t cook, being in the kitchen with Teagan was sure to keep him occupied.
Damn, he hadn’t been occupied in far too long.
Adrian froze, but apparently his cock missed the memo, stirring to life at the thought of Teagan’s fiery mouth and attitude to match. Okay, so technically, they weren’t coworkers, and yeah, she had soft curves and tight angles in all the right places. Still, getting involved would only make helping her in the kitchen a lot more complicated, and it was his number one priority to avoid complications like a gaping pothole.
Which meant that much to his dick’s chagrin, Teagan was off-limits.
Adrian gave the shower knob a healthy turn toward cold and ran through the rest of his scrub-down as best he could with one arm. Getting toweled off and dressed threatened to reduce his patience to fumes, but he managed eventually. The pain in his arm had simmered down to a steady but manageable ache, and Adrian opted for a couple of ibuprofen to wash down the rest of the sleeve of saltines. Even money said Teagan would ask him point-blank what he’d eaten this morning, and even though his answer was bound to raise one of those feisty, red eyebrows of hers, at least he wouldn’t have to tell her “nothing.”
Off-limits, remember?
The sound of Adrian’s landline startled him halfway off the linoleum, and he stared at the thing where it sat, a few feet away on the counter. Only two people had this number—the two people who insisted he have a landline at all—and right about now, Adrian didn’t want to talk to either of them.
Of course, one could fire him permanently and the other wanted his ass back in jail, and both would come knocking down his door if he dodged their phone calls long enough.
Guess he should put his chatty pants on.
“Hello?” Adrian wedged the phone to his ear, and the scrape of it against his cheek reminded him that at some point he was going to have to master the art of one-handed shaving.
The voice at the other end sounded even crankier than he felt, sarcasm flowing like bad tequila at a bachelor party. “Good of you to finally answer, Holt. I was starting to take it personally.”
Shit. Of course Big Ed had probably tried to call already. “Sorry. I was a little busy.”
“Busy getting into trouble, I see. Went and banged yourself up real good, according to this police report on my desk.”
“I’m sure it makes it sound worse than it is.”
Disdain seeped into Big Ed’s sarcasm, hardening his thick New York accent another layer. “Says you went and played chicken with a minivan. I always knew that bike was bad news.”
“I got rear-ended by a lady on her cell phone. I wasn’t even issued a citation.” Adrian gritted his teeth hard enough to make dust. Forty-six days. In forty-six days, he would never have to deal with Big Ed again.
As long as the cantankerous bastard didn’t find a reason to have him incarcerated, anyway.
“Yeah, yeah, I verified everything with the police down there. I talked to your boss-lady, too. Sounds like you’ve got a little time on your hands now that you’ve got your ass in a sling.”
“It’s my arm.” Seriously, there wasn’t enough patience on the earth’s surface for this.
Big Ed snorted, clearly enjoying himself. “You say potato, I say ass in a sling. Anyway, since your hotshot boss vouched for you yet again, you’re off the hook with work release. For now.”
“Great,” Adrian said, working
up some sarcasm of his own. God, he hated how much Carly put on the line for him. Screwing up his own reputation was one thing. Taking his best friend down with him? Not gonna happen.
“Yeah well, just ’cause you’re straight with them doesn’t mean you’re straight with me. We both know how you get when you’ve got nothing better to do, and I ain’t a snot-nosed rookie. You may have weaseled your way out of the state all special on your fancy boss’s name, but you’re still a fuck-up waiting to happen. Don’t think just because I’m not right there on you, I ain’t watching. You so much as gulp the same air as anyone with a misdemeanor, and I’ll have you and that superstar boss of yours dragged back here on parole violations. You feel me?”
Adrian’s pulse was nothing but white noise and black anger in his veins. “Yeah. I feel you.”
“Good. And next time I call you, answer the damn phone.”
It took five minutes of solid breathing and the most imaginative curse words Adrian could conjure up before he was calm enough to consider driving, but once he managed to get on the road, he gathered his thoughts as rationally as he could.
As much as Adrian had hated every second of the exchange with the guy, at the very least, the conversation proved that Big Ed couldn’t do anything with that police report other than file it. He wasn’t the kind of guy to hold his cards, and if he’d managed to drum up some way to make the accident work against Adrian, he’d have done it. Not that he probably hadn’t given it the old college try.
Still, Adrian was going to have to keep himself clean enough to make squeaky spit with envy if he wanted to get through the next forty-six days.
He pulled into the Double Shot’s deserted lot and parked, taking in the details that had gone unnoticed in the dark of last night. The clapboard was comfortably weathered, as if it had been allowed to stay that way rather than being neglected, and the glossy black shutters made favorable companions to the wide, thickly paned windows. Brass lanternlike light fixtures hung at regular intervals along the overhang of the porch, with two matching sconces on either side of the oversized front door.
Fire Me Up Page 9
