She wanted to tell him that all she wanted to do was sit on the porch and listen to music and watch the sunset. However, she didn’t want to appear antisocial.
“Of course.” Leaning over, she turned off the CD player. “What is it you want to talk about?”
Neil sat forward, his hands clasped together. “I graduated from culinary school two months ago, and this will be my first job as a chef.”
A flash of recognition crossed Lydia’s face. She knew Neil was anxious over rumors he’d heard in culinary school about egotistical executive chefs, whose sole mission was to bully, terrorize, and intimidate their apprentices to tears. She hadn’t been exempt, except that she refused to cry in front of the others.
“Relax, Neil.” Her voice was soft, comforting. “I’m not going to scream or throw things. I know what that feels like, and I would never do it to someone else. You were hired to assist me, and that’s what I need you to do.”
Neil exhaled a sigh of relief and ran a hand over his cropped hair. “I’ve risked everything to follow my dream. I quit my job as a bean counter for the General Accounting Office the day after I had spent twenty years there. My wife moved out, took our daughters, and is now living with her mother because she believes I’m going through a midlife crisis. My father says ‘a real man wouldn’t be caught swishing around a kitchen.’”
“Do you really like cooking?” Lydia asked, deftly directing the conversation away from Neil’s family. If they were going to work together she preferred not knowing about his private life.
His expression changed, becoming animated. “I don’t know if I can explain it, but I feel…” His words trailed off.
“A rush,” she supplied.
“Yes! That’s it. A rush. A high. It’s all the same emotion.”
Lydia had experienced the same emotion. The few times she’d concocted a new dish that subsequently appeared on the restaurant’s menu earning good reviews, she expected more than “nice work” from the executive chef.
Times had changed and so had she. The urge to please, while demonstrating that she was a talented chef, was no longer important. Cooking for the camp would prove one thing: either she would or wouldn’t be able to supervise a kitchen.
She and Neil had something in common. He’d left a secure position as a government worker, while she had walked away from a prestigious position with one of D.C.’s most popular restaurants.
“Where are you working now?” he asked after a comfortable silence.
She stared at a bug crawling down the screen. “I’m not.”
“What do you plan to do after the camp season is over?”
“I’m thinking about going into business for myself.”
“Good for you,” he said.
They talked about restaurants in the capital district, northern Virginia and eastern Maryland, until Neil stole a glance at his watch. “It’s time we head out.”
Lydia swung her legs over the side of the recliner. “Where are we going?”
“Ken said there’s a place called the Roadhouse not too far from here. Dining and dress are casual.”
She stood up, Neil following suit. “Give me a few minutes to change.” Casual or not, she felt a skirt would be more appropriate than shorts.
“Do you mind going with him?”
Neil’s question caught her off guard. “You want me to go with Kennedy?” He nodded. “Why?” If Kennedy wanted her to ride with him, then he should’ve asked her.
“I have a two-seater, and I promised Jill that she could ride with me.”
She tried matching the name Jill with the face, but came up blank. It would take her several days before she would be able to identify everyone on sight.
“No, I don’t mind.” She did mind, but she wasn’t going to let Neil know that. “I’ll see you there.”
“Good. I’ll let him know you’ll be going with him.”
Her jaw dropped. “He doesn’t know?”
“Not yet. I’ll tell him on the way back to my cabin.”
Mouth gaping, she stared at her assistant as he made his way off the porch. She didn’t want Kennedy to think she wanted to ride with him. If she’d known where the restaurant was, she would drive herself.
However, there was something about the man living fifty feet away that made her uncomfortable, and the less contact she had with him the better. Turning, she walked into her cabin as a gentle breeze rustled the wind chime.
She unbuttoned the waistband on her shorts, stepped out of them, then reached into the closet for a slim black skirt. Slipping out of her clogs, she slid her bare feet into a pair of strappy sandals with a two-inch heel.
Reaching for a small leather purse, she took out a tube of gloss and drew the brush over her lips before smoothing back wisps of hair that had escaped the twist on the nape of her neck.
