A Recipe for Romance

by Lara Van Hulzen

  “Oh, sweet boy.” She came around the counter and patted his cheek. “As much as I love you, I am fine with you having a lovely young woman stepping in to help.”

  As she walked by him toward the pantry he could’ve sworn he heard her whisper, “God help the sweet girl.”

  “I’m going to fail at this, Glenna. Flat out on my face, make a fool of myself fail.”

  Glenna turned from inside the doorway of the pantry, a room that could fit a baby grand piano inside. “Yes. You may fail.”

  Wes had always been appreciative of Glenna’s brutal honesty with him. He questioned that now. “I’ve never failed at anything.”

  “Ah, so maybe now it’s time.”

  He shook his head and let it fall forward against his chest. Doomed. He was doomed. The recipe sat on the counter in front of him, printed out by Glenna. Maybe reading over it would calm his nerves. The list of ingredients looked simple enough. Flour, baking soda, cinnamon. What the heck was cream of tartar? It didn’t sound like something that would taste good in a cookie. It sounded more like what you’d put on fish. Butter, brown sugar, vanilla. Okay. Yes. He could do this.

  His confidence plummeted once again, however, as he read through the instructions. Whisking, not letting butter burn on the stove, electric mixers... There was a whole lot more to baking a tiny cookie than he ever realized.

  Glenna patted his back as she walked by him again. “Don’t worry. Miss Noelle will guide you on how to do it. You will have no problem repeating things at the Bake-Off.”

  His gut churned once more. He’d almost forgotten he had to do this in front of a crowd.

  “And you look so handsome! It’s nice to see you relaxing a bit.” She patted his cheek once more and left the room.

  After Noelle had asked him at Grey’s why he was so dressed up, he thought a more casual look was in order for the day. Besides, they’d be baking, not going to dinner or to a Broadway play. However, it had taken him almost an hour to get dressed that morning. Not usually one to fuss with clothes, he’d found himself going through his closet, scrutinizing everything he had and trying to deem the best outfit to wear. Mike had even poked his head into Wes’s room and ribbed him for acting like a girl. He couldn’t argue seeing as half his closet was laid out on his bed in his attempt to choose what looked best.

  Never before had he been this turned around over a woman. Never. Of course, no woman had caught his attention quite like Noelle Olsen. He admired her sense of control, something he prided himself in having, but he didn’t see much of it in the women who crossed his path. Noelle’s gentle demeanor was also a pleasant change. Most of the females in his world either worked with him and saw the need to be rough around the edges—something he understood and didn’t judge—or they were socialites: women looking for a husband, preferably a wealthy one.

  Women looked at him and saw money. A lifestyle. Just once it would be nice to know he was wanted for him. He was drawn to Noelle, but she wouldn’t fit in his world. Or would she? No, she was better than that. His world was all facades and games where she was genuine. Authentic.

  He took a deep breath in and let it out. That was all the more reason he should shut things down before they even got started. Noelle was the cute house and white picket fence in Montana. He wasn’t.

  But what was he shutting down? They’d had coffee. She was helping him with a project, of sorts. No one was saying this was something more than friendship. Well, Glenna had hinted at it, but she did so with any female within a ten-mile radius of Wes.

  The chime of the doorbell cut through his thoughts. Along with his father’s voice saying, “I’ll get it!”

  His father never answered the door. Never. They had a butler, for heaven’s sake.

  Wes made his way down the long hall toward the entryway. He approached the front door in time to see his father shake hands with Noelle and invite her inside. His father was a man used to turning on the charm when necessary. He all but oozed it at that moment.

  “Welcome, Noelle. We are so glad you could come and visit. And so kind of you to help Wesley.”

  His father closed the front door behind Noelle and offered to take her coat. She smiled at his father then saw Wes standing nearby. “Oh. Hi.” Her eyes were wide as she looked around the entry. “Wow. This is...breathtaking.”

  Wes had also become accustomed to people’s first reactions to the Montana property. It was one of their smaller homes in size, but it did not lack grandeur.

