by Meg Benjamin
He laid a hand across his heart, one eyebrow arching up. “You wound me, woman. Of course I can cook.”
She shook her head. “No, I mean can you cook professionally? Do you know how to put together a gourmet dinner? Because I’m pretty sure that’s what Abe’s going to expect. No pizza. No burgers.”
Wyatt’s grin dimmed slightly. “Yeah, I’ve cooked for a living, Bec. It was a while ago, but I know how. I’ll have to plan a menu, though. Which means I’ll have to get some idea of what Antero’s got to offer in the way of groceries and some idea of Abe’s preferences, if you know them.”
“There’s a City Market on the west edge of town, and I’ll see what information I can come up with.” Cooking for your living could mean anything. She needed a few more details. “Where did you cook?”
“At a restaurant.” He wasn’t smiling at all now. In fact, his expression looked sort of annoyed. Also defensive.
“What kind of restaurant?” She wasn’t sure why this was so important, but something about Wyatt’s reluctance made her uneasy.
His jaw firmed. “A diner. In St. Louis.”
She blinked. “A diner.” Ham and eggs, creamed chipped beef on toast, burgers and fries, maybe spaghetti and meatballs. Not what Abe was probably thinking of as a romantic dinner.
“Yeah, a diner. A freakin’ great diner.” Wyatt’s smile was completely gone now. His eyes flashed dangerously. “Diners are restaurants, Ms. Dempsey. And cooking in a diner teaches you all about food prep, believe me. I cooked everything from oatmeal to T-bones. I can do this. I will come up with something that will make Abe Parsons very happy. After which he’ll sell me the malt and I’ll be that much closer to getting my barrel of Zoria. Assuming you’ll give me a hand.”
“Me?” She frowned. “I make great beer and pretty good cheese, but I’m not much of a cook otherwise.”
“I don’t need you to cook. I need you to prep stuff so I can cook. And I need you to help me find the perfect romantic spot for this dinner, preferably close to a kitchen where I can prepare the food.” He folded his arms across his chest, his eyebrows raised in mock challenge. “Any ideas?”
Bec bit her lip. “There’s a kitchen here in the apartment. It’s not much. I sort of improvised after I turned the old office into my place. I’ve got a microwave and a hot plate, along with a crockpot and a rice cooker. And a coffee pot. Anything you can plug in will work, but I don’t have a real stove.”
Wyatt’s forehead was creased in thought. “What about the Salty Goat? Don’t they have a kitchen there so they can turn out their deli meals?”
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I’d have to ask Ruth if we could use it, but they’ve got a kitchen. But they’re using it most of the time to fix stuff for the deli.”
He shrugged. “This would be after hours. I wouldn’t get in their way.”
Bec frowned. She sort of hated to ask Ruth for the use of the kitchen. She’d have to tell her what was going on with the brewery, and she’d been trying to keep the whole project under the radar. The last thing they needed was a lot of people running around asking questions about the Zoria and her future plans and the bills she still had to pay.
But then, with Wyatt gallivanting across the countryside locating her beer ingredients, her plans probably couldn’t stay quiet for long anyway. It sounded like Harlan and Abe had already been in communication. “I’ll check. You could even buy some of the deli stuff—they’ve got salads and desserts you could use.”
He shook his head. “I might buy some of your cheese and a dessert or two, but I’m doing the rest myself. I told Abe I’d do it.” His chin took on a resolute firmness.
In reality, Bec wasn’t sure Abe would care if Wyatt bought some of the food rather than making it. Or that he’d even be able to tell the difference. Honoria, the head cook at the Salty Goat, was terrific at her job. She doubted that Wyatt would be much better. But this was clearly his baby, and she had no intention of getting in his way. “Whatever you want. I’ll see if I can square it with Ruth. She’ll probably be okay with it as long as we don’t mess up the kitchen too much.”
Wyatt shook his head. “I won’t mess up her kitchen at all. Like I said, I know what I’m doing.” His forehead creased again as he considered the new information. “Anyplace around there we could serve them? Preferably someplace romantic?”
