by Opal Carew
“Yes, sir. I believe I can help them.”
Chapter Two
As Jolie pulled the omelet ranchero together, complete with nice little lemon- and orange-rind garnishes courtesy of the Julienne peeler—a must-have in every kitchen—Mr. Best descended the hardwood stairs to the accompaniment of yet another phone call. That made five since he’d headed up. Amazing he had time for a shower.
She glanced through the arched doorway. More amazing was that he ended up looking like that. Even in a boring brown golf shirt and khaki shorts, you had to love summer and lots of skin. His was quite worth looking at.
Calm down. You need this job, remember?
Oh, yes, she remembered. She had enough memories from her unstable childhood with Mom flitting from man to man to know not to get involved with anyone to whom she owed her financial stability.
Heck, this job was for getting out from being under anyone’s financial strings. She’d had enough of others dictating when, where, or how she could live or what she was going to do with her life, and she was determined to stand on her own two feet. She’d made that vow when she’d left the foster care system ten years ago, and though the road had been bumpy, it’d been her road. And once she had enough money to finish her education and open her own pastry shop, she would be finished being beholden to anyone. The only person responsible for her life, her happiness, and her bank account would be Hers Truly.
“Hey,” her new employer said, his golden hair curling damply at his collar. “I’m sorry about the nudity. I obviously wasn’t expecting anyone today.”
She set a glass of orange juice at his place at the table. “I should hope not. That is, I should hope nudity isn’t on the daily agenda. However, I am kind of confused as to why you weren’t expecting me.”
He ran a hand through that longish hair. A few strands fell forward onto his forehead. “I guess I got the dates mixed up. I thought I’d have the week to myself before the new girl started,” he answered.
“To dance naked through the house?” She folded a napkin next to his plate. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but honestly, it is kind of distracting.”
Finally, a smile.
Whooooa.
“Promise.” He raised his hand. “No more nudity. Back to wearing a robe and sleeping in pajamas.”
She wasn’t going to picture that—and with what she’d already seen, that was taking some major mental fortitude. But because of her mother’s wonderful example of male-female relationships, she was sticking him in the look-but-don’t-touch category. Heck, she shouldn’t even look, but she was human.
“So—” He grabbed a chair as the phone rang for Phone Call Number Six.
“Do you want me to answer that?” She reached for the receiver.
“Let the machine get it.” He scooted closer to the table. “So, do you really have a name, or am I just going to keep calling you ‘new girl’?”
Jolie whipped a folded letter from the pocket of the apron her friend, Giuseppe, had made for her when she’d graduated culinary school that now accompanied her to every job. “Here’s my letter of introduction from the agency, complete with references.”
Mr. Best, no longer Naked Guy (pity), scanned the letter from the DeLeos. He’d probably be counting his lucky stars she’d deigned to work for him after reading that missive. Mrs. DeLeo had gone a bit overboard, but Jolie couldn’t complain. She couldn’t have asked for a better reference than one from someone who owned a food service company yet had still hired a personal chef for her at-home dining experience.
She also wasn’t going to complain about Mrs. DeLeo’s verbosity because it was the perfect opportunity to check out Mr. Dressed Guy—vis-à-vis the whole being-human-and-allowed-to-look thing. Sans the nudity awkwardness, thank goodness.
She’d already noticed the taut muscles and broad shoulders, and his freshly-shaven jaw reminded her of the male models in those cigarette ads with their cowboy hats and boots, open collared shirts, and sexy-as-all-get-out jeans. Yep, she could see ol’ Todd here in the pages of a magazine. Those weren’t shoulder pads under his shirt and he had a nice start on a summer tan.
She glanced out the French doors. Yep, a pool. Probably like every other home in the Mirror Lake development. A necessity, she guessed, like the housekeeper, nanny, and circular driveway. Their own veritable Stepford.
“The name fits,” he said, tucking the letter in his back pocket.
Pretty nice place to be tucked.
“Uh… what?” She paused at the silverware drawer.
“Your name. Jolie.”
“Okay?”
“It means ‘pretty’ in French,” he explained with a smile.
Well if she didn’t get all tingly at that. Which, again, was not a good thing.
She opened the drawer and found a sudden interest in selecting just the right fork and knife. “Oh. Thanks. But my name was supposed to be Julie.”
He cocked his head and it was kinda cute.
She walked back to the table and set the utensils on the correct sides of his plate. “My mother knew absolutely no French.” The language, anyhow. “She was just a bit too groggy, I guess, when she filled out my birth certificate and wrote J-O-L-I-E instead of J-U-L-I-E. It wasn’t ’til grade school that a teacher called me ‘Jolie’ and I learned about the mix-up. So, I went with Jolie from then on.”
Nothing said “I love you” like misspelling your own kid’s name.
But she was over it.
Really.
“Well,” said Todd, “it worked out, because, as I said, the name fits.”
To which Jolie had no witty comeback without sounding like a teenager meeting her high school crush. Instead, she flourished the fluffiest three-egg white omelet ever under his nose, complete with perfectly done toast, a sprig of parsley and those little lemon and orange curlicues. Garnishes always made such a nice touch. Good for impressing the boss.
