by Tessa Layne
Brodie strode in, a determined look on his face. “Let me help.”
She shook her head, stacking the plates in three piles on the island. “I’ve got it. You go entertain.”
He started opening drawers until he found a large flour sack dishcloth. “They’re talkin’ just fine without me.” He tied the dishcloth around his waist.
Jamey covered a laugh. “You look like a dork.”
“Then get me a coat like yours.”
“Oh no. You have to earn that.”
Earnestness replaced the humor in his eyes. “Then let me earn it, Jamey, please? We’re a team, remember?”
She paused her rushing to glare at him. “Yeah? Then why won’t you let me help you with the ledgers?”
His eyes instantly became guarded. He let out a heavy sigh. “That’s… I… That’s different. Something I need to take care of… for me.”
She reached to pull a pan of polenta out of the oven, shutting the door with her hip. “Are you aware of how razor thin our margins are? Probably as razor thin as a ranch’s. We’ve got no room for error.”
He scrubbed a hand across his face. “You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why won’t you let me help?”
He put his hands on his hips, and stared hard at her, inner conflict playing out on his face. What was it? What was he holding back? And why wouldn’t he tell her?
Throwing caution to the wind, she crossed around the island, bringing her bright purple Docs toe to toe with his Tony Lamas.
A wry smile played at the corners of his mouth. “Your boots are hideous.”
She flashed him a grin. “Yes they are. And the best damn pair of kitchen shoes I’ve ever owned. I can stand for fourteen hours and not ache.”
His eyes widened a fraction. “You work fourteen hour days?”
“Ranchers aren’t the only profession with long hours and little pay. We don’t fanny about the kitchen in miniskirts and frilly aprons, waving a magic wand.”
Desire lit his eyes. “You’d look mighty fine like that,” he said suggestively.
She snorted. “I’ll remember that when we don’t have nineteen mouths to feed.” She grabbed his hand, studying the callouses that crossed his palm. She traced one with her finger. “Brodie… whatever it is…” She risked a glance his direction. His blue eyes locked on hers. “You can tell me…” she swallowed hard, suddenly feeling very exposed.
His fingers closed around hers, encasing her in warmth and strength. Words played over his face, and he opened his mouth, then quickly shut it again, mask back in place. “Nothin’ to tell.” He flashed her his Mr. Charming smile. “You don’t worry about a thing, darlin’.”
Her heart twisted in disappointment.
Fine. If that’s how he was going to play it. “It’s Chef, cowboy.” She dropped his hand, all business. “Lay out the first five plates. We’ll serve the patio first.”
She retreated to the other side of the island, professional armor back in place. He was her business partner, not her boyfriend. She must remember that at all costs.
Taking a pizza cutter, she ran it through the toasted polenta, making thick rectangles. The familiar adrenaline rush of running a fast kitchen seeped into her veins, sharpening her focus to a laser point. Keeping her eyes on her work, she rattled off orders like she was back home at Frenchie O’Neill’s. “Polenta at six o’clock. Line the left side with brussels. I’ll add the pheasant and sauce the plate. Got it?”
“Brussels?”
She nodded at a pan on the stove. “I’m going to fire these in about 30 seconds. I’ll put them on the island. You’ll want four to six on each plate.” She gave him her most intimidating chef’s stare. “You ready? This will go fast.”
“Not faster than a calf tearin’ outta the chute. I got this.”
“Let’s go then.” She turned back to the stove and upped the flame on the brussels. Grabbing a spatula, she lifted the first piece of polenta out of the tray, and laid it on the plate. “I’ll do this first one so you get a visual. Then you’re on your own. Any questions, ask. Don’t assume.”
“Got it, chef.”
She could have sworn she detected a note of humor in his voice, and glanced up sharply.
“You laughing?”
“Nope. Just admiring.”