“Well, there’s the dining area, but it looks like a deli. I don’t know that I’d call it romantic.”
He shook his head. “Nope. That’s not what I’m looking for.”
She rubbed a hand across the back of her neck, thinking. “There’s a sort of patio thing out back—flagstones and a couple of columbine plants.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Define ‘patio thing’.”
“Well, people used to live upstairs over the shop, back in the early days when the building was a dry goods store. Somebody made a little garden out back, but it’s never been big enough to have outdoor seating. There’s only room for a table or two.”
Wyatt’s lips spread in a grin. “Keep talking.”
“We’d need to clean it up—wash off the stones and pull some weeds in the garden.” She paused to consider what all needed to be done. “And we’d need to bring out a table and chairs. A small table and chairs—that’s all there’d be room for.”
He nodded. “That would work. I’m thinking of a café table—you’ve got a couple of those in the dining room at the Salty Goat, right?”
“Right.” She took a deep breath. Things were moving along at a very rapid pace again.
“Sounds good.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now all we need is a menu and a date. And we’re good to go.”
“I’m still sort of…” She shook her head. “Look, don’t think I’m questioning you or anything, but…”
He sighed. “You still don’t believe I can cook.”
She bit her lip. “It’s sort of unlikely, I guess.”
“Obviously, you’re a woman who wants concrete proof before she buys in.” He gave her a slow grin.
For some reason that sounded a little like an insult. “No. Not exactly. I mean, not for everything.”
“Just for strange men claiming they can cook.” His grin turned faintly mocking. He glanced around the brewery floor. “You have any food around here?”
“Well, back in my apartment.” She had a feeling she knew what was coming next.
“Good. In that case, I’ll fix you dinner. With whatever you have on hand. And if I do a good job, you’ll buy in on the whole ‘Dinner for Abe’ bit.” He raised an eyebrow in a way that looked like a clear challenge.
She shook her head, grimacing. “You do this a lot, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed. “Do what?”
“Issue challenges. Try to beat the odds.”
“I have confidence in myself. But I realize other people may not know me as well as I do.” That grin broke out again. “You ready to take my challenge, Ms. Skeptic?”
Bec rubbed her fingers across her forehead. She felt the beginning of a headache somewhere at the back of her skull. “What do I have to do?”
“Tonight? Nothing except point me to your stoveless kitchen.” He paused. “But if I win your confidence—that is, if I show you I can cook to your satisfaction—then you agree to be my sous chef for the dinner with Abe and his date.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What exactly does a sous chef do?”
“Anything the head chef tells her to do.” For a moment, his eyes flashed dark.
Bec bit her lip. Getting in a little deep here, aren’t you, Rebecca? “Oh. And what goes into this ‘anything’?”
Wyatt shook his head. “Kitchen prep. The sous chef does the kitchen prep. A lot of chopping and measuring.”
“Okay.” She told herself she felt relieved. Definitely not disappointed. Definitely not. Not going into that briar patch again. “I’ll show you the kitchen, but remember—I told you it wasn’t much.”
He nodded. “Understood
. But a good chef can improvise. Improvisation is good.”
He gave her another of those wolfish grins, and she felt slightly breathless all of a sudden. “Let’s go to the apartment.”
He followed her through her makeshift living room. At one point, it had been the reception area, so it had more space than the other rooms in the old office suite. But it still wasn’t exactly spacious. Or rather, it was spacious but only because she hadn’t gotten around to moving in much furniture beyond a couch and a television set.
Wyatt seemed not to notice the lack of furniture, heading toward the collection of rooms at the back. “Which one is the kitchen?”
“The middle door.” She was just as glad he was taking the lead. She didn’t want to see his face when he got a good look at what passed for her cooking area.
