Sideways

by Lisa Hughey

Today all he needed to do was make this very simple soup.

  A particular calmness settled over him. He could make this work. Having her here was bringing his stress level down. “I need you to measure out flour, butter, and stock.” She could get the ingredients for the roux prepped.

  “Wait. Don’t you have a recipe?”

  Some dishes were rote enough that he didn’t need one. He hadn’t used a recipe for vegetable soup since he was eighteen.

  “Nope.” Colt’s grip on the knife loosened, the hilt comfortable and the heft familiar in his hand, and muscle memory took over and he began to chop with laser precision.

  “Not even a blueprint?”

  “Just measure out the flour.” He told her how much he needed and nudged a large mixing bowl toward her.

  “Okay.” But she hovered close by, not actually doing what he asked.

  “You going to start?”

  “Ahh….”

  “What now?” He scraped the pile of onions into the large stainless-steel bowl in between them.

  “Is there…any specific way I do that?”

  She didn’t know how to measure.

  “You really are a deb.”

  She bristled. “I just excel at other things,” she said loftily. “I’d like to see you coordinate a fundraiser for seven hundred and fifty people.” She firmed her mouth.

  He stepped away from his chopping and showed her how to measure. Placing his hands over hers. Again that sizzle of attraction fizzed in his bloodstream, giving him a heady feeling.

  They broke apart awkwardly.

  “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “A small fundraiser for the local food bank. The gastropub is giving out samples at tomorrow’s Colebury Farmers Market.” Soup and the restaurant’s pretzel rolls. He could make this in his sleep. Except he rarely slept much.

  After the last year, he frequently lay awake and wondered where he went wrong. Everything was tied up in the kitchen and fame. And chasing that fame.

  The spotlight was a toxic place and he wanted nothing to do with it. Staying out of the kitchen ensured that no one bothered him, and he couldn’t spiral into destructive patterns again. His plan for the past year had been working, and removing himself from the tools of his destruction had granted him a measure of peace.

  But that peace had been disrupted by several things lately: Phoebe and Audrey asking him to cater for the Speakeasy. The arrival of this woman who epitomized all the people whose approval he’d been chasing. He should want her gone; instead he was inexplicably drawn to her.

  “Ooh.” She clapped her hands, her blue eyes sparkling. “You should serve the soup in little paper cups with the pretzel rolls on the side and a little flag, with information for donating on the flag.” She got a faraway look in her eyes.

  Colt held his hands up in surrender. “I’m just the substitute cook.”

  “It would be super easy to set it up.”

  “Pretty sure people will just give a ten spot when they pick up their order.”

  “You need to have vehicles for them to remember the organization, so they’ll see that little tag and consider donating again.” She pulled out her phone and looked up the website. “I can make the flags on my printer. It will be super easy. And I can use toothpicks from the bar to wrap the flags around.” She tapped something into her phone. “Can I take a picture of you?”

  “No.”

  His response had been immediate and harsh.

  She looked taken aback. “Umm, okay?”

  “Absolutely no pictures.”

  “What about of the kitchen? And the prep? And maybe your hands?”

  His hands?

  “Fine,” he grumbled. “No one wants to see pictures of food prep.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Cee-Cee bustled happily around the kitchen, snapping pictures on her phone with a studied efficiency, moving the bowls and the knives to capture the proper lighting. “People like behind-the-scenes glimpses of things. They like feeling like they are included in something.”

  His restaurant group had had social media accounts. And they’d encouraged patrons to post pictures. Back then he’d been obsessed with fame. He hadn’t run the accounts but his assistant had given him regular updates about likes and retweets. Even when he’d been chasing fame, he’d thought that social media exposure only provided minimal benefit.

  “If we tag it properly, we can get more eyeballs on the fundraiser.” She bounced on her toes.

  “It’s just a small fundraiser.” He was compelled to reiterate the purpose.

  When he worked in Boston, his restaurant group had partnered with several food insecurity philanthropies to distribute groceries and leftover meals to local homeless shelters.

  He was all for wiping out hunger.

  And he personally had donated time and his brain power to work on a major fundraiser in Boston. He’d forgotten about the more positive memories of his fame—raising money because people had come out to see him.

  “Cool.” She snapped a few more photos. “I’ll research whether the farmers market has social media handles. As well as the food bank and the town.” She chattered on about viral posts and ways to increase views as she flitted around the kitchen.

  He thought about asking her if she was planning on helping but her voice lulled him into a zone as he chopped away.

  “You know, if you have an account, you could post on your account. You’d be a big draw.”

  “Absolutely not.” He put the knife down carefully and tamped down on his temper. She didn’t know what she was asking. “No publicity,” he said resolutely. “For me. Or about me.”

  She stopped, paused, studied him with somber blue eyes. “Okay.” Finally she tucked her phone away. “Hit me with what to do.”

  Colt’s curiosity got the better of him. “Why are you here?” He couldn’t figure her out.

  “I’m helping you cook, silly.”

  She projected this air of affability and light. Except Colt saw beyond that public face. She had walls a mile high and he bet people rarely saw the real her.

