He still sounded so stressed. Wanting him to relax, I grinned up at him. “Admit it, Byron. You were just afraid I went back to the dark side and I was sitting at McDonald’s stuffing myself on McNuggets.”
His lips quirked. “With sauce, of course.”
“What are nuggets without sauce?”
“What, indeed?” He smirked. He pulled back, straightening his shoulders and once again becoming Chef Lord. Cool, in charge, controlled—except for the passionate look in his eyes as he gazed at me. He held out his hand. “You’ve had a long day. You must be hungry.”
I slipped my hand into his, loving how it felt as he folded his much larger one around mine. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll make you dinner.”
I kissed his cheek, the stubble on his skin rough under my lips. “Thank you. You look after me so well.”
He pulled me into his side. “I like looking after you.” He pressed his lips against my temple. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”
I pulled on my hair in frustration. The day had passed by in a flurry of preparation, hours of phone calls, and pounding the keyboard looking for a place to live. Places that were available, I couldn’t afford unless I got another job, which I didn’t have time for. The ones I could afford made the small room and grumpy landlady I’d been dealing with seem like the Taj Mahal. I shut my eyes, taking in a deep, somewhat calming breath. I had lined up two places to see on Monday. I already knew I would hate both of them, but I reminded myself it would only be for a few months. Once school was done and students were moving out, I could find a better place. Maybe Byron or Gerard would know someone looking to rent out a room. I could stay with Melinda for a couple weeks if I had to, but their condo was small. Also, Mark often worked from home, using the second bedroom as an office, so it would be a huge imposition for them; although I knew they would make me welcome. I hated putting anyone out. Byron would no doubt let me stay, but I hated asking. He was so busy all the time and such a private man. I wasn’t sure he’d want me camping out in his guest room.
I stayed with him the occasional night and had even spent the odd weekend when I was studying hard, but our relationship hadn’t moved to the next level. We still hadn’t had sex—Byron insisted he wanted the time to be right and not to rush into anything. I slept in his bed, curled into him, but aside from some heavy make-out sessions, he hadn’t let things progress past that point yet. I did enjoy staying here, though—the house was peaceful and so comfortable. The added bonus was Byron coming home at the end of the day, but still, I hesitated. It had only been six weeks, so I didn’t want to ask and put him on the spot. I would go and see the places on Monday, and then tell him what was going on. He hated where I lived—for some reason, my landlady disliked him intensely and was always rude. Byron was unfailingly polite when he would see her, but she never once returned the favor. She constantly muttered about chefs being untrustworthy and wasting my life. I gave up trying to convince her Byron wasn’t like that and made sure she saw him as little as possible.
Deciding to call her, I picked up my phone, hoping maybe, after a good night’s sleep and thinking about it, she would have changed her mind and allowed me to stay. Ten minutes later, I hung up, defeated. Not only had she not changed her mind, she was threatening to dump my stuff in the street before the end of the month for “pestering” her. I still had no idea what set her off, but no amount of pleading on my part softened her hard demeanor. Finally, I got her to agree to give me to the end of the month as she had promised the day before, assuring her I wouldn’t bother her again.
Wearily, I checked the screen of my phone, seeing a voice mail had come in. My eyes widened in panic at Byron’s cheerful voice, telling me he was coming home early and would arrive in the next thirty minutes. He sounded so pleased at the thought he would have an extra couple of hours for our evening, which he thought would entail him cooking, then us going to a movie.
I stood, looking around wildly. He was early, and I had been so busy on the computer, I wasn’t ready. I raced around the kitchen, turning up the marinara to warm, filling the pot with water for the pasta, and getting the bread ready. Luckily, the salad and dessert were done, and the table in the dining room was set. I had used his favorite china and candles, even remembering to get some flowers to make the table nice when I was out doing my errands this morning. Gerard had told me Byron’s favorite flowers were lilies, showing me how they arranged them at the restaurant in small vases, and I imitated the style, pleased with how good it looked.