“Are you going to join me? Meals are included in your contract.” He emptied a forkful of egg into his mouth and used the tines to point to the chair across from him.
Jolie sat. “I’ll have to remember that.” Especially since sitting there staring at him while he ate was more than a bit uncomfortable. Okay, maybe not quite as uncomfortable as the naked thing, but still…
Besides, she was a bit of a talker and silence kinda made her edgy. “So? Is that the best omelet you’ve ever had or what?”
His mouth had a little twisty move going like he’d just sucked on a lemon.
She checked his plate. Both garnishes accounted for.
Then he covered his mouth and coughed. Then coughed some more.
Oh no, he was choking.
She hopped up and started pounding him on the back. “Boy, oh, boy. First day on the job and I’m killing you. Not the best way to stay employed.”
He waved his hands once his airway cleared, then coughed again. “Thanks.” He cleared his throat. “Actually, it is the best I’ve ever had,” he said around another cough. “So, awesome omelet aside, what else do you make, Jolie?”
His eyes got all crinkly around the edges when he smiled, sparkling like light colored emeralds.
She knew dozens of girls who’d kill for eyes like that. Herself included…well, maybe not. People had always told her that her violet eyes were unusual and she’d enjoyed the attention when she was younger. Nowadays, she’d love for anyone to be looking close enough to see she even had eyes.
But that was a thought for another lifetime. The one where she’d be able to make decisions based on what she wanted rather than what she needed. The lifetime where she’d be her own boss—and, someday after that, where there’d be someone who’d look close enough to see her.
That lifetime had to be waiting for her. Other people had it; she should be able to, too. And she was trying. No doubt about that. Why, she was even writing a novel in the hopes that it’d supplement her cooking income. Anything for financial independence.
And while
novel-writing might not seem like an avenue to financial security and eternal happiness, in her hand-to-mouth childhood the one thing she could never seem to beg, borrow, or steal was love, so she’d looked for it in books. Money being scarce—or non-existent—she’d chosen the happy endings in romance novels whenever she could afford a book.
And, now, she figured that if she could fashion a fictional happy ending in a book, she could fashion one in reality as well. And if she earned some extra money doing so, all the better.
At least, that was the thought. And Todd here was her ticket to both ends. Her employer to handle the cooking-money end of things and the inspiration for her romance hero for the literary-money. She could learn what made him tick, what had made his relationship work, his emotions for his wife, see what it was about him that made him worthy of being loved and, voila! instant romance hero.
Not that she’d tell him. There were limits to what people would put up with and, because of his reticence with publicity since his wife died, she was putting hero-inspiration into that category. If he didn’t go for PR to talk about his career, he certainly wouldn’t want to go for it for hers.
“Hello in there?” Todd tapped the table.
Oops. “Sorry.” A blush blazed its way upward, warming her skin. “Um, well, I can whip up pretty much anything you want. What do you have in mind?”
The phone trilled yet again, but Todd ignored it and shrugged. “I’m not really much of a big eater these days. Feel free to try out whatever you want to keep yourself entertained. I usually give most of it to the Grays anyway.”
“Grays?”
“Jasmine and Earl. An older couple who’ve been with us—me—for years. Earl takes care of the outside of the house and Jasmine the inside.”
So why exactly was Jolie here collecting an exorbitant salary? He had a housekeeper, a gardener, and an answering machine, all with only one person living in the house.
She didn’t mind earning an honest living, but this was starting to feel like a handout. To her. And she didn’t do charity.
Unless… it was the company he was paying for? Someone to be here all day?
Hmm. That was understandable, given the circumstances, but still… Didn’t he have family? Friends?
“Not very talkative are you?”
Her? “Oh. Sorry. Just thinking what’s for dinner.” She was not about to call his bluff. She knew all about keeping up appearances that everything was going along swimmingly in one’s life. If he wanted to pretend, far be it from her to call him on it.
“Come up with anything?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet. I’ll have to go food shopping and see what strikes my fancy.”
The phone rang again. What was with these people?
Todd glanced toward the den, home of the (obviously) super-large-capacity answering machine. He set his fork down, then wiped his mouth with the cotton napkin.
Nice manners. Nice mouth, too.
She shouldn’t be noticing things like that.
“I’ll drive you in. I’ve got to stop by my offi—my brother’s office and take care of a few things.”
Nice recovery, but she saw that grimace. Self-deception must be the order of the day.
“That’s okay. I’ve got my car.”
“No sense wasting gas. I’ll take you.” He leaned his forearms on the edge of the table and turned those emerald eyes on her. “So, Jolie Gardener, how’d you end up in my kitchen?”
She shrugged, going for nonchalant. “Same way everyone else did. I applied at the agency, put the car in gear, and here I am.”
“No. What I meant was, how did you end up in cooking? And are you always this literal?”
She laughed. He got her. “Hey, that didn’t take you long. Good job.”
“What are you talking about?”