  “And thank you, Mr. St. Claire, for inviting me to your home. It’s lovely.”

  “Please, call me Daniel.”

  Wes dug his hands into his pockets and stared at his father. He couldn’t recall the last person his father had let call him by his first name. He reveled in the formality of always being addressed as Mr. St. Claire. Even Glenna called him that and she’d been with them for...well, forever in Wes’s mind.

  “Wesley, why don’t you show Noelle to the kitchen?”

  “Right. Sure. Sorry.” Lost in thought, he’d forgotten his manners. “It’s good to see you, Noelle. Come down this way. The kitchen is just down the hall.”

  “I’m guessing Wilson had no trouble finding your apartment? The ride over was comfortable?”

  Noelle walked beside Wes down a long corridor, one wide enough for them to be side by side.

  “Oh. Um. Yes. Thank you. I appreciate the ride.”

  During their coffee date, Noelle had shared that she and Holly lived in an apartment near the dance studio and walked everywhere. She had no problem borrowing Franchesca’s car to get to Wes’s house to teach him baking, but he’d insisted on sending a car for her. Not sure what to expect, Noelle was dumbfounded when a black Town Car pulled up to her apartment with a chauffer in a dark suit at the wheel. He’d knocked on her door, introduced himself as Wilson, and escorted her to the car, making sure she didn’t slip on ice along the way.

  When they’d pulled into the circular cobblestone drive, complete with a fountain in the center, Noelle had to pick her jaw up off the floor of the back seat. The St. Claire Montana home was straight out of magazine. Built of dark stone, it had cream-colored columns that held a balcony above the front door, marble steps that led to the entry. The main house was rectangular in shape with wings jutting out from either end. At least fifteen windows adorned the front, all trimmed in the same cream color that matched the columns and entry.

  Off to the side was a garage with the doors opened, complete with a black Range Rover, dark gray BMW SUV, blue Jeep, and a bright yellow Hummer. Wilson had helped Noelle from the car to the door then pulled the Town Car into the garage, closed the doors, and was gone. By the time Wes’s father answered the door, she found it difficult to form words.

  Then she’d entered the house.

  If the outside was imposing, the inside took her breath away. Although embarrassed that she had fumbled so badly when Daniel St. Claire answered the door, she simply couldn’t get over her awe of the house. She’d guessed the St. Claires had money, but based on what she saw of their home, it wasn’t an amount she was used to imagining, even from the people she’d rubbed shoulders with in San Francisco.

  “Are you okay? You’re awfully quiet over there.”

  “Oh. Yes. I’m sorry. I’m just a bit...overwhelmed.” They were still walking the same corridor. Was the kitchen miles away? Based on the size of the house, that was possible.

  “Would you like to see the house?”

  “Do we have time?”

  Wes stopped and laughed.

  “I’m sorry. That wasn’t appropriate.”

  “It was perfect.”

  “I’ve spent too much time with my sister. The smart aleck in me is not as filtered as she usually is.”

  He placed a hand on her back and continued to guide her down the hall. “Believe me, your honesty is refreshing.”

  “It’s a big house.”

  “That it is.”

  The tour didn’t take as long as Noelle ima
gined it would, but by the time they entered the kitchen, she was certain the pedometer on her watch had gotten a run for its money.

  The house was magnificent, but the kitchen itself was a masterpiece. The size of three of her apartments put together, it held a granite island in the center, a rack of pots and pans hanging from above. Four people the size of Wes could lie down flat across it and still have room. And with Wes at around six foot two with broad shoulders, that was saying something.

  The stainless steel appliances were spotless, the late morning sun shining off their surfaces via a picture window at one end of the room. Noelle smiled when she saw her recipe printed out and lying on the island. Measuring cups and ingredients were laid out as well, in a row like toy soldiers.

  “Let me guess, you ran to the store and got all of this this morning.”

  “Ah, I see. The teasing begins right out of the gates.” Wes nodded, his hands dug deep in his jean pockets. He leaned against one of the counters, his feet crossed at the ankles. He still exuded confidence, although Noelle sensed the situation was ruffling his feathers more than he was used to.