I glanced at the clock—I had ten minutes before he arrived. I yanked open the fridge door to grab the salad and stopped dead. I had made the brûlée earlier—but I hadn’t melted the sugar on top and rechilled it. Byron loved his brûlée cold. Cursing, I grabbed four of the ramekins, leaving two, and placed them on the counter, deciding I could improvise. I could still melt the sugar topping and be on schedule. Maybe Byron wouldn’t want dessert right away, then they would have a longer chance to cool. I sprinkled the sugar on the way Gerard showed me and glanced over at the stove.
The water wasn’t even steaming yet, and I realized I had turned on the wrong burner. I dropped the sugar and moved the pot to the burner that was already warm. I stirred the sauce and popped the bread in the oven, congratulating myself on still having things under control. Byron was going to be so proud. I wanted everything ready to go when he got here so he could have a shower while the pasta cooked, then enjoy his dinner. Tasting the sauce, I pursed my lips—it was nowhere near as good as Byron’s, but I thought it was still passable. I looked over at the bowl on the counter and groaned. I hadn’t added the chopped fresh basil. Grabbing it, I dumped the herb in and stirred, my nerves starting to kick in. Sauce splashed over the edge, and I grabbed a dish towel, wiped the side of the pot, and flung the towel over my shoulder to the counter.
I looked over and cussed again. I still hadn’t finished the damn sugar. Dropping the spoon into the sauce, I turned up the heat to make sure it would be hot and picked up the torch. I tucked my hair behind my ears and leaned over to brown the sugar. Biting my lips in concentration, I got the first one done and smiled proudly. The second one went well, but as I started on the next one, a funny noise caught my attention as well as the smell of something burning, and I looked over, gasping. The sauce was boiling rapidly—tomato puree and basil splashing everywhere. I had turned up the heat too high. Smoke was leaking through the top vent of the stove and I could smell bread burning. I stared dumbfounded, until the screech of the smoke alarm startled me. And with heart-pounding horror, I realized while staring at the mess that was supposed to be dinner, I had lit the dish towel I’d flung on the counter on fire with the torch and it was now in flames.
I had officially burned dinner and set Byron’s kitchen on fire.
I looked around frantically, a hysterical laugh escaping my throat.
What the hell else could happen?
In wild desperation, I grabbed another dish towel and tried to smack at the flames in front of me. The second towel caught fire and, without thinking, I tried slapping the flames with my hands. I caught the edge of the platter I had brought from the dining room to put the bread on—Byron’s favorite platter he had bought in Italy—and watched with horror as it tumbled over the edge of the counter, shattering into millions of shards as it hit the ceramic tiles.
The door from the garage was flung open, and Byron rushed in, stopping dead at the sight of me standing, flabbergasted, one burning dishtowel in my hand, while the other smoked away on the countertop. The sauce was still spitting everywhere, and rancid smoke now poured from the oven as the smoke detector screeched away.
“What the fuck?”
He moved fast. In three strides, he was across the kitchen, grabbing the fire extinguisher, and pushing me out of the way. He tore the smoking dish towel from my hands and tossed it into the sink. He flicked off all the burners, slammed the lid on the boiling sauce, and swept everything on the countertop into the sink�
��brûlées and all—and doused the flames with the fire extinguisher he’d snatched from the counter. He grabbed the oven mitt and pulled open the oven door, seized the burning bread, and tossed it out the back door, before returning and staring at me, wide-eyed and confused.
“What on earth?”
I surveyed the damage I had done. Everything was ruined. Burned or destroyed. I barely felt him grab my wrists as he inspected my hands. “Are you hurt? Did you burn yourself? Julia?” He cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. “Julia, my love? Are you hurt?”
I blinked at him, dazed.
“I made you dinner. Happy birthday, Byron.”
Then I burst into tears.
Chapter 5
Julia
Byron’s arms were locked around me, holding me close, as he murmured small hushing noises. Over and over, he kept repeating everything was fine, as long as I wasn’t hurt, the rest didn’t matter. I kept crying. Finally, he drew back, cupping my face again and holding it tight.
