“No.” A slight bitterness tinged his words. “Trust me. Hopefully you won’t have to find that out for yourself.”
“I don’t know. I don’t think I can do something like this.” Even the manner in which he’d placed the curled slice of lemon on top of the chicken thigh looked stunning, the image as pretty as a painting. “I mean, who would think rosemary could look like anything other than a tree?” She plucked the branch off her plate and set it on the counter.
“When I grill steaks, I set a soaked branch in the coals. Permeates the smoke. It also makes for a great brush for BBQ sauce.”
She pinned him with a vacant stare.
“I told you, it takes practice, Abby.”
“Well, if you’re out of practice, I’m doomed.” She could only hope her future competition wasn’t anywhere near his level.
“Lemon chicken was one of my grandfather’s go-to meals when he was in a bind,” Jason told her as he sliced through a perfectly cooked baby bok choy. “All he needed was a chicken, a few lemons, capers and olive oil and that was it.” He tapped a fork against her plate. “Eat. You look ready to fall over.”
“That’s because I am.” But she did as he instructed and cut into the tender thigh. Her mouth exploded as the tart lemon flavor burst against the brininess of the capers. “Oh, wow, is that yummy. You should do this for a living.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“So what’s this you’ve been scribbling?” She stood up on the rungs of the stool and grabbed for the notepad. “Huh.” She took another forkful of rice. Could she just dump the entire plate in her mouth? “So this meal isn’t a one-off for you? Got plans for tomorrow? Wow. Spanish omelets with crème fraîche, fruit compote, homemade bread and arugula salad. Fancy schmancy. Is this my next lesson?”
“Possibly. You passed sous chef 101 tonight. Good job, by the way.” He clinked his glass against hers as she resumed eating. “I’m thinking we continue along these lines until Matilda gets home.”
“Matilda,” Abby groaned. “How am I going to explain all this to her?”
“Tell her you had a difficult guest and you did what you had to in order to keep his business. She’ll understand that, right?”
“In theory,” Abby agreed. “And it feels nice that you trust me enough to help you in the kitchen.”
“Once you slowed down and paid attention, you did better. And look. The smoke detector slept through the whole thing. Congratulations.”
“So being a sous is a promotion, right? It’s not just you ordering me around like a new recruit.”
“It’s not just that, no.” He grinned. “But come to think of it, this might be a good time to discuss my salary.”
“Pop a girl’s bubble, why don’t you?” Abby muttered as she swallowed. “We both know I don’t have the money—”
He leaned over and kissed her.
His lips were warm and soft and slightly tinged with lemon and before she could explore further he resumed eating.
“What was that for?” Her appetite vanished. Who needed food when a man could kiss like that?
“Payment for dinner.”
She pressed her lips together. Finally. A payment plan she could work with.
She stood up and moved closer to him, kissing him in the same brief, tingling way he’d kissed her. Hoping she had the same effect on him that he continued to have on her.
The kitchen door swung open. “Excuse me,” a male voice said.
“Mr. Evans.” Abby grabbed her napkin and wiped her mouth. Maybe they needed an Employees Only sign on that door. “Is everything all right with your room? How can I help you?”
“It’s Roger, please. I wanted to say thank you. To both of you,” said Roger once Jason turned on his stool to look at the interloper. “I take it this is what you meant by starting over, Jason. Dinner was delicious. I should have guessed you’d had a hand in it.” His gaze flicked between the two of them, and for an instant, Abby worried as to what he was thinking. But when he spoke again, it was with that trademark—albeit forced—smile she’d seen that evening. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior earlier, Abby. It’s been a long day and I was out of sorts when we checked in.”
“Apology accepted.” Had she misjudged him?
“It’s good to have you back in the game, Jason. You haven’t lost your touch. The Flutterby’s lucky to have you as their chef. In case you were wondering, you’ve been missed.”
“Have I?” Jason’s tone retained that chilly note she’d heard when he’d first arrived in Butterfly Harbor. “By whom, exactly?”
“By more people than you’d think.” Roger held up his hands as if in surrender. “No hard feelings? What’s in the past is past. No need to dwell on it. We can move on from here. Maybe start over.”
“Is there somewhere you’re suggesting we should be moving to, Roger?”
Abby looked between the two men as if watching a Ping-Pong tournament. What had she missed? Jason’s hostility seemed a bit over-the-top considering the man was apologizing. Sort of.
“Forward will do. I’m going to leave a copy of your signed entry form at the desk with Lori, Abby. Have a good night, you two. And, um, carry on.” He gave them a grin that seemed more like one of his sneers before he backed out of the room, the kitchen door swinging shut behind him.
“That was weird,” Abby muttered.
“Very.” Jason pulled the brownies out of the oven. “Even for Roger.”
“Oh, yes.” She leaned over the counter and inhaled. “Wait. Do I smell coffee in these?”
“You’re getting good. Coffee intensifies the chocolate flavor.”
She hooked a finger to scoop out a taste only to have him slap it away playfully.
“Dinner first. Then dessert. I thought you could leave the brownies out with the decaf for late snackers.”
