by JoAnn Ross
“Look,” Tori was saying as he approached, “have you seen the movie Julie and Julia?”
“The one where the girl blogger makes every dish in Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking in one year?”
“That’s it!” Finn hadn’t seen Tori Cassidy that excited about anything since that night on Coronado when he’d located her G-spot on the first try and sent her flying. “I’m the Amy Adams character. I’ve made every one of those five hundred and twenty-four dishes. Though not in a single year,” she admitted.
“Well, now, darlin’, that’s real impressive,” Barbara Ann said. “But that still doesn’t mean that you could cook what people hereabouts want to eat.”
“They eat meat, don’t they?”
Like, duh, Finn thought. Mary had warned him that if he thought summer tourism season was busy, he hadn’t been through the fall game hunting season.
“Well, of course they do.”
“Boeuf bourguignon wasn’t always haute cuisine,” Tori argued. “It was a basic peasant dish that works wonderfully with venison and I’ll bet would work with just about any game meat. And that’s just for starters.”
“That’s real interesting, but—”
“I can make a bourbon-glazed duck breast that’s a lot more interesting than chicken or turkey. And if you buy from local hunters, you could charge more and maintain a higher profit margin.
“And you have grouse up here, right?”
“Lots of different ones,” the other woman allowed.
“How does grouse stuffed with apples, sausage, and chanterelles sound?”
“Fancy.”
“It does. But it’s one of many ways French hunters would cook it. Julia taught that French food is good, basic country food people ate. It’s just the snooty restauranteurs who figured out that they could make more money if they intimidated diners into thinking that it was too complex for the average home cook.”
“I make a mean bowl of grits,” Barbara Ann argued. “Which is pretty much what fancy places pass off as polenta. And I can make sausage.”
“See, you’re halfway there. You can get fresh apples, right?”
“Of course.”
“And mushrooms?”
“With all our rain and cloudy skies, we’ve got tons of those. I buy ’em local for mushroom omelets.”
“You’re already set.”
“It sounds tasty.” Finn could hear the borough’s most successful entrepreneur softening.
“It is.”
“But you want to tell me how you’re going to get folks around here to even try French food?”
“Easy.” Tori folded her arms beneath her breasts. “We don’t tell them it’s French.”
Barbara Ann chewed on the tip of a pink fingernail. Finn could see the wheels turning inside that opportunistic blond head. “If they don’t ask, we don’t tell.”
“Exactly!” Tori exhaled a huge breath that hinted she was claiming victory. A bit too soon.
“I still don’t have any way of knowing that you really can pull that off,” Barbara Ann said. “Not that I’m accusing you of being untruthful, understand, but it’s been difficult enough running this kitchen ever since Patti decided to up and marry that park ranger who got transferred down to the Grand Canyon.
“They’re leaving in a week and I’ve got too much to do to be cooking every night without a backup cook for John. And while we’ll never do the business that Anchorage or even Juneau does, I don’t want to have to deal with a learning curve in the middle of tourist season.”
“That makes perfect sense,” Tori agreed, getting back into the fight. Considering that she still had to be dealing with a hangover, Finn admired her tenacity. “So, how about you give me a trial run? Without pay.”
Since, despite her warm and caring heart, the older woman was known to squeeze her pennies, that got her attention. Sticking with the earlier hunting theme, she reminded Finn of a German pointer who’d just scented a ruffled grouse.
“You’re a singer. A good one. Why would you be willing to spend your nights in this hot kitchen?”
“How much would you pay me to sing in the Gold Gulch?” Tori countered.
“Not as much as I’d pay you to cook in the café,” Barbara allowed. “It’s not that you’re not worth it, but—”
“Having sung solely for tips before, I get it,” Tori said. “Performing has never been the most stable way to make a living. Which is why I didn’t suggest it. But I’m in a bit of a financial bind right now, so let me throw in a sweetener.”
Damn if this hadn’t turned into a serious business negotiation. Finn knew that the sight of Tori’s teeth biting her full, rosy bottom lip shouldn’t turn him on. But it did.
“One week free cooking as a trial,” Tori suggested. “I can send you a list of menu suggestions and ingredients you’d need beforehand. Then, when you hire me, which you will, four nights cooking, and a one-hour concert on my night off for tips.”
Wide blue eyes narrowed. “That financial bind you mentioned. Is that fiancé who didn’t show up with you the one who put you in it?”
“Not solely. But yes, he’s part of my situation. The other reason is that my recording company went bankrupt and my contract has been put up for sale by the receivers. Since I can’t afford to buy them back, I’m essentially starting over.”
“Okay.” Barbara put both hands on her hips, stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, then said, “Here’s my offer. You go back to the cabin and email me your two best dishes along with ingredients. Nothing I can’t easily source out of Anchorage. I’ll cost it out, and since you’re doing dinner, you can go a bit higher, but no more than thirty percent. And don’t worry, if what you’re suggesting doesn’t make me a profit, I’ll be sure to tell you beforehand.” She rattled off an AlaskaMail address.
“I can do that,” Tori said. “I’ll make sure it’s seasonal, to help keep the cost down.”
