Recipe for Redemption--A Clean Romance Page 7

  Jason squeezed his hand tighter, willing David’s image to vanish. Willing him to stay. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he stared into the drawer and stepped aside. The knives could wait. There were other things he could do.

  Once Abby returned, clad something like the uniform he’d suggested—although he wasn’t convinced the sneakers on her feet were going to last long—he’d familiarized himself with Matilda’s kitchen. One of the first lessons he’d ever learned was you didn’t mess with anyone’s space without their permission. From the few comments he’d heard from Abby about the inn’s longtime cook, it seemed like sage advice.

  He could also tell whatever kind of cook Matilda was, she didn’t skimp on organization and preparedness. Impressive. Especially considering the stove she had to work with was about thirty years out of date. Only four burners? How did she manage that?

  “Do I pass inspection, sir?” Abby curtsied.

  “Better.” Better than better. That orange shirt of hers brightened her face and showed off curves he now realized had been hidden beneath the flouncy skirt. As if he needed any added distractions. “Next time salute. Okay, step one, always step one, wash your hands, please. Then we’ll get to know these knives.”

  He pointed a finger at the drawer in the worktable he’d left open.

  “Awesome.” She did as instructed and joined him at the spacious island. “Ooh, I like this one.” She pulled out a twelve-inch carving knife and poked her finger against the end. “Sharp, too.”

  He pushed her hand down to the work surface and reconsidered the idea of protective gear. “Let’s begin with this one.” He indicated the more flexible six-inch vegetable knife with a forgiving blade. “Hold the hilt in your palm.” He waited for her to pick it up, then arranged her grip into the proper position. “See? You don’t want to hold it too tight. Ease up.” He put his hand on top of hers, then shook. “Relax. Too tight and your hands will cramp up. Nice and easy hold, thumb in.” One of the most common mistakes amateurs made. “With your thumb out, it limits your mobility. Keep it in and you can move around easier.” He rotated his wrist, combining the movement with a slow slicing motion. “Okay?”

  “Yep.” She turned her head and grinned over her shoulder at him. This close, he could smell lavender and the ocean clinging to her skin and hair. “Do you think I’ll ever be able to cut air as well as you do?”

  He was not going to laugh. “We’ll start slow and easy. No rushing, remember?” He placed the bamboo cutting board in front of her and handed her a stalk of celery. “Curved side up. The knife goes in easier. And hold the other end of the celery with this hand here, fingers tucked under your knuckles.”

  “Like this?” She chopped a good chunk off the end.

  “Smaller. And we want pieces to be as uniform as possible so they all cook evenly.”

  She tried again, putting too much arm into it.

  “Stop. It’s good, but you’re making this too difficult.”

  “You said cooking was difficult.”

  “You’re cutting, not cooking. And no sassing, please.”

  “Sassing?” She grinned at him. “Oh, am I helping you expand your vocabulary, Scooter?”

  “You know this will go faster if you stop playing around, right?”

  “Fine.” She heaved a sigh. “Forget the fun. If I’m doing it wrong, then show me, Super Chef.”

  He took a deep breath and moved in behind her again, wishing he had the courage to take hold of that knife himself so he wouldn’t have to deal with...her. All those curves and softness, how she held her spine so perfectly straight. “Together.” He covered her hands with his, placed her fingers in the correct position. Their close proximity didn’t do anything to help him keep a mental distance, but he stepped closer, trapping her between him and the counter as he eased the blade down. “Feel that? Nice, easy movements.” Familiar movements, familiar sounds. All the things that used to bring him such pleasure now felt like torture. “Not too far, just enough to...there. Good.” The knife slid through the stalk with that anticipated crunch, and he loosened his grip.

  He peered over her shoulder, craning his head slightly to watch her face. He grinned as she stuck the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth, as if cutting celery was as complicated as deciphering nuclear codes.

  “I think I’ve got it.” She let out a surprised laugh. “Look at that, I made celery.”

  “You cut celery. Let’s do another. This time on your own.” He released her hand as if touching her set his skin aflame.

  “And the training wheels come off. Yes!”

  Jason ducked as she did a fist pump with her knife. He grabbed her hand as his good mood evaporated. “Guess what I’m going to say now?”

  “Knives shouldn’t be waved like magic wands?” But he saw her flinch. “Sorry. It’s like I told Lori last night. I get distracted, moving on to the next thing while I’m still on the first, you know?”

  “I’m beginning to.” He could relate to distracted, but he couldn’t afford to be. Especially with Abby waving sharp implements in front of his face. “I’m going to get a bowl to put these in. Keep the knife down, please, and pull off another four stalks.”

  “Right.” She set his mind at ease by leaving the knife on the counter. She had bunched all the stalks together when he returned.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Saving time.” And didn’t she look proud of herself. “It takes so much to cut up one, but if I use this knife here...” She grabbed hold of the large carving knife she’d first held. “I can get it done in less than half the time. See? Watch.”

  Before he could stop her, she gripped the knife as he’d taught her and chopped her way through the stalks. What she didn’t do, however, was curl the fingers of her other hand under, something he was about to mention when...

