The Chef's Cutie (The River Hill Series Book 5)

by Rebecca Norinne

  Lizzie forced herself to look up from those strong, masculine hands, hating herself for noticing the jagged scar that bisected his right thumb and wondering how he’d gotten it. A knife cut, no doubt. And why did the image of Max’s full lips wrapped around his thumb turn her on so much? Unfortunately, looking at his face was no better, since now she was staring into eyes the color of the whiskey sauce of her favorite toffee cake.

  And now she was hungry and horny. Horngry.

  Suddenly, she was conscious of how empty she was, both her belly and her—No! she thought with silent rebuke. Must not think of all the things I’d like to have filled by this man.

  She felt her face go scarlet, but fought to otherwise control her features by taking a deep breath and blowing it out as she counted down from five.

  There, that’s better.

  “Unfortunately, I’m here on a formal visit. We received a report from—”

  “Margaret Marsh?” His eyes flashed with barely leashed anger as he practically spat the woman’s name.

  He was right, of course, but Lizzie couldn’t tell him so. “I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to reveal where the complaint originated, only that we take them very seriously.”

  His jaw ticked and he looked away briefly. After a few seconds, his chest lifted and he blew a breath out through his nose before bringing his face back around. His eyes flicked down to the manila folder sitting next to her bread plate. “Let me guess. You’re here investigating me for abuse.”

  From his tone, she got the impression Mrs. Marsh had already expressed her concerns to Max, who’d either chosen to ignore her, or had had words with her about it. “Not abuse so much as neglect,” she clarified as stoically and dispassionately as she could.

  Max crossed his arms over his chest and stared her down. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

  She did know it.

  The last few weeks, they’d exchanged several emails, mostly Max asking for her advice on how to make Mia feel welcome in her new home, but sometimes they’d also shared funny memes they’d come across. After she’d sent one of a mother orangutan working tirelessly to corral her baby, Max had confessed that it had come at the best possible time. He’d already driven to and from St. Aloysius twice that day with forgotten school supplies and finished homework, and he’d just discovered that Mia had left her lunchbox in the back of his Land Rover so he was on his way back there. In response, she’d sent him a “hang in there” cat meme, telling him that it got easier.

  And it would. Eventually.

  But in the meantime, she had to make sure his niece wasn’t taken away from him.

  Which meant he needed to arrange for a real babysitter. What if the restaurant was busy and the servers couldn’t chat with her as they went about their duties? Mia didn’t seem like the type of kid to sneak off when no one was looking, but she was a kid. They didn’t often do what you expected, or what was in their best interest.

  And as they’d already established, Mia had grown up as free range as they came. While it seemed out of character, it wouldn’t be a complete shock to Lizzie if Mia did get up and wander off when she got tired of waiting on her uncle to close down the restaurant for the night.

  “While it’s my professional opinion there’s no reason for CPS to get involved, you have to get a babysitter, Max,” she told him.

  He opened his mouth to interrupt—likely to offer up an excuse for why he’d been unable to arrange for one yet—but she held up her hand to waylay his rebuttal. “A real babysitter. Your staff seem perfectly nice, and Mia appears awfully fond of both them and your friend Naomi, but the restaurant can be loud and chaotic. What if she had slipped out when no one was paying attention?”

  He uncrossed his arms and settled his forearms on the table, his fingers clenched into tight fists in front of her. “I had a babysitter. A high schooler from my neighborhood. She quit when her boyfriend complained she wasn’t spending enough time with him. Incidentally, the guy’s nineteen. Maybe you should look into him instead.”

  The hair on the back of Lizzie’s neck prickled with remembered shame. Once upon a time, she’d been a young, impressionable teen who’d fallen prey to an older guy. Only, he hadn’t stuck around long enough to demand more of her time. Just the opposite, in fact. Once she’d given him her virginity, he’d bailed, admitting that he had a girlfriend back in college.

  She pushed the memory of that painful summer to the back of her mind and steeled her shoulders. “I will if you think I need to. Eighteen is the age of consent in California.”