“Yes, dinner is burned. We’ll throw it out and start again. The smoke is already disappearing. We’ll light a few candles, I’ll turn on the fan, open some windows, and the smell will be gone soon. It doesn’t matter, my love. As long as you’re okay, it doesn’t matter.”
“Your kitchen,” I hiccupped. “I burned your kitchen.”
“The cupboards will wipe down, and the counter is granite. It’s not damaged. It’s all fine, my girl. Look at me, please.”
His low voice and anxious tone made me look up. His eyes held nothing but tenderness and worry. He wasn’t angry.
“I broke your platter. Your favorite one.”
He kissed the end of my nose, wiping the tears from under my eyes with his thumbs. “I’ll call Giuseppe and ask him to send me another one.”
“I ruined dinner.”
“We can order pizza.”
Byron wasn’t big on pizza—at least, not the kind you could get for delivery.
“Gerard’s on standby,” I offered.
His eyebrow quirked. “Gerard knows about this?”
I sniffed. “He’s been teaching me. I wanted to make you dinner. Surprise you. I thought it was all under control—and then it wasn’t.”
Byron’s lips twitched. “Well, you certainly got the surprise part right.”
My eyes filled again. “I’m…so sorry.”
“Hush. No more crying. It was so sweet of you to try to make me dinner. I’m touched by your efforts.” He glanced toward the stove. “Maybe we can salvage something.”
“There are still two desserts in the fridge. They need the topping, though.”
“I think I’ll handle that part,” he stated dryly. “No more torches for you.”
“I have salad, and there’s bread I didn’t, ah, cut or burn.”
He hugged me. “See, that’s a good start. We can have that, and I’ll call Gerard. He’ll send some other things over, and we’ll be right back on track.”
I tried to pull out of his arms. “The mess—”
He didn’t let go. “There is glass everywhere. Your feet will get cut. I’ll sweep it up, and the rest will wait until things have cooled down.”
“But—”
He covered my lips with his finger. “No buts. I won’t risk you being hurt.” I gasped as he swept me into his arms and carried me upstairs to his huge bathroom. Setting me on my feet, he leaned over and turned on the tap. “You have a warm bath and calm down. I’ll sweep up the glass and organize dinner.”
“But it’s your birthday. You aren’t supposed—”
“It’s good. It’s all good. You’re with me. That is all I wanted today. Just you.”
“I wanted to do something special. Make you dinner so you knew how important you are to me.”
His lips were gentle as he kissed me. “I do, my love. Now, please, for me. Soak in the tub and come downstairs when you’re ready.”
My smile was shaky, but I nodded. He leaned down and pressed his lips to mine again. “Thank you for trying.”
“I failed big-time.”
“I don’t care. You tried.”
“Good thing Gerard talked me out of coq au vin. Imagine what damage I could have caused then—flambéing something that big.”
His eyes crinkled as he laughed, hugging me hard. “Imagine.”
Forty minutes later, I came downstairs, feeling calmer—no longer covered in tomato sauce or smelling of smoke. The kitchen looked pristine, no sign of the events from earlier. There was still a faint trace of burned something in the air, but Byron had the windows open, scented candles burning, and I knew it soon would be gone. One of his favorite Beatles recordings was playing in the background. He smiled as he held out his hand. “Feel better?”
I nodded. “You cleaned.”
He shrugged. “The kitchen is sort of my area, you know. I work fast.” He tugged me into the dining room, where dinner was waiting. My salad and sliced bread were there, but it was the two domed plates that caught my attention.
“How?” I gasped.
Byron wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me back against him. “Gerard. I called and told him what happened, and here we are.” He kissed my neck, his touch gentle as he tasted my skin with his tongue. “They arrived a couple of minutes ago. Helps to own the place, you know.”
I sighed. “This is so much better than I could have done.”
Byron laughed, a low rumble in his chest as he led me to the table, lifting the lids. “Tomorrow, we’ll work together and make your dinner the way you planned it. Tonight, we can enjoy what my chefs have sent us. Deal?”