  “Um, Jason?” She squeaked his name as he let out a long sigh.

  “Yes, Abby?”

  “Does celery bleed?”

  “No, Abby.” A headache pounded behind his eyes. “Celery does not bleed.”

  “Oh.” Her face went white as blood dripped onto the celery and cutting board. “Then maybe this wasn’t the right knife after all.”

  He grabbed hold of her wrist and dragged her over to the sink, the knife clanging on the countertop. She swayed against him as he stuck her sliced fingers under the cold water.

  “Ow.”

  “Saw that coming,” he muttered. Part of him had wanted to warn her, correct her in time, but lessons had to be learned the hard way. Then they weren’t forgotten. “Lesson two—no shortcuts.”

  “Got ya.” She leaned her head back and rested her cheek against his chest as he held her hand. “I don’t feel so good.”

  “Lesson three? Get used to blood.”

  “Mine?” she gasped.

  “And others’. The kitchen is a dangerous place, Abby. Those shortcuts you want to take, all those distractions you admit to, they can cause real harm. Not only to yourself but anyone else you’re working with.”

  “Um, Jason? About that blood?” She was squeaking again.

  “I’ll get some bandages. Where’s your first aid kit?” He should have gotten that out right away.

  “Under here.” She hopped to the side and pointed. “Jason, um, we might have another problem.”

  “We do?”

  “Yeah. I’m going to be sick.”

  It was all the warning he got as she leaned over the sink and threw up.

  He sighed and knocked his forehead against the cabinet as he pulled the first aid kit free.

  This was going to be harder than he’d thought.

  * * *

  “I CAN’T BELIEVE I did that.” Abby moaned as Jason pressed a second cold rag into her hand and lifted it to her forehead. As if yester
day’s fire hadn’t been embarrassing enough, now she’d almost puked on her teacher. “I never thought I was squeamish.”

  “You’re just learning all kinds of things today, aren’t you?” He finished cleaning up the sink and the counter, erasing all traces of blood—and celery—from the workstation before wiping everything down with bleach. “We agreed I’d tell you what to do. Until you’re more confident in the kitchen, I don’t want you making any food-related decisions on your own, hear me?”

  “Uh-huh.” Her stomach rolled as she nodded. It was like all the aftereffects of a hangover without the enjoyment of drinking. “I’m sorry.”

  “There’re no apologies in this room.” He tapped a wooden spoon in front of her nonbandaged hand. “And you’re done for the day.”

  “What?” Abby dropped the rag and, despite her relief, gaped at him. “But we only just started. I don’t have time—”

  “Your head’s not in the game and I need to reevaluate my plan. We’ll go again tomorrow, first thing, so you might want to tell Lori and your staff that you’ll be busy. All day.”

  “I’ll try to do better.” Like maybe wearing a pair of steel-lined gloves.

  “Don’t try, do.”

  “Ah, man, don’t try quoting the little green dude to me, Jason. I’m not ready to like you yet. Come on.” She waved her hand in a circle. “Say something rude. That’ll make me feel better.”

  He didn’t look amused. “You’re a menace in the kitchen.”

  “Oh, ouch.” She rolled her eyes. Shocker. “You can do better than that. How about I taunt you? Um.” She scrunched her nose as she considered her options.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve lost your edge already.”

  “I think it’s over there.” She pointed at the sink and then felt as if she’d located a long-buried treasure when he grinned. Finally. One for her. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Apparently you can.”

  She flashed back to Mrs. O’Riley’s eighth-grade grammar lessons but refused to correct herself. “Why did you become a chef?”

  “Why?” The befuddlement on his face when he looked at her might have been comical if she didn’t think it sad. “I’ve never really thought about it. David and I just...decided. We spent so many years at the restaurant with our grandfather there was never any question.”

  We. Interesting. “You didn’t ever want to be anything else?”

  “No. Never thought about it.”

  And yet he’d walked away from everything as if it didn’t mean a thing. “Do you like it? Did you, I mean?” No need to poke the bear too hard.

  He shrugged. “Sure.”

  Wow. Could he have sounded any less enthusiastic? When she’d gotten her first job at the Flutterby, she couldn’t wait to get to work in the morning. How did he make professional cooking sound so...boring? “Matilda’s always cooked for me when I didn’t eat out or gorge on peanut butter. But she banned me from this room when I was ten.”

  “I’m afraid to ask, but I should probably know. What did you do?”

  “Have you ever noticed that salt and sugar look exactly the same?”

  He didn’t seem surprised, which could be either good news or bad. “I did that. Once.”

  “Was it your grandmother’s birthday cake? And did you neglect to tell anyone you’d gotten creative with the recipe before it was served to over fifty guests?”

  He folded up the dish towels after drying the last of the knives. “This would be one of those distraction things, right?”

  “I wanted to help. And Matilda was always so busy in here, it seemed like fun.” She reapplied the rag and sighed as the coolness sank into her skin. “I’m not getting the same feeling now.”

  “Because you’re putting too much pressure on yourself. You need to relax and not take it so seriously.”