  He waved his hand in front of his face, looking slightly embarrassed. “No, don’t bother. Pedro’s actually a good kid. He’s leaving for the Marines in a couple of months, so of course he wants to spend time with his girl. And she’s of age, or within days of it, I think. Her parents love him. I’m just being selfish because that means I don’t have a babysitter on Wednesday nights.”

  “Just Wednesdays?” she asked, wondering why that incredibly important piece of information had been excluded from Mrs. Marsh’s complaint. From the report, Lizzie had been led to believe that Mia was left to her own devices on a nightly basis, but given that tonight was Wednesday, it made sense that she was here today.

  Max nodded, and shoved his hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. “I’ve called literally everyone I know, and no one can do Wednesdays.”

  Lizzie fidgeted with the straw in her iced tea as an idea began to take shape.

  Don’t you dare say it, a voice at the back of her head warned even as as the rest of her brain hurtled toward a decision. With a deep breath, she willed the butterflies in her stomach to settle down. If they didn’t, she might literally be sick. She was about to step over a huge line, but it was one she thought she could justify if push came to shove. Technically, what she did in her off hours was her own business, as long as it wasn’t illegal. Not to mention, she was Mia’s caseworker, and therefore she was at least partially responsible for making sure the girl had the best possible care.

  She pushed the air out of her lungs slowly, flattened her palms on the table, and raised her eyes to Max’s. “You didn’t call me.”

  5

  He wasn’t going to take Lizzie up on her offer. He couldn’t, could he? Wasn’t her getting involved like this some kind of conflict of interest?

  And even if it wasn’t for her, it sure as hell was for him. He didn’t know if he could handle Lizzie in his house more than she was for professional purposes. He was already spending every night dreaming about her, waking up hard and jerking off in the shower with thoughts of how those luscious lips would feel on him, how she would feel on him … around him.

  But also, he was desperate.

  In response to her statement, he managed to mumble something non-committal, not missing the sharp-eyed glance she gave him. Lizzie Teague wasn’t stupid. If he wasn’t jumping to accept the offer like a man jumping out of a river, there was a reason for it. And the heat in her eyes when she looked at him suggested that she knew what it was just as well as he did.

  And yet, she’d offered anyway.

  Oh, god. How had his life become so complicated?

  He pasted on a smile and led her over to where Mia and Naomi were playing the sketch game they’d invented, letting her sit down with them so they could explain it to her and she could subtly interrogate Mia, something Naomi understood judging by the frown she gave him. He shrugged at her before escaping back to the kitchen, looking for something he could chop, sear, or toss to distract himself from thinking about all the things he wanted to do to his niece’s caseworker.

  Of course Wendy, the chef he’d hired a few years ago, had everything well in hand. She didn’t need his help; frankly, he needed her a lot more than she needed him, so he usually tried to stay out of her way. Hell, most of the time he wanted to kiss the ground she walked on. They had a great working relationship that was vital to the success of Frankie’s.

  As the owner, he developed the
recipes and menus while she did the cooking. Most of his time was spent paying bills, answering emails, and submitting maintenance requests for equipment. He loved being a chef, but that was because he liked to make interesting food. He enjoyed seeing his friends and loved ones’ eyes light up when they tasted something he’d created. Which was why these days, he spent time out front as often as he could. Occasionally, he even found time to retreat to the kitchen when he felt the need to touch ingredients, to remind himself what it was like to be back there.

  Or, you know, escape from sexy caseworkers he shouldn’t be thinking about in that way.

  Wendy rolled her eyes at him when he asked what he could do, and in her usual profanity-laden tone informed him that he was in the way. She hip-checked him as he passed, and he growled at her, then found his way over to an empty prep station with a checklist above it. He julienned vegetables until he could think straight, and by the time he came out of the kitchen, dinnertime guests were trickling in and Lizzie was gone.

  Thank god. Now he didn’t have to answer her about the babysitting.