She scooched closer to the table and plopped her chin in her hand. “Well, it’s this test I do. To see how we’ll get along. If it takes someone too long to get me, it’s going to be a long assignment. And I don’t mean in terms of time. But if people, you for instance, get me—my humor—I can tell we’re going to work well together.”
“Ah,” he nodded, “getting it” all the more. “The litmus test of contractee and contractor. I like it.” He pushed his plate aside. “So, what happens if your client doesn’t ‘get’ you? Do you ask to be reassigned or do you just stick it out?”
“I never quit.”
“Never?”
“Never.” If she’d ever let quitting worm its way into her vocabulary she would’ve been one of those statistics on the news every night.
“Sometimes quitting is a good thing.”
His voice was barely out of whisper range, but she heard it. Heard the words and beneath them too.
But at least he’d said them.
It didn’t take a genius to figure out why he’d stopped painting, but maybe those words were a sign he was on the road to recovery. Perhaps that’s what her exorbitant salary was all about: having someone with him all day and so he could find some way to open up. Come back to the world of the living.
Paint again.
Oh, if she could somehow help him regain the will to pick up a paintbrush, it’d be worth a shot, because for Todd Best to give up painting was like Michelangelo putting clothes on the statue of David.
Yep, she was back to nudity again.
“Um, well, okay, I’ll definitely take that ride, if you’re still offering.” Inane chatter (or graciously accepting an offer) was a good way to get her mind off nudity—his, David’s, or otherwise. “But it’s not going to be a quick run. I’ll need to meander around the store. An hour at least, maybe more. Or I could just have the stuff delivered and grab a cab if you want to leave before me. If not, I hope your car has a good trunk ’cause I tend to splurge the first time in a new kitchen. To make sure I’ve got all the necessities. Okay with you?”
He had a really cute, little quirky look going. Like she was speaking some foreign language he knew a little of and he was trying to conjugate the verbs.
“Aren’t you exhausted yet?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“Well, if your mouth is moving that fast, I can only imagine your brain has to work twice as hard to coordinate all those thoughts.”
His smile had taken the sting from his words, but still, they rankled. Yes, she was a talker. Sometimes it was scads better than silence. Or her thoughts.
“You’d be amazed.” She stood to clear the table but Todd beat her to it, picking up his plate and heading to the sink.
Boy, was he tall. She wasn’t used to feeling dwarfed around guys, since five-ten was no slouch in the height department, but with him…
It was such a screaming shame that the guy had pretty much every attribute in tall, dark, and gorgeous one could want. Except the dark part was dark blond. But it’d do. If she were wanting.
Which she most definitely was not. She’d learned her lesson. Falling for the guy who paid her salary—and greeted her naked—was not a good idea. Not to mention, a sure-fire way to disrupt the fictional exposé of his life she was working on, thereby derailing the perfectly planned path her life was about to take.
The phone rang again. Jolie glanced at it with raised eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t want me to answer that?”
Todd’s steps faltered. Not again. He ran a hand through his hair again. He wasn’t ready to deal with this. Not yet.
Not today.
Fuck it. He tossed his plate into the sink, half-hoping to hear it shatter. At least it’d give him something to focus on instead of the goddamned phone.
“I’m sure. Let’s go, Jolie. I’ll take care of the dishes when we get back.”
“Um, well, okay. If you’re sure. I mean, it is my job—”
“And it’s my house. Dishes can sit.”
He held out a hand to her. The faster they got out of here, the faster he didn’t have to deal.
Then the doorbell chimed. Now what? He dropped hi
s hand and spun on his heel toward the foyer. “I’ll get this while you hang up your apron and get your purse.”
He yanked on the brass handle, then immediately tried to shut the door when he saw who was on the other side, but Lizette was quick.
Too quick, dammit.
The news anchorwoman shoved a microphone in his face and her foot in the door, the cameraman’s red light blinking like a distress signal behind her.
“Mr. Best, if you could give our viewers an idea of what today means—”
“No comment. All publicity is to go through the office.” He stepped out of the line of filming and tried to maneuver her foot back through the door. He didn’t want to do bodily harm, but he could be persuaded to change his mind.
“They gave me the same response.”
“Then that’s your answer. No comment.” He closed the door enough to trap her foot and let her know he meant business. Luckily, she knew when enough was enough and retreated.
He shut the door, sliding the deadbolt home, then rested his head against the doorframe.
The phone rang again.
He was going to lose it. His stomach was churning, acid backing up into his throat. He wanted to scream, beat his head against the mahogany door, rip down walls…something. Anything to end this charade of normalcy that he was barely hanging on to.
He should have bought a new bottle of Beam last night, not just pulled out the remnants of another night’s misery. He could’ve spent the day in a stupor, fading in and out on his sofa, and letting this whole fucking day just pass him by.
“Are you okay?”
Jolie.
He sighed. He’d forgotten she was here.
He cleared his throat and pushed off the door, turning to face her. The phone rang again.
He had to get out of the house. “Yeah, I’m all right.” He took another breath. He would be all right; that was the sad irony of it. “How do you feel about a duck and run?”
“Duck and run?”
“My car’s inside the garage. You’re going to want to duck your head to avoid making tonight’s news.”
“I am?”