  “But it is serious,” Abby said. How could she not put pressure on herself with everything that was at stake? “You’ve been saying so, so it must be true. I know I said I was okay not winning, but I really need to, Jason. We need that money.” He had to understand that...without her giving too many details.

  “What you’re expecting of yourself is impossible. I’m not saying winning isn’t possible, but expecting to be perfect right out of the chute isn’t. Especially since you don’t even know who you’re competing against.”

  “Would it make a difference if I did know?” She sat up straighter, an idea forming. “Because I bet I can find out.”

  “Find out what?” Jason stopped putting the bleach away and popped up from the undersink cabinet, his expression turning wary.

  “Who my competition is. I’m friends with the mayor. I bet he’d tell me if I—”

  “No.” Jason planted his hands flat on the counter and leaned toward her, any humor vanishing from his face in what felt like an arctic blast. “There will be no cutting corners and no, I repeat, no cheating, do you hear me?”

  “That’s not—” The vehemence in his voice unsettled her.

  “Giving yourself an advantage people you’re competing against don’t have is cheating. And I’ll pack my bags and leave right now if that’s how you plan to try to win.”

  “You don’t think you’re a little oversensitive about this subject?” When he’d cheated it had been out of ego and pride, at least according to what she’d read. She had more riding on this competition than he did, including her employees’, not to mention her own and her grandmother’s, livelihoods.

  “I’m certainly more in tune with what the consequences are when you’re caught. Trust me, Abby, cheaters and liars are eventually exposed. It’s not worth the risk. Or the fallout.”

  “Fine.” Her dramatic sigh seemed lost on him. He was so odd. So different from anyone else she’d ever known. Maybe that was why he irritated her so much. She couldn’t figure out how to deal with him.

  “You’re better than that, Abby,” Jason said in that superior tone of his. “It might have felt like fun and games last night when you asked me to help you get ready for this, but looking to skirt the rules the second you hit a speed bump is not going to get you what you want. You want to win that badly, do the work and make it happen. If it helps, I have faith in you.”

  “You do?” She glanced at the sink before looking at her bandaged fingers. “Why?”

  “Because you’re motivated. You’re doing this for more than yourself. You have a purpose. You might not be ready for the Cordon Bleu or even the burger shack outside town—”

  “One minute he builds me up, the next he tears me down.” She tried to ignore that slimy feeling of shame slipping over her for even thinking about asking Gil for a favor. “Admit it, you were never a cheerleader, were you?”

  “There’s the insult I’ve been waiting for. And no, I wasn’t a cheerleader. I dated a few, though.”

  “What a surprise. I was the high school mascot,” she said with more pride than she should feel. “They stuck a bird mask on my head. Smelled like chicken, oddly enough. Is there anything I can do before tomorrow that will help prepare me for what you have in mind?”

  “As a matter of fact there is.” He pulled a hardcover cookbook off Matilda’s shelf, one with pictures of bowls, a whisk and, heaven help him, knives on the cover. “I want you to study this tonight. It’s basic and has photos, which should help with developing your technique.” He placed it into her hands, although it felt like another fifty-pound weight added to her shoulders.

  “Shouldn’t this have ‘dummies’ in the title?”

  “I’m not a fan of that word.” Jason returned to peruse the other titles on the shelves. “It shows a lack of confidence and pride. You want to fail? Then fail spectacularly while trying. There’s no shame in that. But you are not stupid, Abby. If I thought otherwise I never would have agreed to help you.”

 
“Gee, I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.” She got up and grabbed a lemon-lime soda out of the fridge, popped it open and felt her stomach ease with the first sip. Ah. Much better.

  “I’m going to test you tomorrow on what you read tonight. I also want you to consider real-life meals you’d want to cook for Alice or your friends if they came over for dinner. Nothing fancy, whatever food you like. Then we’ll move on to round two.”

  The preround had burned her hand. Round one had sliced her fingers. She’d probably have to amputate something after round two. “You’re putting me back on the horse, aren’t you?”

  “You can do this, Abby. You just need to remember why you want to.”

  As if she could forget. She’d gotten exactly what she’d wanted. She was in this mess.

  If only she didn’t have to cook her way out of it.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  FOR THE FIRST time since he’d left New York Jason didn’t wake up with that cloud of dread hovering over him. The heaviness that had been his constant companion for longer than he cared to admit had lifted, and he rolled out of bed looking forward to what the day might bring. A day he decided to start with a run. He tossed on his running clothes and was out the door before the Flutterby Inn had its first decanter of coffee steaming in the lobby.

  The brisk morning air welcomed him as he started a slow jog down Great Copper Way toward Monarch Lane, letting his body readjust to physical activity that required more than shifting from one chair to another.

  He didn’t bother with earphones or music, choosing instead to let the crashing waves and squawking gulls accompany him through the winding hilly roads. He had the morning, and seemingly the entire town, to himself as he jogged to the newly opened youth center at the far end of town.

  He stopped, jogging in place for a few minutes as he took in the sleepy site, the thick, damp sand of the beach, and listened to the rattling of rocks and pebbles as the water shifted in and over.