  Two days later, he was wishing he had. Friday’s prep had been interrupted by a phone call from the school again. He thought they’d been doing so well, too, making it to November without any more calls. It had seemed like they were falling into a routine. Mia was her quiet, contained self, sliding seamlessly into his life with as little disruption possible. And when he did need help, his friends were there for him. He had everything under control.

  But this was as far from under control as it got. Currently, he stood in the office at St. Aloysius, watching helplessly as Mia sobbed hysterically into the ample chest of Sheryl the Office Lady.

  “She’s been like this since before school ended,” a voice murmured from behind him. He turned to see Mia’s teacher, Mrs. Hildebrand. “I sent her down here in the hopes that she might be able to calm down, but I don’t think it’s working. And she didn’t even try to get on the bus.”

  “What happened?” he asked.

  She sighed. “Honestly, Mr. Vergaras, I don’t know. Girls can be mean to each other at this age, but I didn’t think Mia was having any trouble with her classmates. There wasn’t a specific incident that I saw. She just … she’s having a hard time.” The teacher’s eyes were troubled as she looked at Mia.

  Max cursed himself inwardly. He hadn’t noticed. Or he had, and he’d thought Mia was just … handling it. But obviously he was an idiot. Nine year old girls didn’t simply handle the sudden deaths of their mothers and the subsequent upheaval of their entire lives.

  He moved forward and worked with Sheryl to transfer Mia’s clinging body to himself. She didn’t seem to notice the hand-off through her sobbing, but when he had her in his arms she buried her head in his neck.

  He coughed under the pressure, breathed a quiet “thank you” to the women, and carried his niece to the car. Eventually, on the long ride home, her sobs stopped, but her stuttery, panicked breathing didn’t. Neither did the endless tears running down her face. And if all of that wasn’t bad enough, she wouldn’t speak to him at all.

  He pulled into the driveway after exhausting every possible attempt at conversation he could think of, and fired off a text to Wendy to let her know he wasn’t coming back for the dinner rush. She sent him a shrug emoji in return.

  Nice to be needed, he thought, shoving his phone back down into the front pocket of his jeans.

  And speaking of needed—Mia clearly needed more than just him. Or rather, more than what he knew how to do or give her. He was in over his head. Maybe if he’d known Mia her entire life, been her actual parent instead of just this shitty substitute, he’d know what to do here. Or maybe not. Either way, he needed help. He ran through his options in his head, grimacing as he carried Mia into the house, her tears drenching his shoulder.

  Naomi, as good as she was with Mia, wasn’t going to be able to help here. Ice Queen Klein didn’t really do emotions as far as Max could tell. Angelica was too overbearing—he adored Noah’s fiancée, but she was quintessentially A Lot. Maeve and Ben were in San Francisco for the weekend to watch her favorite rugby team play, and Jess was at some beauty products convention. And even if they were all in town, the truth was, none of his friends really knew kids that well either, particularly not girls. Maeve and Jess both had nephews—not nieces—and none of them had gone through much trauma, thank goodness.

  There was exactly one person in his contacts list who would know what to do here.

  With shaking hands, he typed out a quick message. He would probably regret this later, but he’d deal with that when the time came. Right now was about addressing Mia’s needs.

  Max: SOS. I need your help. It’s Mia.

  He didn’t have to wait long for the reply to come.

  Lizzie: I’ll be there in ten.

  She made it in nine, and when he opened the door for her, Max almost swallowed his tongue. As it was, he was pretty sure his jaw was somewhere on the floor.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I was at the gym.”

  That much was obvious. He’d only ever seen her in work clothes before—well-tailored, professional outfits that flowed gently around her curves. And yet, as unsexy as they were probably intended to be, he’d wanted to strip her out of them. But Lizzie standing before him in gym clothes? He was pretty sure his brain had completely stopped functioning. The one on top of his neck, anyway.

  “What is it? What happened?” she asked urgently, eyes dark with worry as he stood there like a statue, momentarily too stunned to speak. She hefted the black and pink duffel bag she was carrying up onto her shoulder. “I’ve got a first aid kit, menstrual supplies, snacks, and the numbers for five different pediatricians.”