She gave him a little smile. “So long as it doesn’t slow you down.” She spun back to the sauté pan and gave it a shake. Opening the stove, she grabbed the tongs with her free hand, and reached in for a prosciutto-wrapped pheasant breast. She placed it at an angle over the polenta, then grabbed the brussels pan and brought it to the island. She laid out six in a row alongside the polenta. Next, she ladled a little demi glace over the meat, and finished with a squeeze bottle she’d filled with a balsamic fig reduction. “Drizzle it across the plate like this,” she demonstrated. “Not too heavy. Got it?”
“Yup.”
Jamey handed him the spatula and reached back into the oven for another pheasant breast. Brodie’s big hands worked rapidly and with surprising facility for someone who’d never worked in a commercial kitchen. In no time, he was carrying the plates out to the table.
“Remember to serve from the right,” she called after him.
Five down, fourteen to go.
Now came the tricky part. With only two of them, they’d have to work furiously to get the plates to the table while the food was still hot. Grabbing a second pan, she divided the remaining brussels from her prep area between the two pans. Firing them both, she spun and started laying out the last of the plates.
Brodie returned, and relieved her of plate duty. She started plating the polenta. As soon as Brodie finished laying the plates, he reached for her spatula. She whipped around and gave the brussels a toss. They worked in silence, focused on the getting the plates built as rapidly as possible. She brought the brussels around behind Brodie, brushing him as she passed, and laid them on the island.
“I’ll get the pheasant,” Brodie offered. He moved to the oven and, grabbing the potholders, brought the pheasant to the island.
For a kitchen novice, he sure caught on fast. She hid a smile as she laid down the brussels. They worked from end to middle, meeting at the last plate.
He darted a glance her way before concentrating on the plate again. “You’re good, Jamey.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest. “You’re catching on.”
“I mean it.”
She scooted around him, reaching for the demi glace. “Grab the drizzle. Food’s getting cold.” She sauced the meat and Brodie followed behind with the glaze.
Grabbing two plates, she bustled around the island, calling over her shoulder as she went. “I’ll start with Cami, then we put them down clockwise.”
Brodie followed, and in short order, the table had been served while the food was still hot. Wiping her hands on her pants, she stepped to the sink and began rinsing the stack of salad dishes. A hand snaked out and grabbed the sprayer. “Let me.”
She refused to release it. “Nope. You go entertain. I made enough for you, too.”
“What about you, Jamey? Who takes care of you?”
No one. She lifted a shoulder. “Stop acting the mother. Go be Mr. Charming.”
“What if I’d rather stay here?”
So he could charm the pants off her? Brodie would scorch her like a hand on a hot stove. And yet… she liked him. He pushed her buttons. Hell, she pushed his. And it was… fun. Before she could stop herself, she flicked the sprayer at him, wetting his shirt.
He leapt back in surprise. “What the hell was that for?” he yelped.
Laughter bubbled up. Laughter like she hadn’t enjoyed in… forever. And she couldn’t stop. God, teasing him was better than pulling one over on all her brothers at once. A feat she’d only managed twice in her life.
His hand closed over hers. “Two can play this game, lady.”
She valiantly tried to fend him off, but he was too strong, and in no time had the sprayer
aimed at her face. She shrieked in laughter. “S-s-s-STOP.”
“Hell no, woman. You’re going to pay for that.” Laughter tinged his own voice as she tried to twist behind him and use him as a shield. He pivoted, grabbing her waist, and pulled her back against him. She was soaked. And so was he.
Then, using a move her brother Jarrod had taught her, she swept his foot, tumbling both of them to the floor, leaving the sprayer swinging wildly. She landed stretched out on top of him, gasping for breath. His hand snaked around her back, clasping her close. His chest shook with laughter underneath her, and they locked eyes.
