by Jacie Floyd
He gave her a half smile but nodded toward the man sliding in on her other side. “He’s the cook that works days at Lenore’s. Also fills in some nights at The Kitty Kat,” Liam said. “Volunteered to help today, too.”
Pleased to have a third wheel, her interest was piqued. “Tyrell of the scones and pie crust fame?”
The young man’s eyebrows jumped in surprise. “What?”
“I heard you created the two most delectable things I’ve ever eaten at Lenore’s. I’ve been wanting to meet you, too.”
Ducking his head, his skin flushed darker. “I don’t know ’bout delectable, but I respect your opinion. When you work in a small-town diner, it’s tough to know if you’re doing things right.”
“I understand what you’re saying. It is nice to get some pointers on the basics from other sources occasionally.”
“Like you got at the Culinary Institute of America?” His voice expressed awe at the name of the elite cooking school she’d been fortunate to attend.
“I learned a lot there, I’ll admit.”
“It costs a fortune, and it’s hard to get in.” He fiddled with his phone, but she sensed his frustration.
“You don’t have to go to there to be a great chef.” Just one more way her father’s money had opened doors. He’d supplemented her income while she’d worked in restaurants at minimum wage. Paid for her to travel around the country and overseas, taking advantage of the best opportunities that came her way. And he funded her attendance at the Institute. Here was a kid who wouldn’t have those benefits. “There are other reputable schools that are less expensive.”
“If you’re going to go, shouldn’t you go the best?”
“Great food really is more about taste and touch and passion than it is about classroom instruction. Anyone can learn to slice and dice, puree and sauté, mix and season, but if they don’t have that natural born instinct, they’ll never be more than a decent line chef. There are tons of up-and-coming chefs who’ve learned their craft in the kitchen instead of the classroom. Believe me, I developed a good foundation in kitchens across this country and in France and Italy before I stepped foot inside The Institute.”
He snorted. “Cooking in Europe is probably out of the question for me, too.”
“Then you’ll have to earn your chops in some elite kitchens and find a mentor or two before you apply.”
He slouched down in his seat. “Does Sunnyside Up and The Kitty Kat count as elite kitchens?”
“They’re places to start.”
“At the diner, Lenore wants things done her way or no way. At the Kitty Kat, Liam would let me do whatever I want, but the customers there only want wings and burgers.”
“Yours are better than anyone else’s around here,” Liam told him.
“There you go,” Jillian said with an encouraging smile. “The important thing is to learn to make the best wings and burgers you can and then move on.”
“You should taste the stuff he makes at the Sunday brunches,” Liam put in. “Amazing omelets. And his quiche! You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Sunday brunches? At Lenore’s?” She hadn’t heard about that. Lenore believed in keeping the diner closed on Sunday mornings, so she and her staff could attend the church of their choice. Preferably, hers.
“No, at The Kitty Kat. My sister works there, and I started fixing breakfast on Sunday mornings. Liam started joining us, and it kind of grew. Now, most of the girls and the staff come in with their husbands or boyfriends or whatever. Sometimes other people drop by.”
Jillian’s thoughts reeled. She had no idea they’d been using the club in that way. “Do you charge for it?”
“Nah, it’s family.”
“Who pays for the supplies?”
“People bring things in.” Tyrell shrugged. “I donate what I can. Liam contributes more than I do.”
He squirmed in the driver’s seat. “It’s usually the only decent meal I get all week. And I get first dibs on the leftovers.”
“You should come sometime, since you own the place and all.” Tyrrell flinched. “I mean, if you don’t mind eating at the strip club. I heard you’re not crazy about owning it.”
“Where’d you hear that?” She jabbed Liam in the ribs since he was the most likely source.
“Not from me.” He removed her elbow from his ribcage.
“All the gossip in Sunnyside goes through the diner sooner or later,” Tyrell reminded her.
True. And she had opened her big mouth to Zach the other night in front of Lenore and Sadie. “I have concerns, but it’s past time for me to meet the rest of my employees. How long has your sister worked at The Kitty Kat? Is she a dancer?”