The kitchen was in what had once been the break room back in the days when the building had been a shipping warehouse before the brewery. There was a shelf for the microwave and a counter prep area where she had the hotplate. She’d put in a small refrigerator that held her frozen dinners and milk for her coffee. The Crock-Pot and rice cooker were lined up on the side of the counter, along with the coffee maker and a toaster oven. Given her extremely limited cooking skills, the setup had seemed fairly adequate up until now. “This is it,” she said a little stiffly. “Sorry.”
Wyatt glanced at her. “Sorry for what?”
“I don’t know—the state of things?” She waved her hand to take in the lack of a functioning kitchen.
He shrugged. “It’s fine. I’ve worked with less.”
Bec stared at him for a long moment, wondering where he’d worked with less and what he’d been doing at the time. But wondering about that would only lead to trouble. She didn’t want to know more about Wyatt Montgomery, did she? She wanted him to get her ingredients and buy her Zoria so that she could start all over again. Without him being around.
That’s what she’d felt at the beginning of their relationship. Right now, she wondered if that was still what she felt. Danger, danger, danger. But Wyatt’s kind of danger didn’t scare her nearly as much as it should have.
Chapter Eight
Bec hadn’t been kidding about the inadequacy of her kitchen. Wyatt managed not to grimace as he checked out the equipment. He had indeed worked with worse—he hadn’t been lying. On the other hand, he hadn’t done a great job with worse, and he sure as hell hadn’t been happy doing it. Still, right now he needed to impress her with his skills, and he couldn’t do that by whining.
He opened the smallish refrigerator, checking the meat drawer and the hydrator. Chicken breasts, lettuce, a few stalks of broccoli.
“Where do you keep the rest of the food?” He gave her an encouraging smile. Not a criticism, so help me.
She gestured toward the wall cabinets. “First one on the right is sort of the pantry. I’ve got dishes and pans in the others.”
He nodded, pulling open the pantry door. Sandwich bread, peanut butter, a half-empty jar of blackberry jam. And—oh, thank you, kitchen gods—a bag of noodles. “Okay, one chicken divan coming up.” Assuming she also had milk and cheese in the refrigerator. And flour in the pantry. And maybe a little chicken broth somewhere and—if the kitchen gods could come through again—some sherry or white wine.
He rifled through the shelves quickly, finding a carton of chicken broth and a canister of flour. The refrigerator had a carton of milk and a block of something that looked like white cheddar but might have been fontina or jack. Didn’t matter—any of those would work.
He took a breath. “Do you by any chance have some sherry or a little white wine?”
Bec frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t drink much wine. And I’ve never had any sherry. All I’ve got is beer.”
He paused for a moment, trying to think of substitutes. “Any pilsner?”
She shook her head again. “I’ve got some wheat beer. From Great Divide. Would that work?”
“It should. Or at any rate, it’ll be interesting.”
He pulled a frying pan and a saucepan off the other shelf, then opened one of the drawers and frowned. “You have a whisk?”
Bec’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I’m not sure. Maybe.” She walked over to a closet door on the other side of the room and pulled out a cardboard box. After a moment of rifling through the contents, she pulled out a whisk. The loops were slightly bent, as if it had been shoved under something heavy. But it was a whisk, nonetheless.
She gave him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I don’t use it much.”
“That’s okay. It’ll work.” It would have to. He set the frying pan onto the two-burner hot plate, then grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the pantry. “How well does this thing heat up?”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. About like a stove, I guess.”
He poured a tablespoon of oil into the pan after he turned on the burner, then headed back to the refrigerator for the chicken. Getting it out on a plate and applying salt and pepper gave the oil enough time to heat up. He plopped the chicken into the pan, hearing a satisfying sizzle, then headed back to the refrigerator again.
Bec stood at the side, well out of the way, and watched him, frowning slightly. He had a feeling she’d have used a stopwatch if she’d had one. Just watch the technique, babe. Maybe a little rusty but legit.
Which, now that he came to think of it, applied to a lot of his moves. Maybe he could give her a demonstration later on. Focus, damn it.
He gave her a quick smile, then slid the broccoli into the microwave with a little water to steam. He came back to flip the chicken. “You ever use that toaster oven for anything besides toast?”