Instantly, the mood shifted, and Brodie lifted his head off the floor, capturing her mouth. He brought his other hand to the base of her neck, gently holding her in place as his tongue flicked across her lips. Giving her hips a roll, she opened her mouth, meeting his tongue with her own. The laughter they’d shared set off a fire inside her that could only be quenched with his kiss. God, his kisses set her body buzzing like a whole bag of chocolate espresso beans. He caressed her back… and lower, cupping her ass and squeezing her tighter against him.
“Jamey? Everything all right?” Maddie called.
Shit.
Caught making out on the floor of her kitchen. He’d charmed the pants right off her.
Again.
She popped up, knowing her face was bright red.
Blake and Maddie stood just inside the entrance, the picture of concerned parents to be.
“Hi,” Jamey said brightly. Too brightly. “Everything’s fine. Just a little spill.” She nudged Brodie with her boot. He stood up.
Maddie and Blake stared at the two of them. The start of a scowl formed on Blake’s face, while Maddie looked confused.
Brodie coughed. “There was ah … water on the floor. Tripped.”
Blake’s eyes narrowed and darted between the two of them, but understanding dawned in Maddie’s eyes. She never missed a thing. Maddie’d be back later asking questions. No doubt about it. If not tonight, then at the fair tomorrow.
“Just so long as no one’s hurt,” Blake said cautiously.
Jamey spread her hands. “All good here. How was your meal?”
“Perfect,” Maddie answered quickly, giving Blake a sideways glance.
Blake nodded. “Everything I expected. You’re good, Jamey. Mason was impressed, too.”
Jamey filled with warmth at the compliment. Nothing made her happier than when people were happy and filled up on her food.
“I was looking for Brodie, though,” Blake continued, aiming a look at his brother. Brodie tensed beside her.
“I’m proud of you, little brother. You’ve got the hospitality part of this down. You’re a natural. Get the numbers back on track and I think this is going to be a successful venture for all of us.”
Brodie nodded. “Thanks.”
“And Jamey, when we get this turned around, I’d like you to consider staying. You’d be an asset to the ranch.”
Whoa.
That put a new twist on things. But was it the right choice for her, long term?
An awkward silence descended on the bunch. Maddie reached for Blake’s hand. “We should go.”
“Don’t worry about bussing the dinner plates. We’ll take care of them.” Jamey met Maddie’s eyes. “And thanks. I’m glad dinner was everything you’d hoped for.”
Maddie’s eyes narrowed slightly. Yeah. Maddie would definitely be back with questions. More importantly, would she have answers?
CHAPTER 19
Jamey pulled Brodie’s truck up to the back door, cut the engine, and grabbed the box of steaming biscuits from the front seat. Pink clouds streaked the early morning sky as she hurried into the kitchen. She had just under an hour to prepare early breakfast for Mason and his crew before they headed out to survey the bison herd with Blake. The rest of the guests would want later breakfast before they left for the county fair.
Placing Dottie’s biscuits in the warming oven, she set to work on her newest scone formula. If these passed Mason’s taste test, then maybe she could stop sneaking out to Dottie’s every time she needed decent pastries. The woman’s gloating smile irked her to no end. And this morning, Dottie made sure to point out that last year she won all three baking categories at the county fair.
As if Jamey gave two hoots about who won a baking contest at a county fair. Not when she’d trained in Paris. In her old life she’d have baked circles around Dottie. She quashed the wave of bitterness that hit in the back of her throat. Her old life was never coming back. She could wallow or move on. And if she didn’t move on and figure out how to help Brodie keep the lodge afloat, she’d be out on her ass and homeless in a month. Blake’s offer or not.
She patted her scone dough into a rough log and began slicing in zig-zags down the log. Grabbing a silicone pastry brush, she swept the top with a wash made from eggs, sugar, and cream, then popped them into the oven.
She’d slept terribly last night. What had she been thinking, playing with Brodie? Playing with fire… And the second she let her guard down, without fail, she tumbled right into his arms. Or pushed him against a wall. Her libido seemed to run unchecked as soon as he was within arm’s length.