“Great idea.” One she wished she’d thought of.
She glanced around the kitchen as her spirits dipped. “Hey, Jason? I have another question.”
“Only one? You must be slipping.” He pressed a knife through the gooey brownies.
“Who’s doing the dishes?”
“Usually it’s the sous chef.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.” She already couldn’t feel her feet, and that was with her new shoes.
“Tell you what.” Jason set the knife down and took a coin out of his pocket. “I’ll flip you for it.”
“Wait!” She grabbed his hand after the coin was in the air. “I have a better idea.” He caught it in his other hand as she let go of him and leaned in. “After dessert, what say I kiss you for it?”
He topped off their glasses. “Now that sounds like a deal.”
* * *
“WHEN YOU’RE DONE streaming the clarified butter into the blender, go ahead and chop the tarragon,” Jason shouted at her over the roar of the mixer Tuesday morning.
Abby fought yet another yawn as Jason finished slicing up softball-sized tomatoes for his amped-up version of eggs Benedict. Tarragon. The mason jar filled with a variety of herbs glared back at her as she tried to remember which one was which. She flipped off the blender and grabbed for the coffee he’d had waiting for her when she’d stumbled into the kitchen an hour ago.
Outside this room he still wasn’t the most social of people; it was obvious he preferred the company of food and knives, but even that was changing. He’d made mention of the fact he planned to go to Luke Saxon’s poker game tomorrow evening.
Whoever this Jason Corwin was, inhabiting her kitchen, he was a far cry from the man who had stormed into the Flutterby a little over two weeks ago.
And she thought butterflies were magic. He’d even started sharing memories of his brother during their downtimes. She could see him healing with ever
y passing day.
She ran her finger along the ridge of stitching over her heart. A badge of honor, she reminded herself. He believed in her.
If only she believed in herself. She just might, after she met her competitors and the oversight committee later today. She really wanted this entire weekend over with, especially after Roger Evans’s casual mention about her signed contract had had her reading through it again last night. She wanted the pressure gone. She wanted to enjoy her job and not worry if everything she’d built her life on was going to crumble under her feet.
She’d meant to read it, but she’d fallen asleep skimming an article on unexpected uses for prepackaged items. Information like that wasn’t something Jason would pay much attention to unless he had a secret penchant for logs of cookie dough and pop-open tubes of pizza dough.
She’d give the contract another once-over before the competition.
Maybe it was time to admit what really bothered her. Jason wasn’t going to stay forever. How could he, with everything he had in his life? If his last couple of days in her kitchen were any example, he’d be reinvigorated, reclaim the life he swore he didn’t want in New York.
Except she had the unnerving suspicion he did want it.
It wasn’t in her to ask him to stay, not when her own future was up in the air. But she was willing to keep him for however long he wanted to be here.
For however long she kept hold of the Flutterby.
She blew out a breath. She really needed Matilda; only then would her life shift back on track.
“You didn’t have to do a full breakfast this morning,” she told him. “We could have picked up some pastries down at Thistlewood Bakery.”
“Save the continental breakfasts for when you need them.” He spooned more poached eggs out of the simmering water and into a bowl filled with ice. “This morning, you don’t.”
“Right.”
“I’m heading over to Calliope’s later this morning if you want to come with me.”
“I have that meeting with Roger and the festival organizers.”
“Right. Any requests for dinner tonight?”
“Something that won’t make my brain explode when you try to explain it to me?”
He set his spoon down and looked at her. “You’re nervous.”
Nervous? Of course she was nervous. And scared and worried and... “I should start calling you Sherlock.”
“Abby, you’ve got the basics down. All you have to do is stay calm and go step by step. If you don’t take one of your shortcuts, you’ll be fine.”
“And if I need to be better than fine?” If? Absolutely she needed to be better than fine. She needed to be perfect. She needed to win.
“I was hoping to avoid this, but obviously it’s time to prove to you what I already know.” He finished stacking the English muffins on a baking rack and set them aside while she scooped the chopped tarragon off the cutting board and dumped it into the blender.
One last whiz of the blades and she set the glass container aside. “What’s all this?” He’d piled the work surface with ceramic containers, a cookie sheet and a pizza cutter, and topped it all off with a bag of dried cranberries and an orange.
“You.” He retrieved the laminated recipe card from Matilda’s stash. “Are going to make those cranberry-orange scones your grandmother loves so much.”
“Ah.” Her heart thudded against her rib cage. She really wasn’t in a mental place to give these a second—or was it a fourth?—shot. She wanted to argue, opened her mouth to, but he pinned her with one of those looks of his, the one that dared her to admit weakness.
She would not fold. She would not falter.
She would not surrender to Matilda’s scones. He snatched the card out of reach at the last second and gave her a warning look.
“Step by step. Take your time. The oven’s already preheated. I’m going to call Calliope and see what she’s got available for me for dinner tonight, so you’re on your own until I get back.”
Translation: there isn’t much damage you can do before then.
Oh, he of little faith. Except...darn him, he was right.