  “I’m sorry. I’ll ease up.”

  “No, no. Please don’t. No one else has. Besides, I can take it.”

  Of that, she had no doubt. It hadn’t escaped her attention that he was wearing jeans and a dark blue Henley top, clothing she was sure had to be the most casual thing the man owned. A small pang of guilt hit her for saying something about his dress clothes before, but a bigger part of her was grateful. She still believed that Wes St. Claire in Armani was ideal, but Wes St. Claire in jeans was a whole other sight to behold. The Henley he wore accentuated the muscles that had held her while dancing, and seeing them was as enticing as being wrapped up in them.

  She needed to be careful. Getting lost in thoughts of being held by Wes St. Claire would bring her nothing but trouble. She’d told Holly that their coffee date went well and she’d agreed to help him bake, but it was nothing more than friendship. It couldn’t be. He lived in New York. She lived in Marietta. Of course, telling herself to not think about him wasn’t keeping her from waking in the night all flustered from dreaming of him.

  Feeling her face flush with heat, she turned from him toward the ingredients on the counter. “So, are you sure you’re ready for this?”

  “He is ready, don’t you worry!”

  Noelle looked up to see a woman in her early sixties flutter into the room. Her gray hair was in a loose bun on her head, her eyes shone with excitement, and if Noelle wasn’t mistaken, a dash of mischief.

  “I am Glenna.” She shook Noelle’s hand then pulled her in for a hug. “Don’t you let him give you any trouble. If he does, he has to deal with me. And all the children know better.” She waved a finger in Wes’s direction, then turned back to Noelle. “I have bought everything you said you needed on your list. But if you need anything else, you tell me. I will go get it or send Wilson for it.”

  “Oh, thank you. But we can go if we need to.”

  Glenna raised her eyebrows and looked from Noelle to Wes. Her chuckle shook her ample bosom. “Oh yes, this one I like.”

  With that, she pointed one last time at Wes and left the room.

  “Well she’s...” Noelle couldn’t find the words for the whirlwind of a woman who had just come and left.

  “She’s our Glenna.”

  Noelle smiled, the look on Wes’s face not much different than his niece’s when she’d given the explanation for why her uncle didn’t know how to bake.

  “That she is.” Noelle rubbed her hands together. “Let’s get started.”

  Chapter Eight

  Noelle looked around the vast kitchen. “Where would I find aprons?”

  Wes looked around the room then back at her. “I’m not sure.”

  Right. The man didn’t know how to bake, or cook. Most likely, this was the first time he’d even been in this kitchen.

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. This looks bad. I really don’t ever cook. But in all fairness, I don’t live here either so that’s another reason I wouldn’t know where anything is. And Glenna is notorious for losing aprons.”

  “A valiant effort, brother of mine, but even I’m not buying it.”

  Wes glared at his brother who entered the kitchen, a bobbing Annalise in tow.

  “I’m Mike St. Claire.” He stuck out his hand for Noelle to shake. “We’ve met briefly at dance classes, but I know you have a lot of kids and parents to remember.”

  Mike wore a Henley not unlike the one Wes had on, but his was black and matched his black jeans. He was an inch or so shorter than Wes, with dark hair and a trimmed dark beard that brought out his eyes.

  She thought of Franchesca’s comment about Annalise’s dad. If she were here now, her friend might drool. Or faint. Or both. Noelle’s heart didn’t skip a beat when Mike was around the way it did with Wes though. Not that that mattered. They were friends.

  “I remember you.” Noelle smiled. “And there’s no way anyone could ever forget your daughter.”

  “Hi, Miss Noelle!” Annalise came from around her father’s legs and latched on to Noelle’s.

  Noelle hugged the child and patted her back. She saw over Annalise’s head Wes whisper to Mike, “Why isn’t she in school?”

  Mike only shook his head, a look of frustration mixed with defeat on his face.

  The little girl still wrapped around her legs, Noelle rubbed her back. To lose a parent was difficult. Noelle understood that all too well. But to lose one at such a young age was something she couldn’t imagine.