  “Why are you in Colebury?” he clarified, wondering what the hell he was doing. He hated it when people interfered in his life. But he couldn’t stop wondering, so he was compelled to find out more.

  Her smile slipped. “I’m just taking a break from my life.”

  Something in her tone alarmed him. “Are you in danger?”

  “No. Of course not.” But Cee-Cee frowned. “Just trying out a change of scenery.”

  “Well, you’ll definitely find that here.” Colt had grown up in Connecticut in a small city called Danbury. And then he had lived in various cities in the Northeast. Coming to the country had been culture shock. But he’d adjusted to the slower pace of life and the fact that in small rural towns people were up in each other’s business constantly.

  The tension that gripped him eased. “Okay.” She had secrets. He understood that. They were none of his business. He didn’t want to know them anyway.

  Right?

  But the niggle of curiosity was like a tickle at the back of his throat that wouldn’t go away.

  The soup was finished.

  Colt cleaned up the kitchen, wiping down the counters with disinfectant and scrubbing the utensils with the industrial soap. There weren’t enough utensils to run the dishwasher so he was washing everything by hand. Old habits died hard and he didn’t want to use unnecessary utilities and drive up the restaurant’s overhead costs. Cee-Cee grabbed a towel to dry. He handed her the utensils after he rinsed.

  He realized he’d been in the kitchen for a few hours. The bar beyond the doors was silent. Grace, the jazz singer, had packed up and left over an hour ago. And the last bartender had popped his head in to say goodnight then headed out not long after her. Which meant that he and Cee-Cee were alone in the restaurant.

  His hands were pleasantly sore and he settled into the familiarity of late-night kitchen sounds and scents. The odor of flour and herbs s
cented the air along with the aromatic soup. He’d tweaked the recipe and added a little turmeric and ginger for color and flavor and to boost immunity.

  She yawned as she wiped down the counters, spraying them liberally with cleaner. He decided to mess with her. “You going to do the bathrooms next?”

  She stopped mid-swipe and looked at him with wide eyes. Panicked.

  “Standard operating procedure, kitchen cleanup also is responsible for the bathrooms.”

  “Umm.”

  The look on her face was priceless. He laughed, from deep in his belly. Laughter bubbled up, cramping his stomach, he bent over, picturing her momentary horror.

  “You should do that more often,” she said softly. Her smile grew, the amusement spreading over her face self-deprecating. “You were kidding.”

  “Yep. They have a cleaning service who comes in and cleans the bathrooms and other areas.” He collected all the dirty linens and dropped them in the industrial laundry bin so they’d be ready to be sent out tomorrow. “Restaurants are notorious for pranks. If you’re going to stay here, you better get used to it.”

  She leaned against the stainless-steel counter and crossed her arms. “Really?”

  The lights were bright, illuminating her face. It was amazing that she still looked good. Her shirt was rumpled and her jeans had a swath of flour over one hip. Even though it was late, her skin glowed with a singular beauty and her eyes sparkled, making him feel like he was the only person in the universe. She had a unique ability to give people a sense that they were special. That she valued them. He’d noticed the similar reaction from her customers yesterday. She made people feel good.

  He put the industrial pots of soup in the large walk-in refrigerator. “Let me do one last check and then I’ll walk you out.”

  “There’s a closing checklist in Phoebe’s office.”

  Colt snickered. He could close down a restaurant in his sleep. “I’ve got it.”

  They walked into the darkened restaurant and checked to make sure the front doors were locked. Colt turned off the lights, leaving the security light that illuminated the parking lot on.

  Cee-Cee yawned so wide her jaw cracked.

  “Waitressing getting to you.”

  “It’s the combination of working all day then waitressing at night. I had no idea how hard it would be,” she said absently as she tugged on the front door one more time.

  Working? “Why are you working here then?”

  “I’m a little short on cash,” she said reluctantly. She glanced at the Cartier watch on her wrist. “It’s only eleven thirty. In the city, I would just be going out now.” Her laughter was a light waterfall of sound that Colt wanted to bathe in.

  “How are you getting home?”

  “I’ve got my car.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  “Not really worried about the mean streets of Colebury,” she teased. But her smile was soft, welcoming, pleased.

  Somehow in the past few hours, she’d mellowed his mood.

  She stood next to him in the yellow glow of the security spotlight by the back door. Colt locked up quickly and turned. She was closer than he anticipated, and he almost bumped into her.

  Her rose scent surrounded him. “How do you still smell so fabulous?”

  “I’ve got a small spritzer in my bag.” She lifted the leather hobo bag with the designer logo, her sterling silver charm bracelet sliding along her arm, the pavé diamond Eiffel Tower charm resting on her forearm. “I have it made in Paris.”

  That should throw cold water on his attraction. She had bespoke perfume designed in France.

  But instead, he said, “God, I love Paris.” Colt closed his eyes and remembered the thrill of Paris. He’d worked in a venerated restaurant under one of the most famous chefs at the time and lived in a tiny atelier on the top floor of the building. The long days and nights had been a formative experience.

  “I know, right?”

  “The food. The history. The sheer energy.” He had a flash of them sitting at a quintessential Parisian café as the motorcycles roared by, sharing a plate of brie and a fresh baguette, and the sun shimmering through a sparkling rose.