“About two years. She goes to college and makes more money stripping than she can anywhere else. She doesn’t want to get sucked into student loans.”
“Did you grow up around here? I don’t recognize the name Bennett.”
“In Shelbyville. When Liza started working at the club, I helped her move into her apartment, decided to hang around awhile, and got hired at the diner.” Tyrell puffed up. “She’s real smart, but even with her scholarship, she can’t afford to go to school and not work.”
Liam cast Jillian a sly look out of the corner of his eye. “Tell Jillian what Liza’s studying.”
“Biology for now, so she can get into the veterinary medicine program.”
“Impressive.” Jillian recognized Liam’s tactics. He was trying to get her to see the strip club and the performers in a more objective light. And so far, it was working. Liza and Tyrell both sounded like good kids with great heads on their shoulders. “What about you? Who taught you to cook?”
“My grandmother. She watched me and Liza after school and thought cookin’ would keep us out of trouble. Liza never liked it, but I always wanted to help Gram, ’specially when I learned most people didn’t cook like she did. She made the lightest biscuits, crispiest fried chicken, tastiest everything. Pie crust like you wouldn’t believe.”
Jillian had started cooking with her mother in that same way. “That kind of home cooking’s starting to be a lost art.” She loved his enthusiasm. “Do you want to own your own restaurant?”
“Someday. Probably not around here though. There’s not a big enough market, and I want to stick around until Liza’s set. She’s still got a ways to go.”
“But we don’t.” Liam pulled the truck up to the back door of the shelter. “We’re here, kids. Brace yourself for a long day.”
Later that day, Liam knocked and waited at Jillian’s back door, not barging in like he had so many times before. He shouldn’t even be here, shouldn’t have agreed to let her cook Thanksgiving dinner exclusively for him. But he’d been unable to resist. Especially after Natalie and Brianna had been so mean and unfair to her.
Whatever princess-like qualities Jillian previously possessed, she’d never intentionally belittled others or tried to make them seem small. If they had their own insecurities or jealousies about her money or looks, that wasn’t her fault.
She’d worked like a trouper at the shelter this morning. Her contributions raised the level of the institutional turkey and dressing dinner with frozen corn and canned green beans to a gourmet event, pitching in, chatting with the workers and the diners.
With his grandparent’s farm to fall back on, he would never have gotten to the point of homelessness, but he understood neediness and despair. When he returned to Sunnyside after drug and alcohol rehabilitation, he’d been scraping bottom. Without Jillian’s dad and Zach’s help, who knew where he would have ended up? Volunteering at the shelter once a month had been a good reminder that no matter how often life kicked the shit out of him, there was always someone else who needed help more than he did.
What were Jillian’s motivation for helping? To put her own troubles into perspective? To keep from dwelling on her problems? To get out of the house and away from the constant reminders of her dad’s death? Her easy attitude with the workers and the visi
tors at the shelter indicated she was an experienced hand at volunteering. Slim had been thrilled to put her knowledge and expertise to work in his kitchen, even asking her to come back at Christmas.
Her presence throughout the day had distracted Liam, though. He’d barely managed to keep his mind on his assigned tasks. He’d been too intent on keeping an eye on Jillian as she interacted with Tyrell, Slim, and the others.
But now she’d be cooking for an audience of one. Him. He hoped his response didn’t disappoint her. He really hoped he could keep from backing her against the wall and nailing her the second he saw her. Right, like that was going to happen.
He reminded himself of his real motive for agreeing to come to dinner today. He needed to warn her about Adam’s upcoming visit. And with that topic on the table, he could tell her the truth about Adam’s paternity once and for all. They needed to get that out of the way before facing the temptations of the past.
As she opened the door, delicious scents wafted his way. She wiped her hands on a dish towel. A frilly bibbed-apron tied around her slim waist was a homey touch in counterpoint to the leather mini-skirt and sleek angora sweater paired with spiked-heel domination boots and patterned tights that ignited some crazy-wild fantasies.