  Finally finding his voice, he stepped back and allowed her to enter the house. “You gathered all that in ten minutes?”

  She shook her head as she pressed past him. “I keep it in my car.”

  He closed the door, swallowing down the rush of heat that had flashed through his entire body when she’d made contact on her way inside. Now was emphatically not the time.

  “Mia?” she called.

  “She’s on the couch,” he said, but Lizzie was already there, and Mia had virtually leapt into her arms, the sobbing starting anew.

  Lizzie lifted a startled gaze to him, and he raised his hands helplessly. “I haven’t been able to find out—”

  “My mom is de-he-he-he-heaaaaad!” Mia wailed.

  Fuck. He’d really screwed this up. Max closed his eyes and his body went limp. He slouched against the wall and watched as Lizzie, with gentle touches and quiet murmurs, somehow calmed Mia down. She had to be some kind of wizard. It was the only explanation.

  Finally, he found the courage to join them on the couch. He sat on the other side of his niece and tried to ignore the little voice in his head that was shouting this is what a family feels like.

  Lizzie looked over Mia’s head at him. “The school is hosting a mother-daughter spa day fundraiser,” she said quietly.

  “Fuck,” he blurted.

  Mia raised her head. “Uncle Max.”

  “Sorry. Sorry,” he said to Lizzie. “I’m trying.”

  Her lips thinned in what looked like an unwilling smile. “I know you are.”

  He sighed, and wrapped an arm around Mia, letting his hand rest against Lizzie’s shoulder. He told himself there was nowhere else for it to go. “What can I do, Mia?”

  She shook her head, once more pillowed against Lizzie’s chest. “Nothing.”

  “Want to play hooky from school that day?”

  Mia nodded.

  Realizing how that might have sounded, he winced, and glanced back up at Lizzie. “Pretend you didn’t hear that.”

  Now her smile was real. “Hear what?”

  Damn. That smile. It did things to him. Things that he didn’t want to think about right now. He needed to focus on Mia, not the light flush that rose in Lizzie’s cheeks the longer he continued to stare at her.
r />   Eventually, she blinked, breaking their connection.

  “How does a quick dinner sound?” he asked. “Pasta?”

  “Not hungry,” Mia mumbled.

  “Here,” Lizzie said, digging behind her in her bag. “Eat this protein bar and I’ll take you up to bed. Sound good?”

  Mia yawned and nodded, reaching for the wrapped bar.

  Max raised an eyebrow at Lizzie, and she shrugged. “Something’s better than nothing.”

  He let Lizzie take Mia upstairs, frowning after her as she went, wondering how often those protein bars served as breakfast, lunch, and dinner combined. He might not be able to jump her bones, but like hell was he going to let her subsist on squirrel food. Shaking his head, he made his way to the kitchen to do what he did best. Well, second best.

  Stop that, he chided himself.

  When Lizzie came back downstairs, he had the pasta boiling. He pointed to one of the chairs at the table. “Sit.” She sat. “Please tell me you weren’t planning on eating a protein bar for dinner.”

  She chuckled. “It’s not a regular habit of mine, but sometimes I snag one after my workout on Fridays.”

  “Well, I’m making you dinner whether you like it or not.” He slung eggs and cream into a bowl, and chopped some thick cut bacon into lardons as he spoke. “And thanks for coming over. I, uh, didn’t know what to do.”

  She sighed. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

  “Ouch.”

  “No, I don’t mean—” she protested.

  “No, I get it.” He shrugged and grabbed the pasta strainer. “I was thinking the same thing when I texted you. I’m not—” he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I’m not really Mia’s parent.”

  “Oh, Max.” Lizzie rose and came to stand next to him at the stove as the bacon sizzled away. “You’re doing a great job. This is a really hard thing to ask of anybody.” She smiled briefly. “I’ve been the girl having the breakdown, and I’ve been the person on the other side, too.”