She blew out a long slow breath as she dumped the prep dishes into the sink and grabbed a sponge. Brodie was bad for her. Bad. Bad. Bad. His kisses were an aphrodisiac in the worst way. She burned hot when he was around. Hell, she burned hot when he wasn’t around. That kind of chemistry would inevitably flame out, and she’d be left with nothing. Again. Her brothers were right. She needed to be with someone less hotheaded, less like her, more… boring.
She grimaced, furiously wiping at a sticky spot on the island. Too bad the idea of that left her as cold as aspic. She shuddered. She’d just have to do a better job of separating work and… not work.
Turning to the fridge, she grabbed the half ’n half and poured it into a pretty ceramic pitcher, placing it on a tray alongside a bowl of butter pats, strawberry preserves, and a jar of honey. Brodie stepped into the doorway as she rounded the island with the tray, blocking her in.
Without a word, he reached for the tray, his hands brushing hers. Even at this early hour, her body jumped in awareness. Electric currents spiraled up her arms, leaving a trail of tingles and settling into her sex.
“Can I take this?”
Keeping her distance would be so much easier if he was just an ass all the time. But noooo. He kept trotting out Hotcakes McCharmypants. She nodded mutely and retreated behind the island, trying to ignore the flush emanating from her breastbone. Thank God for her chef’s coat. At least he couldn’t see what his gaze did to her nipples. They pushed out against her tank, begging to be brushed with something harder than cotton spandex.
She was safely tucked behind the island, beating a bowl of eggs into submission, when he returned.
“Do you have a minute?”
Professional distance. She must keep professional distance. “No time. I’m right in the middle of breakfast prep.” Damn, her voice sounded breathy and expectant.
He stepped up to the island, undeterred. “I promise, it will only take a few minutes.”
She put down her whisk a little too forcefully. “Fine. You have four minutes. Mason and his crew are heading out with your brother this morning. I don’t want to keep them waiting.” She could do this. She could be the cool professional.
“Scout’s honor.”
“Why do I think that means nothing to you?” She rounded the island and followed him out the back door.
He crossed the yard to the structure he and Simon had completed two days before. On the ground in neat rows were several pallets of plant starts. And inside the structure were… chickens. Lots of them.
She stopped short. “I knew it! You were building a chicken coop.”
He looked at her half expectantly, half nervously and jammed his hands into his pockets. “Is that okay?”
Her mouth suddenly wouldn’t work. She opened it, but no
sound came out. Her pulse started thrumming in her ears. “Of course. But I can’t figure out why.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why? You blasted the pants off my ass about not having stuff for the kitchen.”
“You did this for me?”
He frowned uncertainly. “I sure as hell didn’t do it for the livestock. Chickens are dirty and a pain in the ass.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. Nobody did nice things for her. Not like this. Not even her overprotective brothers. She opened her mouth again, but still couldn’t form words.
He studied her intently. “Did I piss you off?”
She shook her head. “No… no.”
“You look like you swallowed a crawdad.”
Her ribs ached as if she had.
He cleared his throat.
God, what was wrong with her mouth? She couldn’t string two words together right now.
His eyes crinkled and softened as he smiled at her. “Go take a look.” He nodded toward the door.
She stepped up to the structure and clutched the wire fencing. Peering through, she began to count. Three dozen. Perfect for a small kitchen. If she was staying.
Behind her, he cleared his throat again. “The hens probably won’t start laying heavily ’till spring. But I figured it was a good investment. I picked up some greens and broccoli starts for later in the fall. You can plant them in the second fenced area, and the chickens will eat the bugs.”
So that’s why he’d built the second fence. She pivoted around, staring at him.
“I… ah have some pots out back by the barn that I’ll plant with herbs, too. You can–”
Jamey closed the distance between them, covering his mouth with her fingers. “Stop. Just… stop.” She couldn’t handle this. This thoughtfulness. It left her off-kilter. Uncertain.