She headed for the door, closing it behind her. As she made her way off the porch she noticed Kennedy waiting for her, massive arms crossed over his chest. He’d changed out of his jeans and golf shirt.
Her breath caught in her throat as she surveyed his tall physique in a pair of black slacks and silk T-shirt. A pair of imported slip-ons had replaced his hiking boots.
Dropping his arms, he cleared his throat. “Neil said you needed a ride.”
Lydia wanted to tell Kennedy that Neil had lied as she watched him staring at her. His gaze swept from her head to her feet in seconds. The uneasiness was back. Was her skirt too short, tight? Did her top reveal too much flesh? Were her nipples showing through the sheer fabric of her bra?
Girl, you’d better pull yourself together before you lose it, she chided. There was no way she wanted Kennedy Fletcher to think she was some bubble-headed groupie or video ho lusting after him.
“I can always follow you in my SUV.”
“That’s not necessary. I made reservations for eight o’clock, so we’d better head out before the locals take all the parking spaces.”
“It’s that popular?”
Kennedy extended his hand, and he wasn’t disappointed when Lydia took it. “It’s been called western Maryland’s Studio 54.”
Lydia smiled up at him. “No!”
He returned her smile. “Yes. Some of the sights you’ll see will make you go ‘humm-mmm.’”
“Give me a clue,” she said, falling in step beside him.
“Beehive hairdos, platform shoes, bell-bottom pants, and an occasional Mohawk.”
She laughed, the tinkling sound carrying in the quietness of the evening like her wind chime. “What aren’t you telling me, Kennedy?”
“Most of the kids who work at the Roadhouse are drama students who live in the area for the summer. They double as wait staff and entertainers.”
“It sounds like fun.”
Kennedy gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “It is.”
Those were the last two words they exchanged as he helped her into his SUV.
CHAPTER THREE
Lydia stared out the passenger-side window of Kennedy’s Range Rover, admiring the lush, verdant landscape flaunting its summer dress.
Jeff, who had flown in from Hawaii and did not have a vehicle for his use on the mainland, sat on the second row of seats. Leaning forward, he tapped her shoulder.
“Will you consider a special menu request?”
Shifting, she peered at him. “It depends on what you want.”
“A luau.”
Kennedy peered up in the rearview mirror. “I’m with you, Jeff. A luau would be perfect for the farewell celebration dinner.” He returned his attention to the narrow, winding road.
Lydia’s gaze shifted between the two men. “A luau means roast pig. Where am I going to cook a pig? I stand corrected—pigs.”
The ovens weren’t large enough to roast the half a dozen suckling pigs needed to feed a minimum of a hundred people. Her father always used an in-ground pit to roast a large pig for the Lord family’s annual Memorial Day get-together.
Kennedy winked at her. “Why
don’t you run the idea past Roger? It shouldn’t be that difficult to have a pit constructed before the end of the summer.”
“I’ll do that,” she said, quickly warming to the idea.
* * *
“We’re here,” he announced seconds before the Roadhouse came into view.
The Roadhouse was housed in a converted barn. Loud music floated from an open loft. Couples, spilling out of cars, pickups, and SUVs, gyrated to the upbeat tempo as they headed toward the entrance.
Kennedy pulled into one of the last remaining parking spaces and cut off the engine. He got out, came around, and opened the passenger-side door. Curving an arm around Lydia’s waist, he scooped her off the seat, as if she were a small child, holding her aloft before lowering her slowly until her shoes touched the blacktop. If she registered his hesitation in releasing her, nothing in her expression indicated she had.
Since coming face-to-face with Lydia Lord, Kennedy felt as if he’d been ensnared in a web of curiosity. He wanted and needed to know what it was about the camp’s chef that had him thinking about her when he did not want to. He knew it wasn’t her looks, because he had dated women who made their living based solely on their faces and bodies. But there was something about Lydia that went beyond beauty. She seemed to possess a strength that in no way compromised her femininity.