She frowned. “I did brownies once. They were…okay.”
He sighed. “We’ll risk it. This needs to finish in an oven for a half hour or so.”
He grabbed the saucepan and set it on the second burner, turning the heat to high. He threw in a couple of tablespoons of butter to start melting, then turned toward the counter again. “Where’s the beer?”
“In the pantry. It’s not cold. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. You don’t want to cook with cold beer.” He pulled open the pantry door again and found the six-pack of bottles. Back at the stove, the butter had begun to brown as it heated. He tossed in a couple of tablespoons of flour and grabbed his whisk, stirring quickly. “Okay, I could use a sous chef for a minute here.”
Bec pushed herself away from the wall where she’d been leaning. “What do you want me to do?”
“Grab the chicken broth and the bottle of beer.”
She picked up both and moved beside him at the hot plate. “What now?”
“Now you pour around half a cup of the chicken broth into the pot where I’m whisking.” He gave another quick stir to keep the flour moving.
Bec grabbed a measuring cup and poured out exactly half a cup. He could have told her precision wasn’t exactly necessary, but that would have slowed everything down. She poured the broth carefully into the pan as he whisked, then watched the liquid thicken. “Now what?”
“Now around a half cup of the beer.”
She nodded, then twisted open the bottle and measured again. The beer foamed into the pan, and he kept whisking. Bec’s face was suddenly very close to his as she stared into the saucepan, close enough that he could smell a faint breath of lavender from her skin. Lord above.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He took a quick breath, steadying himself. “Milk.” He nodded toward the refrigerator. “Maybe a little less than a half cup this time. And then you can grate up the cheese.”
She gave him a slightly tentative smile, then added the milk and carried the block of cheese to the counter along with a flimsy-looking grater. “All of it?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Between the sauce and the topping, we’ll probably use it all.”
As Bec grated, he drained the steamed broccoli, then sliced the chicken into strips, pausing occasionally to stir the sauce. He was
careful not to watch her. He had enough distractions as it was.
“Okay. It’s done.” She shook her head at the slightly ragged pile of cheese, sending a quick shimmer of gold through her hair. “Not pretty, but done.”
“Doesn’t have to be pretty. We’re just melting it. Grab me a spoon, will you?”
She handed him a teaspoon, stepping close, and he got another whiff of lavender. He took a deep breath. At this rate, he’d be whimpering in another five minutes.
He tasted the sauce. “Okay. That works. I saw a baking dish in one of those drawers. Could you bring it to me?”
“Sure.” She headed back to her makeshift pantry.
He took his time arranging the broccoli and chicken strips to fill the Pyrex baking dish in stripes of green and white. Fortunately, Bec stood far enough away that he wasn’t breathing her scent and watching the play of light in her hair. He had food to cook.
He poured the cheese sauce over the dish, then sprinkled the last of the grated cheese on top. “Aluminum foil?”
“Right.” Bec turned to the drawers again and pulled out a roll.
He folded a piece of foil across the top of the dish, then placed it in the toaster oven. It took up all the available space, but at least it fit inside. He peered at the controls, then set it for three-fifty, hoping the thing would actually heat to somewhere close.
Bec folded her arms across her chest. He worked on ignoring the way her posture pulled her blouse tight across her breasts. “Are we done?”
“Almost.” He grabbed the one remaining saucepan and filled it with water and salt, then placed it on the burner. “The chicken needs to bake for a half hour or so. We’ll get this boiling and drop the pasta when we take the aluminum foil off.”
He leaned back against the counter, trying for nonchalance. He’d done it. It hadn’t been pretty, and he didn’t know if she’d noticed how many times he’d fumbled when he brushed close to her, but he’d done it.
And he’d managed not to touch her, although that had been even harder than the cooking.
He set the timer for thirty minutes. Now if the freakin’ toaster oven would only work right, he might be able to convince her that he could pull off Abe’s moonlight seduction dinner.