With winter just around the corner, mini-skirts were about as scarce as bikinis and home-grown daisies in Sunnyside—which placed her attire in the realm of the exotic and forbidden. Or maybe that encompassed his perpetual perception of Jillian, and she would look equally enticing in common coveralls and steel-toed work boots.
“Thank you! How thoughtful.” She smiled and took the dumb fall bouquet he held out to her along with the promised pie. The quality of both gifts would fall short of her normal standards but saved him from facing the awkward hug-or-no-hug, kiss-or-no-kiss moment. “Welcome and come in.” She turned with a jerk of her chin, expecting him to follow. “It seems silly to say Happy Thanksgiving again after we spent most of the day together, so I’ll just say thank you for coming.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
Opening one cabinet door after another, she searched until she located a vase on the top shelf. As she went up on tiptoe to reach for it, her sweater rode up on the side. The slight peek of delicate skin had him drooling. He barely even blinked at the women who exposed every inch of their bodies in front of him nightly, but that little sliver of Jillian’s skin had his dick pleading for action.
“Let me get that.” Slipping into place behind her, he reached for the container hovering outside her grasp. With the scent of her hair drifting to him, her ass grazed his groin—probably by accident—and he realized his mistake. Distance was what he needed, not closer proximity. He lowered the vase into her hands and stepped back. “Something smells delicious.”
“Thanks.” She carried the container and flowers to the sink. “I did the prep work and cooked most of the meal last night. Let’s have a little wine and appetizers while everything’s heating up.”
“Do you need me to perform some kind of manly duty first?” Well, that hadn’t come out right. Oh, Lord, she’d throw him out on his ear if he didn’t get himself under control. “Carve the turkey? Take out the trash? Something like that?”
“We’ll get to your manly duties later.”
God, he hoped so. The possibilities left him mute.
She tilted her head and eyed him with her lips pursed. “Want to remove your coat?”
Mentally focusing on blizzards, ice storms, snowballs, and cold showers—anything but those incredible boots, that sliver of skin, and that tiny little skirt—he hoped it was safe for him to remove his jacket now.
“Sure.” He hung the garment by the backdoor as she arranged the flowers.
“So pretty.” Holding them at arm’s length, she admired the colorful array. “Let me set them in the dining room.” As she ducked out of the kitchen, she tossed him a look from over her shoulder. “Would you open the wine, please?”
A chilled bottle and two glasses sat on the island alongside a fancy space-age, battery-operated corkscrew. After a moment’s hesitation, he did the honors, filling one glass for Jillian, pouring a half glass for himself. Wine wasn’t one of his addictions, but in his current frame of mind, he’d better exercise caution.
“If you’ll take our drinks to the family room, I’ll join you in a second. You can turn on the game if you want to.”
He’d rather stay and watch her move with graceful efficiency around the kitchen. Since when had she cared about football? “Do you have a favorite team?”
“The Giants, I guess.”
That made sense. She’d lived in a New York for a while now. “I’ll see if they’re playing.”
“Don’t turn it on for me. I expected football to be part of your Thanksgiving tradition. Don’t you like football anymore?”
“I follow the Colts, but they aren’t playing today. How about some music instead?”
“Great. See if you can figure out Dad’s sound system.”
By the time she arrived in the family room with the appetizers, he’d placed their wine on the game table and tuned on Bert’s favorite light jazz music station. He took a seat at a bistro table in the corner where she placed the tray of goodies. “What have we got here?”
“Crab and lobster stuffed mushrooms.” She sat beside him and handed him a small plate and napkin. “And blue cheese and pear tartlets.”
He groaned with the first bite. “That’s fantastic.”
“Thanks. After cooking all last night and at the shelter all morning, I wanted to keep today’s menu simple.”
“Only you would consider this simple. Simple is chips out of the bag and dip out of the carton.” He inhaled his second mushroom. “Fancy would be putting the dip in a bowl.”
She shrugged. “There were only a couple of ingredients for each. Not much chopping. One chilled dish, one hot. Easy to make ahead.”