What intrigued him most was that although she’d recognized his name she hadn’t tried coming on to him like a lot of women had done during his football playing days, and now a few at the camp. A wry smile touched his mouth. Unlike a lot of his male friends, he never liked being chased, preferring instead to do the chasing.
Reaching for her hand, he squeezed her fingers. “Are you ready to go in?”
Tilting her chin, Lydia did what she wanted to do earlier that day—she leaned into Kennedy’s massive strength. “Yes.”
* * *
They were still holding hands when a waiter dressed like a Shakespearean character directed them to a table where the camp staff had gathered. Kennedy seated Lydia on a long bench before rounding the table to sit opposite her. Their gazes met, fused, communicating an awareness of each other as if they were the only two people in the room. She offered him a shy smile, he acknowledged the gesture with a wink.
Her lids slipped down over her eyes, thick lashes sweeping the soft curve of high cheekbones. The demure expression, and the woman who made his senses spin out of control, enchanted Kennedy.
His eyes traced the planes of her face like a painter with a fine-tipped brush, moving slowly, feathering over the arch of her eyebrows, the bridge of her short nose, the hollow of delicate cheekbones, the lush, soft fullness of a petulant lower lip, and a minute dip in her delicate chin—the perfect spot on which to breathe a kiss.
“Captain Fletcher?” Kennedy shifted his gaze and attention from Lydia to a waitress dressed as a tavern-serving wench.
She smiled, displaying several blackened teeth. She leaned over, eliciting gasps from the men. The amount of flesh spilling from her revealing décolletage screamed scan-dalous!
“Do you still want the Monstrosity for your crew?” Her affected Cockney accent was flawless. He nodded mutely. “Grog, sir?” He nodded again, not realizing he’d been holding his breath until she sashayed over to the bar to put in their beverage order.
“Dam-yum,” Jeff whispered under his breath at the same time he shook his head.
“I hear you, my man,” Neil concurred.
Epithets of “tramp,” “strumpet,” and “harlot” were volleyed about the table by the women, their reactions drawing hoots and high fives from the men. Lydia met Kennedy’s amused gaze as she rolled her eyes at him.
“Are you sure this place isn’t Hooters in disguise?” Jill, the very attractive ash-blond physician’s assistant who had clung to Kennedy’s arm as if she were an appendage, openly voiced her disapproval.
A social worker tapped Jill’s arm, pointing at three men approaching the table clutching pitchers of beer, wine, and soft drinks. Bare-chested, they wore black skintight leggings, ballet-type slippers, and bow ties. The only competition for their toned pectorals and rock-hard abs were perfectly chiseled soap opera features.
Jill was practically salivating. “Who picked this place?”
Roger chuckled softly. “Ken.”
“Nice choice,” she crooned, giving him a thumbs-up sign.
Everyone at the table laughed. The tense moment behind them, mugs and glasses were filled and held aloft in a toast.
Roger adjusted his glasses. “Here’s to good food, drink, and the best camp staff in the state.”
“Hear, hear!” came a chorus of voices from those lining both sides of the long wooden table.
Hoisting his mug brimming over with frothy beer, Roger flashed a wide grin. “A special toast to Ken for offering to pick up tonight’s tab.”
“Hear, hear!” boomed the staff loud enough to be heard over the raucous sounds of music and conversations. The DJ had turned up the volume on Usher’s “Yeah.”
Jeff swallowed a mouthful of white wine. Snapping his fingers in time to the catchy tune, he reached for Lydia. “May I have this dance?”
Before she could accept or decline his invitation, he’d grabbed her hand. She was on her feet and following him to the platform stage set up as a dance floor. Two other couples from their group joined them.
Kennedy, refusing to dance, sat and watched Lydia’s slender body swaying sensually as if seducing Jeff and every man whose gaze touched her. His lids lowered, he stared intently at her, hypnotized by the perfection of her long, shapely bare legs in high heel sandals with thin leather straps crisscrossing her narrow feet.