  She leaned against the brick exterior of the old mill building as he locked up. A dreamy smile on her face, her eyes half closed. Her lush scent surrounded him.

  He had the unsettling urge to kiss her.

  It had been a really long time since he’d kissed a woman. Since he’d had his meltdown.

  His last girlfriend had up and left him when he was no longer a celebrity. And after she was gone he’d realized how shallow their relationship actually was. She was a model who’d barely eaten his food and complained about his hours.

  His last kiss had been over a year ago. She’d rage-kissed him, tossed her high-maintenance hair that took over an hour to perfect, and then told him she was too good for him.

  At the time she hadn’t been wrong.

  But now the urge to wipe away that memory burned in his brain. To replace it with the soft lips and happy smile of Cee-Cee the waitress.

  Colt blinked. Stepped away. Bad idea. On so many levels.

  He was a still a mess. And she was a woman running from something. He didn’t need complications in his life. He’d retreated to the country to heal and to hide.

  He’d survived his first time back in the kitchen.

  But he wasn’t ready for anything else.

  7

  Colt

  Early the next evening, Colt walked into the Speakeasy kitchen, bypassing the front door and going through the employee entrance.

  “Dude. Great idea for the little tags on the pretzel rolls.” The director of the food bank, Noah, was unloading the empty soup pots into the large sink, his normal laid-back attitude nowhere to be seen. He practically vibrated with happiness.

  “Wasn’t me,” Colt grunted, sorry he’d come into the restaurant today. “It was the waitress, Cee-Cee.”

  “You mean the absolutely awful waitress?”

  Colt grinned. “Yep.” She was terrible. But she managed to charm the customers anyway. “Customers seem to love her.”

  They weren’t the only ones.

  Colt would never admit it but there was an anticipation in his step as he idly, or not so idly, wondered if she would be here. She was like a giant ball of light and he was the moth drawn to her sun.

  “Well, I love her too. We sold out of the soup and rolls and in addition to the cash we raised at the farmers market, we also brought in more money on our website,” he gushed. “She posted a picture of the soup, roll, and flag on her Instagram account. Some hashtag she used was genius and now we’ve taken in double what we were expecting.”

  Colt raised his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

  “Yes!” Noah nodded so hard his blond man bun wobbled.

  The kitchen was bustling with the waitstaff who ebbed and flowed around them as they chatted. He glanced toward the dining room only half his attention on their conversation. “That’s great news.”

  “Right?” Noah said slyly, “She’s here.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman of the hour.”

  Colt flushed, hoping his tan would hide the physiological reaction to seeing her again. He could feel heat roll through him. “I wasn’t asking.”

  But once he saw her, he found himself headed to her location anyway.

  She sat at a table in the corner, muttering and staring at her computer screen.

  “Someone doxing you on Facebook?” Colt joked when she didn’t look up but continued to be hyperfocused on whatever she was working on.

  She jerked her head up, her blue eyes wide. “Oh. Uh, hello.” She shut her laptop quickly.

  Anne set a club soda at her side.

  “Oh, hey can you ask the bartender for a lemon?” Cee-Cee asked. “I forgot to.”

  “Sure.”

  Colt watched as Demetrio flirted with Anne. Then he studied Cee-Cee, who had a too-satisfied smile on her face. �
�You don’t drink lemon in your water.”

  “What?” She blinked. “I’m sure I do.”

  The day he’d first seen her, she’d very deliberately fished the lemon out of her water and set it on her plate without squeezing it.

  He raised a brow, basically signaling “liar, liar, pants on fire.” “No, you don’t.”

  “You actually pay attention to what people drink?”

  More than she’d know. And not necessarily everyone, but definitely gorgeous women who caught his attention. He said piously, “Good restauranteurs catalogue everything about their customers.”

  Now she raised a dark blond brow at him. “Really?”

  He’d been very good at his job. Until he wasn’t. “What are you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  Anne bopped back to the table. “Can you work for me tonight?”

  “Oh,” Cee-Cee glanced back at her closed laptop. “Sure.”

  “Demetrio asked me out!”

  “That’s great.” Cee-Cee beamed at the waitress.

  “Anything else?” Anne asked.

  There was an empty plate on the table along with a crumpled-up napkin. “No. I’m good for now.”

  “What are you doing here?” Colt asked when he realized she wasn’t on shift right now.

  “The motor lodge doesn’t have room service.”

  He laughed. But at the somber expression on her face, he figured out she wasn’t kidding. “Roughing it is tough.”

  Cee-Cee frowned at her laptop. “You have no idea,” she muttered.

  He should just leave her alone with whatever she was working on and walk away. But he found himself lingering. “You posted on social media?” He couldn’t keep the disdain out of his voice.

  “Just trying to increase donations,” she said defensively. “And raise awareness.”

  “Well, thank you.” As much as it pained him and as much as he was not a fan of social media, she had helped raise the profile of the organization. It wasn’t her fault that he wanted nothing to do with promotion or the spotlight.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Ty Connor, the bar manager of the Speakeasy, approached him. “Hey. It’s Colton, right?”