“I’ve had professional cooks who’ve come here who didn’t think about that while costing out a menu,” Barbara Ann said. “You sure you’ve never cooked commercially before?”
“I partly put myself through community college making pub grub at a place in West Hollywood.”
“So, you’re talking wings, fries, and sliders. Which is a long way from what you’re suggesting I add to the café’s menu.”
“I didn’t plan the pub’s menu,” Tori allowed. “But I did talk the owner into adding fish tacos. It was L.A.,” she pointed out with a return of what Finn took as a bit of the humor he’d enjoyed that night they’d spent together. “As for seasonal costing, I learned about that from being addicted to the Food Network.”
Barbara barked a laugh, then glanced over at Finn. “I like this one,” she said. Then she was back to business. “Two nights’ trial, starting Tuesday of next week. We’re closed on Monday. If you’re even half as good as you say, you’ll cook four nights a week during the summer and hunting season if you’re still around by fall.
“Three nights if you go into winter. And two thirty-minute shows on one of your off nights.”
She named a figure that sounded low to Finn, who’d watched Tori perform before a full house of six hundred Navy brass and spouses in that hotel ballroom, but apparently it was more than Tori had expected because she’d blinked. Then flashed a smile bright enough to keep Caribou lit up all winter.
“You’ve got yourself a singing cook.”
14
“I’m impressed,” he said once they were back in the Jeep. “Both by the cooking stuff and your ability to negotiate with Barbara Ann.”
Tori shrugged. “I need a job. She needs a cook. It was pretty much a no-brainer.”
“Still, she’s no pushover. Did you really make all those dishes?”
“I don’t lie.”
“I wasn’t saying that.” He lifted his hands after pressing the ignition button. “Okay, I guess I did. But I didn’t mean it like it sounded.”
“It was a
reasonable enough question. It sounds impossible, which was why I was surprised when they made that true story movie. I thought I was the only person crazy enough to try to do that.”
“Well, you’re definitely going to be bringing in more business when the word gets out. Did you cook while you lived with the Covingtons?”
Tori’s blood went cold. “How did you know about that?”
“You told me last night. Not about the cooking.” He pulled into the traffic, which was busier than she would have expected. But given that half the vehicles appeared to be seniors in RVs, she decided both Barbara Ann and Finn hadn’t exaggerated about the influx of business during the summer season. “You said something about being arrested but not arrested.”
“It’s a long story. And no, I didn’t cook while I was there. But my mother did. She was the Covingtons’ housekeeper.”
“Yeah. I figured that part out. I also got that you’d loved the son all your life.”
“It was only a girlish crush.” How much had she told him? “And before you point out that I’m no longer a girl, I realize that. It was just…” She rubbed the back of her neck. “Complicated,” she said finally.
“So I gathered.” He pulled into a parking space that had opened up in front of a wooden building. “Let’s get your slicker. Then I’ll take you back to the cabin and go to work. I’ve got a full list of passengers waiting for a bird’s-eye view of the Alaskan interior.”
As they left the Jeep, Tori wished she could believe his casual tone. Surely Finn had to wonder. Not just about what she’d drunkenly claimed to be an arrest—which had certainly felt like it at the time—but whether she’d been involved with Carter when she’d spent the night with him. Although she’d rather throw herself off Mt. Denali than talk about all that, neither did she want him to think she’d been sleeping around on Carter. Who, excuse me, certainly hadn’t had any qualms about doing exactly that to her.
Since she appeared to be staying in Caribou at least long enough to replenish her bank account, she was probably going to have to explain.
But fortunately, thanks to all those tourists waiting for sightseeing flights, not today.
* * *
If Finn was going to list his top ten favorite things to do, not only would shopping not appear on the list, it wouldn’t show up on the top hundred. So he was relieved when Tori snagged herself an inexpensive, lightweight, hooded red slicker within five minutes of entering the Trading Post. They did waste another couple minutes arguing over him having the jacket put on his account, but he’d managed to convince her that it was merely a loan until she got her first paycheck. The fact that she’d backed down so fast told him that she wasn’t exaggerating when she’d told Barbara Ann she was in a financial bind.
She didn’t say anything on the drive back to the lake. Which, he figured, meant that she was thinking about recipes for the café. Or more likely, how to avoid any discussion of Covington, her engagement, or anything having to do with their night together. Which, if he had any sense, he’d want to stay away from, too. The problem with that was, from the time he’d walked into that ballroom, it seemed as if he hadn’t had a choice where Tori Cassidy was concerned.
When he pulled up in front of the cabin, she unfastened her seat belt and was about to make a run for it.
Let her go, his brain shouted.
Not yet, other parts of his body argued.
She’s fragile, his conscience chimed in to back up his brain. Which was exactly what Mary had warned.
“Not yet.” Even knowing he was getting in over his head, Finn caught her by the sleeve of that new cardinal-red slicker.
She turned back and glanced down at his hand on her arm. Then looked up. Finn could feel the sizzle as their gazes met, and from the slight tremble he felt beneath his fingers, he knew that she felt it, too.
“I thought you had passengers waiting.”