“I appreciate the effort. Sometimes I forget what home-cooked food is like.”
She stopped with a tartlet halfway to her mouth. “Surely you eat with friends.”
“With Jimbo and Tina sometimes. Zach and Harper occasionally. But they’re all coupled up. I don’t like being a third wheel on their time together.”
“Then what do you normally eat?”
“Ready-made stuff from the grocery. Take out from the local places. Stuff Tyrell makes for me at the club.” He grimaced. “You can see why I’m looking forward to a meal prepared by the award-winning chef of Le Dish.”
Instead of the smile he was expecting, her expression turned into dismay before it dissolved into tears. She covered her eyes with her hand. “I’m sorry. I intended to fix a meal worthy of the restaurant, but I couldn’t do it.”
Apparently, he wasn’t keeping up. “Couldn’t do what? Make dinner?”
“Make a gourmet dinner. I made all the traditional favorites instead. Green beans cooked with ham hocks, like Dad liked. Mashed russet potatoes with butter and cream, no garlic, no skin, no Yukon Gold even. Cranberries out of a can. Creamed corn. Sweet potatoes with marshmallows. I made the meal my dad would have wanted instead of the meal I would have made for my customers.”
She wiped tears away with the napkin he passed to her, instead of taking her into his arms like he’d prefer. He’d never been able to bear watching her cry. “It’s your house, your meal. You get to make whatever you want.”
“But you were expecting a professional chef to create a restaurant quality meal for you, and instead you got a grieving daughter cooking for her father.”
Since he had his own false pretenses for accepting, he put a mushroom cap on a plate for her. “I’m honored to share the meal you prepared for Bert. And anything homemade is lightyears better than most of what I’ve had in the past year.”
She sliced off a bite of mushroom but set it back down untasted. “Where did you have Thanksgiving dinner last year?”
“Barb’s.”
She looked at him curiously. “Why there?”
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“Your dad insisted I go with him. He was still trying to keep his eye on me then. I didn’t have any other plans, Brady was going to be there, and I was nostalgic for turkey and dressing.”
“Why was Dad trying to keep his eye on you?”
Tough question, but he’d learned not to dodge it. “I came to Sunnyside straight out of rehab. Bert was willing to give me a second chance, but it was natural for him to worry about me backsliding. Better for both of us if I kept busy.”
“Oh, my gosh. I forgot about that.” With the wine bottle in her hand, she paused before refilling her empty glass. “Did pouring the wine bother you?”
“It’s not a problem. I work in a bar, after all. I can pass up wine or beer easy enough. At certain times I still crave the taste of scotch, and if you’ve got any cocaine, there’s no telling what I’d do to get my hands on it.”
“No cocaine on the premises, I promise, and I’ll pour out Dad’s scotch if that will help.”
He performed a mental check. His craving for Jillian was stronger than his desire for anything else at the moment. “No need. I’m feeling pretty mellow right now.”
She chewed on her bottom lip, then slicked her tongue across it. “I’ve worked in a lot of kitchens. It’s a transient lifestyle. Plenty of my coworkers have abused various substances. They’ll lie, cheat, and steal in order to get their drug of choice, and expend even more effort to cover their habit up. It’s tough, and I sympathize with the problem, but I can’t overlook it.”
Easy to put her mind at ease on that one. “I’ve been clean and sober since I left rehab. I have a drug test every month to prove it.”
“Did Dad insist on that?”
“No, I did. If my former addictions bother you, I can leave.” Holding his breath, he waited for her answer.
She spread her hands out, displaying an invisible feast. “I’ve got all this food, and you’re here now…”
“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that. Why am I here?”
Her gaze darted all around the room, avoiding his. “When it hit me that I had no family to celebrate Thanksgiving with, I missed Dad so much I couldn’t think straight. I wanted to turn back time and have the meal I would have had when my parents were alive. You were there then and you’re here now. I didn’t want to be around people where I had to pretend that I wasn’t sad or worried. Plus, you’re the only person in Sunnyside aware of the extent of my financial problems. And the only one doing anything to help me with them.”