I inhaled the marvelous aroma coming from our plates. “Deal.” Settling beside him, I lifted my glass. “Happy birthday, Byron.”
His eyes were warm as he touched the rim of his glass to mine. “Thank you, my love.”
The food was, of course, magnificent. Unpretentious, but delicious. I knew Gerard would’ve made sure to keep things simple for my benefit. Byron was sweet and praised my garden salad, even making sure I knew he had noticed the bread I picked was from his favorite bakery.
“How hard did Gerard laugh?” I asked between bites.
Byron shook his head. “Gerard is always a gentleman. He didn’t laugh.”
I pursed my lips at him, shaking my head in disbelief, and Byron smirked. “Okay, he may have tittered a little.”
My lips quirked. “Tittered?”
Byron laughed. “A guffaw or two may have happened,” he admitted. “But he was glad you weren’t hurt, and that I called him. He, ah, apparently was organized, just in case.”
I paused, my fork midway to my mouth. “He had it ready to go, didn’t he?”
Byron refused to answer me directly. “Gerard is always prepared,” he said simply. “He sent the food over right away. I told him we didn’t need dessert.” He paused. “Eat, please, my love. You might not have made it, but it’s still special because you’re with me.”
I smiled at him, fighting my watery eyes.
“And your table is beautiful. I would be proud to have it in my restaurant.” He lifted my hand and kissed the palm. “Almost as beautiful as you.”
With a wink, he started to eat again, and I lifted my fork, determined to make the best of the evening. It wasn’t what I planned, but he was right. We were still together.
My appetite wasn’t great, but I did manage to eat a little, especially when he would lean forward and press a morsel against my mouth, quietly asking me to try it. I never could resist him. I held my breath as he tasted his brûlée, almost giddy when he declared it delicious. At least that part I got right—even if he did finish it.
“Tomorrow,” he announced, “we’ll go to my favorite market, buy some things, and make dinner together—okay? But we’re not leaving the house again after that. I want you all to myself.”
My chest warmed at his words. I liked the sound of that.
“I could make pancakes tomorrow,” I offered.
His gaze flew to
the kitchen. I could see the worry on his face.
“I used to make really good ones,” I teased. “Hardly burned any of them. Bisquick and I were a good team.”
He snorted, his spoon dropping from his hand to cover his mouth. I had to laugh with him.
“Okay, maybe it would be best if I didn’t try to cook again this weekend without supervision. I could set the table again?”
He dragged my chair over and kissed me. “That sounds like a plan.” He grinned. “At least until I get a new fire extinguisher…a big one.”
When we were done, I tugged him into the living room. I’d messed up dinner, but I still had a few surprises.
“Julia.” He frowned as he took in the little pile of gifts.
“They’re just small. Honest. I didn’t spend much. Dinner was supposed to be your big gift.” I pushed the long, flat box with my finger. “Well, and this one.”
“I’ll save that one to last, then.”
His smile grew wider with every gift. There was so little I could buy him, but I knew the things he said he constantly needed. Thick, gray T-shirts to go under his chef’s coat, double-layered socks to keep his feet comfortable during long hours of standing. Luckily, the brands he preferred were ones I could afford. The bag of his favorite coffee beans had been extravagant, but as usual, he was correct; it was the best. His coffee spoiled me for any other kind.
For each gift he opened, I got a deep, lingering, thank-you kiss. I berated myself for not wrapping each T-shirt and pair of socks separately. I liked his thank-yous.
He picked up the last box and shook it. “Light,” he mused. “But very well wrapped.” He quirked his eyebrow at me, and I had to laugh—compared to the others I had clumsily wrapped, it was a work of art.
“The store did it.”
I watched with growing nerves as he slowly opened the paper and lifted the lid. He parted the filmy tissue paper with his long fingers, and a strange expression came over his face. I could feel my cheeks growing redder every passing second as he stared into the box. Maybe it had been a bad idea. I never should have listened to Melinda when I told her what I wanted to give him for his birthday.
Happily Ever After Collection Page 4