She raised her arms and clapped her hands, singing along with the lyrics, “make your booty go…”
As Usher’s former blockbuster hit segued into OutKast’s “The Way You Move,” the wait staff and bartenders joined the customers on the dance floor. Everyone at the Roadhouse was up dancing, leaving Kennedy no excuse but to follow suit. He made his way over to Lydia. She smiled at him and he offered her his trademark matinee-idol smile.
At thirty-six, he wasn’t too old to have been part of the MTV generation, but the most noticeable change was that he’d appreciably curtailed his social life. There had been a time when he’d been able to party as hard as he’d trained for a career as an athlete. However, it had only taken a single incident to change him, his career, his life, and his future.
The DJ was relentless, spinning another old hit from the Bad Boy II soundtrack, “Shake Your Tailfeather.” As if on cue, the restaurant’s personnel resumed their duties as the volume lowered.
“This is your DJ, Road Dawg, spinning the jams tonight.” The sonorous voice floated from hidden speakers like watered silk. “We’re going to take it down a notch, give you time to catch your breath, order a little sumptum, sumptum from the bar, or sample the house special of catfish fritters. Now, hold on to your favorite lady or gent and give a listen to an old Evanescence favorite, ‘My Immortal.’”
“Please dance with me.” Kennedy’s arm curved around Lydia’s waist, pulling her against his middle.
Closing her eyes, Lydia rested her head on Kennedy’s chest, all of her senses on high alert. She listened to the strong, slow, steady beating of his heart over the hauntingly beautiful voice of Amy Lee, Evanescence’s lead singer. Curving her arms under his massive shoulders, she breathed in the essence of the cologne that had become an aphrodisiac, and languished in the solidness of the body curving into hers. Her heels put the top of her head at his shoulder, making them a perfect fit.
Kennedy curbed an urge to tighten his hold on Lydia’s slender body. If possible, he sought to absorb her into himself. He memorized everything about her: the silky feel of her skin, the floral scent clinging to her hair, clothes, and flesh, and the soft crush of her full breasts against his chest.
I want her!
The unspoken realization caught him off guard. He hadn’t known Lydia Lord a day, yet h
e wanted her. And the wanting wasn’t based solely on physical gratification—which he could get from any woman. Lydia posed a challenge, the perfect foil in a battle of the sexes.
“Were you serious about not dating athletes?” he whispered near her ear.
Lydia nodded. “Very serious.”
“Why?”
Easing back slightly, she stared up at him staring down at her. “Once burned, twice shy.”
He lifted a thick, black eyebrow. “So, you had a bad experience with a jock.” The question was posed as a statement.
Her gaze did not waver. She wanted to tell Kennedy it was devastating. How could she disclose to a stranger that the man to whom she had offered her innocence had betrayed her? The deceit was compounded because he was sleeping with her best friend at the same time.
She saw the heartrending tenderness in his gaze. Her lids fluttered wildly as she struggled to maintain her composure. His query had opened the door she had closed years before, a door she did not want to open again.
“Yes,” she whispered, the word pregnant with pain and resignation.
“Not all of them are SOBs.”
She managed a wry smile. “I know. Just the one I knew.”
Lowering his chin, Kennedy pressed a kiss on the top of Lydia’s head. “There comes a time when you have to put your past to rest, Lydia.”
“I have,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “I no longer date athletes.”
Kennedy wanted to tell Lydia that he was no longer an athlete, and that he wanted to date her. Neither would have a great deal of free time because of their camp responsibilities, but he did want to take her to a movie, or on a leisurely drive in the country. He wanted to spend time with her in order to uncover why she, and not some other woman, pulled him back into a game where losing was not an option.
The song ended and he escorted Lydia back to the table. Kilt-clad waiters balancing trays with dishes piled high with crispy fried chicken, catfish fritters, Maryland crab cakes, chow-chow, steamed okra, corn on the cob, mixed greens, candied sweet potatoes, black-eyed peas, Creole vegetable gumbo, and barbecued short ribs set them on the table. Pitchers of iced tea and water were added to the other beverages.
All My Tomorrows Page 3