By the time he returned, she was placing the last cut scone on the cookie sheet. She admired her work.
“Not bad.” Jason rested his hands on her shoulders as he leaned over. “I can see little chunks of butter in the dough.”
“That’s good, right?”
“Very good. See? It’s not rocket science after all. You are missing one thing, however.” He tapped his finger against the card.
“Oh, cream.” She headed over to the refrigerator as Lori entered, her normally relaxed expression tight with worry. “What’s wrong?”
“Matilda just called. The motor home broke down. She and Ursula are stuck in Oklahoma for at least a week.”
“A week?” Abby stomach dropped. “Are they okay? Why so long?”
“They have to order parts and there’s only one mechanic in town.” Lori cringed. “Trust me, she’s not happy. She said she’ll call back later tonight to talk to you. Ursula was trying to negotiate their hotel rate and she had to intervene before blood was shed.”
“Sure, okay. Thanks, Lori.” Abby pinched the bridge of her nose and sagged against the counter. “A week. Great.”
“Can’t you fly them home?” Jason asked.
“You couldn’t pay Matilda to step foot on a plane.” Abby sighed. What a mess. “And Ursula wouldn’t leave her motor home behind for the world. The thing is older than I am.”
“Were you wanting to get rid of me that much?”
Jason. She squeezed her eyes shut. Why did her solutions always have to come down to Jason Corwin? She couldn’t ask him, couldn’t expect him to, but there wasn’t anyone else she could count on to help keep her head above water. She needed him. The inn needed him. Again. “I can’t ask you to do more than you already have.”
“You’re not asking, I’m offering.” He retrieved the bottle of cream she’d pulled out of the fridge and set it in front of her with a pastry brush. “Unless you haven’t been happy with the way things are going around here.”
“Aside from my gaining five pounds, I think you know the answer to that.” He’d been exactly what she’d needed: teacher, confidant, confidence builder. But she couldn’t shake the notion she was buying trouble by having him work here. “It’s just, with the competition and everything else—”
“You won’t be here to oversee things.”
No, that wasn’t it. But something...
Abby gasped. The contract. The stipulations she’d agreed to when she’d signed up for the competition. She’d said she didn’t employ anyone associated with the National Cooking Network. Except. She pressed a hand to her throat as her pulse double-timed. He wasn’t an employee of the network anymore, was he?
“What is it?” Jason asked. “What’s wrong?”
“N-nothing.” It couldn’t be wrong. She couldn’t be wrong. She also couldn’t withdraw from the competition now that she’d started to believe she could win. If she took the chance and told Jason the truth, he could up and quit on her, raising all sorts of questions she didn’t have time to answer. She’d promised herself she’d do whatever it took to save the Flutterby, to keep Gran safe and secure. If that meant being less than honest with Jason about these circumstances, so be it. If it turned out she was wrong? Well, it was always easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, wasn’t it? She cleared her throat. “I’m not comfortable having you—”
“Work here for free,” he interrupted. “I get it.”
Abby gnashed her teeth. His misunderstanding wasn’t helping the situation. Or was it? “No, that’s not it.” Maybe she needed to discuss it with him after all. “It’s about the contract—”
“Oh, Jason. Great. I figured
I’d find you here.” Roger pushed through the door, that overbright grin exposing his back molars. “Working as usual.”
Abby resisted the urge to growl. Was anyone going to let her finish a sentence?
“And Abby. Excellent. You’ve saved me a trip.” Jason’s former producer rapped his knuckles on the counter. “I’m hoping you can do me a favor. Our emcee canceled on us today and I lucked out with a replacement. I’d like to meet with him over dinner at the Flutterby, if you can manage that? The mayor will also be joining us. I hope that won’t be a problem.”
“Ah, actually—” Abby had to put a stop to this now. She stood up. Jason pushed her back down.
“No problem at all.” Jason’s tone sounded more conciliatory than she’d ever heard him use with Roger before. “We’ll make sure dinner is charged to your room. Would that be acceptable to you?”
“Of course.” The flicker of annoyance on Roger’s face told Abby he’d probably expected her to comp the meal. “We’ll be here by six forty-five. Can’t wait to see what you come up with tonight.”
“Why did you tell him it was okay?” Abby asked once Roger left.
“Why wouldn’t it be? Those are paying customers, Abby. Trust me, whoever this new emcee is, Roger can afford to spend some cash on him. Finally, I have the means to start paying you back.”
“Paying me back for what?” She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of this.
“For all this.” He held his arms wide. “I never thought working here, in this kitchen, would help me rediscover why I fell in love with cooking. I was wrong. It wasn’t only David. It was me. I wanted this.”
Anyone who saw him with a knife in his hand could have told him that, but she appreciated him giving her credit. “You don’t owe me anything, Jason. Not with everything I’ve put you through.” Not to mention what could happen if word got out she had a ringer in her kitchen. “And I don’t feel right having you continue to work without me paying you.” There. She’d said it.
“Fine. Where’s Matilda’s cash pot?”
“What?” Now what was he up to?
Recipe for Redemption Page 15