“I do.” He reached across the console and tucked an errant curl that had escaped that ponytail behind her ear. “Five senior citizens looking to check an air tour of the largest mountain in North America off their bucket list.”
“You’d better go then.” The back of her neck warmed beneath his stroking touch. “You never know how much time they have left. It’s called a bucket list for a reason.”
“It takes all of ten minutes to get to the airfield from here.” Even knowing he was playing with fire, he cupped his fingers beneath her chin. “And if they’re that close to kicking the bucket, I’d rather have them go on the ground than up in the air.”
“You’re terrible.”
“And you’re amazing.”
When her lips parted, either in surprise or because she was planning to argue, he ducked his head and took her mouth. Softly at first, just a brush of his lips against hers, teasing his way from one corner to the other.
Hooyah. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she grabbed hold of the front of his shirt, slanted her head, and with a shimmering sigh, she softened and sank into the kiss. Because it had been too long since he’d been with any woman, and far too long since he’d been with the only one who’d ever made him ache long after she’d sneaked away like a cat burglar, he deepened the kiss, stroking his tongue against hers in a rhythm that had him remembering how it had felt to be buried deep inside her, his hands on her hips, holding her as he’d driven them both toward release.
Knowing he should leave now, while he still could, Finn slipped a hand beneath her slicker. He brushed his fingers against the strip of skin at her lower back, bared by her shirt rising as she strained toward him. It was as soft and satiny as he remembered, and as his fingertips began to burn with sensual memory, he slipped his hand down the back of her jeans. She moaned into his mouth when he cupped one butt cheek and began massaging the smooth, firm flesh.
Then, just when he was about to play the airline owner card and leave Yazz or one of the other pilots to deal with his seniors’ damn bucket lists while he took her into the cabin and finished this, she pulled away. And stared up at him.
“That was a mistake,” she said.
“Last night might have been a mistake,” he allowed. “Today it felt pretty damn good.”
“I don’t do hookups.” Realizing that’s exactly what they’d done in San Diego, she said, “Okay, correction. I slipped once.” As if belatedly realizing that her nipples were taking longer than her brain to get the message that she was throwing a flag on the play, she pulled the slicker closed. “But that was crazy chemistry.”
“You’re not going to get any argument from me. I did, by the way, score an A in chemistry at the Academy.”
“The Academy?” Her eyes, which had been heavily lidded after that shared kiss, narrowed. “You went to Annapolis?”
“Yeah.” He felt her pulling back. Not just physically but emotionally. “So what?”
“You never mentioned that.”
“And you never mentioned you could cook. Conversation wasn’t exactly a priority.”
Nor had food been. Except for when they’d fed each other the chocolate-dipped strawberries some unseen hotel staffer had delivered to his suite while he’d been downstairs. Afterwards he’d spent a long part of the moon-spangled night spreading the accompanying whipped cream over her breasts, then licking it off.
She turned away to look out at the cobalt-blue lake. “It was just sex.”
“Hot, blow-your-mind sex,” he agreed. “I was walking funny for a week.”
“That’s a myth.” She looked back toward him, her gaze drifting down to a boner that, like her nipples, hadn’t yet gotten the memo that this wasn’t going to go anywhere. At least today.
“Hand to God.” He raised his right hand. “If I’d been an athlete, I’d been benched.”
She didn’t smile. “Look,” she said, “this isn’t really personal—”
“Funny, it felt like that a couple minutes ago.”
She looked at him for a long beat. “I don’t want this.”
Knowing he
was being perverse—but for some reason this woman always had him behaving out of character—Finn lifted his brows. “What?”
“This.” She waved a hand. “You. Me. Together… All this…”
“Chemistry.”
“Exactly.” That kiss they’d shared proved her to be a liar, but Finn got the meaning. Because he felt the same way. At least he thought he did. The pitiful truth was that whenever he was within kissing distance of Tori Cassidy, all his good intentions went flying right out the window.
She’d been different from the beginning. Having spent time with her the past two days, he was coming to realize exactly how different she was than his usual women. Although he still hadn’t pried any of the secrets he knew her to be hiding in her past from her, Finn knew that Tori Cassidy was the kind of woman a guy settled down with. Had kids with. Built a life with.
Not that there was anything wrong with that, he considered, thinking once again of his brothers. But he wasn’t that guy.
“What are you doing on the Fourth?”
“The Fourth?”
“Of July. It’s the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh.” She looked surprised. “I guess I’ll be doing what I’m going to do today. Trying to create two recipes that won’t get me chopped.”
“Chopped?”
“It’s a cooking show. Four chefs get these baskets, and… Never mind. That’s not important. I was just responding to your question.”
“Alaska’s as patriotic as the rest of the country,” he said, forging on with the conversation even as the voice of reason in the back of his mind kept trying to remind him that the smart thing to do, if he really wanted to stay uninvolved, was to keep his distance. “But we don’t do fireworks, because sunset comes at 11:59 p.m. and only lasts a couple minutes. So, mostly, it’s a regular workday. But from what I’ve been told, Barbara Ann realized skipping the day bums out tourists, who are used to making a big deal of it, so Caribou started putting on a parade a decade or so ago.”