  “So, you’re working on the baking thing.” Mike didn’t even attempt to hide a wicked grin toward his brother.

  “Be careful. You’re next in line. God only knows what Dad might volunteer you for.”

  That wiped the smirk off Mike’s face, and fast.

  “You just wait.” Wes moved away from the counter and patted his brother on the back.

  Mike groaned. “I like the changes Dad’s making, but I’d be fine if he left us out of whatever is going on.”

  Noelle wasn’t sure what Mike meant by that. Warmth and kindness was what she saw in Daniel St. Claire, but she didn’t know him beyond smiles and waves when he picked Annalise up from dance class, so who was she to judge?

  “Yeah. He even answered the door for Noelle.”

  Mike’s eyes grew wide. “Seriously?”

  Feeling a bit of an outsider in their conversation, Noelle peeled Annalise off her legs. Why their father answering the door was such a big deal was beyond her, but it was none of her business. She knelt down before Annalise so they were eye to eye. “What are you up to today?”

  “Daddy said he’d color with me. Then we are going to make a snowman out back. You wanna come too?”

  “I have to help Wes...your uncle learn how to bake, remember?”

  “Yes!” She clapped her tiny hands together.

  “That’s our cue.” Mike took his daughter’s hand and led her toward the door. “Have fun, you two. Don’t burn the house down.” His laughter echoed down the hall as he left.

  Wes might have whispered, “Just you wait, brother...” but she couldn’t be sure with Wes’s back to her.

  Noelle stood up again. “Okay. Well. Since you don’t know your way around the kitchen, I will just have to search for aprons.”

  Wes turned to her. “You say that plural, as if we are both wearing them.”

  “Oh, but we are.”

  She opened the door to the pantry. The laughter at Wes’s face when she said they were both wearing aprons faded as she took in the size of the room. Most pantries weren’t called rooms. They were tiny closets, or even cupboards. This one had its own zip code. Noelle didn’t even know where to start. However, it didn’t take long to see that Glenna was uber-organized. Small hooks lined the wall to the right of the door. There were two aprons hanging near the back that looked unused. The other hooks sat empty. Noelle grabbed the two aprons then stepped back into the kit
chen.

  Wes stood looking over the recipe, his face pale.

  “You’re gonna do great. Don’t worry.” She placed a hand of comfort on his arm, her body tingling from the connection.

  He looked at her, blue eyes sparkling. “Your faith in me is...misplaced.”

  She laughed and handed him an apron. “Here. Put this on.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “I’m serious.”

  The apron string hung from his finger, the look on his face saying he had no clue what to do with the foreign object. “I was hoping you wouldn’t find any.”

  Noelle put hers on and tied it around her waist, then went to him and did the same. As she placed it over his neck, a whiff of his cologne filled her nose, an earthy scent mixed with leather and spice. Turning him to tie the strings around his waist, she fought the urge to swoon. Good Lord, she needed help. If this continued she’d never be able to keep him at friends status.

  He turned and faced her again. “I can’t believe this. Men don’t wear aprons.”

  Hands on her hips she said, “Of course they do. Lots of men are chefs, or bakers.”

  “Well, yeah. They do it for a living. I mean, regular run-of-the-mill guys like me.”

  “There is nothing run-of-the-mill about you, I’m afraid.” Avoiding his eyes and all the gooey feelings they brought about inside her, Noelle turned to the recipe. “This is great. Glenna having laid everything out for us will be super helpful. Here. You measure out the flour, baking soda, et cetera, and put them in this bowl.” She slid a bowl to him along with measuring cups and spoons.

  He stared down at them.

  “Wow. You really don’t know how to do this. At all. Do you?”

  His look of desperation almost broke her heart.

  “Okay. Let’s just take it one thing at a time.”

  She walked him through each step, showing him how to measure correctly and mix. Melting the butter in a saucepan was an adventure, but he got the hang of it and even began to relax a bit as the nutty aroma from the butter browning filled the kitchen with a heavenly scent.