With No Reservations

by Laurie Tomlinson

  Cooper snatched a cookie before his mom could close the lid, almost getting his fingers pinched in the process.

  “Hey!” She swatted him with a kitchen towel.

  The cookies had cooled enough to crumble in his mouth, filling his senses with their citrus freshness, rounded out by the creamy flavor of his mother’s favorite Irish butter. Exactly as he remembered them. “Mom. These are... Wow.”

  Her eyes filled with pride. “Aren’t they?”

  “Invite me over to cook for you soon.” Cooper ran his palm along the sleek edge of the stainless steel oven range, picturing all the fun he could have with the high-end model. “I’m serious.”

  Marian laughed and pulled him into her arms. “Love you, Graham.”

  “Love you, too.” He bent to kiss her cheek. “See you soon.” He whistled for Maddie and waited for her to come bounding to the entryway then smiled as he watched his mom bend to give the big dog a proper hug. Laughing without reserve as she nearly got knocked over in the process.

  As he let Maddie in the rear of the Defender and reversed out of the long, landscape-lined driveway, his mother’s image, full of life and joy he hadn’t associated with her in ages, left a lingering satisfaction.

  Simone had been one-hundred-percent right in her advice to him as her health failed and he debated what to do when his culinary externships came to an end.

  “Your mother has already suffered the loss of one child. Don’t do it to her again.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  “OH, THAT’S PERFECT.” Cooper sucked the last bit of sauce from the edge of his thumb. “I think we nailed it this time.”

  They were sitting in the kitchen at Marlo’s Pizza, the Cooper family’s second restaurant, polishing off a slice with the perfected lemon-pepper crust they’d spent the last few hours troubleshooting for Sloane’s latest assignment. The photos she’d taken of the restaurant were divine. The pizza? Not so much.

  First it had been too doughy because Cooper had insisted on adding more yeast. Then it was too garlicky. Then it didn’t have enough lemon.

  And then it was perfect.

  Sloane took another bite and wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, I don’t think it can get any better than that.”

  “It reminds me of these lemon-pepper wings I used to get from a place not too far from here. The best ever.”

  “Mmm.” That sounded so good.

  “They melt in your mouth. I don’t make wings because I know I’ll never be able to do them justice.”

  “I think I’m going to have to pick some up on the way home.” They’d been nibbling on crust samples all evening, but the idea of eating juicy chicken off the bone in front of some Gilmore Girls reruns sounded so good to Sloane after a long day. “Where is this place?”

  The slightest flinch flitted across Cooper’s face. “Oh, it’s just a little sports bar around the corner. I...” He hesitated. “I could take you there. If you want.”

  Sloane’s spine curled as if to absorb the cannonball that just hit her in the chest. Cooper’s easygoing nature melted her apprehension a little more each time she worked with him. But going somewhere without having a project as a buffer? “I don’t know, Coop. I have to get some work done tonight.”

  “Yeah, of course.” He straightened from the island and flexed his hand like it wasn’t a big deal. “Maybe some other time.”

  They stacked the plates and pans then took them to the sink, elbows brushing as Cooper scrubbed the dishes and Sloane dried them. She paused, disrupting their productivity when she spied what looked like the edge of a tattoo on the inside of Cooper’s forearm, just visible under the bunched-up sleeve of his Henley shirt.

  Warmth rolled in her midsection. She tried to concentrate on drying the last baking sheet, but it was useless. “Hey.” The words tumbled from her mouth before she could stop them. “How ’bout those wings?”

  “Yeah?” Cooper’s eyes lit up.

  She nodded. Maybe her body needed some protein after eating all that bread.

  “Let’s go. I’ll drive.”

  Sloane took a breath as Cooper opened the passenger door of the Defender and blew it out in the secrecy of the car before he got in. Why was she so nervous right now? This wasn’t all that different than chopping ingredients and washing dishes with the guy, was it?

  Eyes open as Cooper turned out of the parking garage, she sat on her hands to keep from picking at the microscopic bits of dryer lint on her linen pants. They were the most comfortable pants in the world, but they attracted spots like flies at a barbecue. Not exactly ideal for someone like her.

  By the time they got to the restaurant, seating was completely full.

  “Your best bet is the bar,” the perky young hostess told them, motioning to the glossy cherry fixture situated on the back wall.

  “No problem,” Sloane replied at the same time Cooper asked how long the wait for a table would be. There was uncertainty in his shifting eyes. Maybe after all the publicity, he was one of those people who didn’t want to be associated with alcohol at all. Maybe it was an image thing, though he certainly didn’t seem to be caught up in the cloud of press he used to be.

  “It shouldn’t be longer than twenty or thirty minutes.” The hostess studied the seating chart on the podium. “But it looks like some space just opened up at the bar.”

  Cooper glanced at Sloane for direction. It’s up to you, she told him with a shrug.

  “Okay,” he said. “But we’ll move once a table opens up.”

  They filed through the crowded space, squeezing past chairs and trying not to knock over the tall frosted glasses. Sloane’s mouth watered as the smell of buttermilk breading wafted through the air.

  She so needed to do a post about this place.

  “What’ll it be?” The burly bartender asked in a thick Brooklyn accent before they were even seated. Cooper looked at Sloane expectantly.

  “I’ll have water,” she said. “No, make that a Coke.” She normally only ordered water, but there was nothing better than the taste of fried food with something acidic or fizzy to cut the flavors a little.

  The bartender’s gaze flicked to Cooper and widened as if he recognized him. “Well if it isn’t Junior. What’s it been? A few years since you’ve been in here?”

  Cooper forced an uneasy laugh. “Yeah, but—”

  “Do you want me to start you off with your usual?”

  “Just water for me tonight,” Cooper said firmly, daring the bartender to push it with the steel in his eyes. “And we’ll share an order of your lemon-pepper wings.”

  “Oh, you’ll be ordering a second basket.” The bartender smirked, turning to punch their order into his computer.

  Sloane tore the edges of her napkin into minuscule shreds, afraid to meet Cooper’s eyes. It was clear he wasn’t going to let her in on what that was all about. But she couldn’t pretend the whole exchange never happened.

  The bartender slid their drinks across the polished cherry bar and mumbled that their wings would be out in a minute. His tone brightened as he turned to tend the rest of his patrons. There were plenty of other fish willing to bite at his easy conversation.

  “Oh wow, Sloane.” Cooper broke the silence. “I, uh, I think you got it.”

  What? What was he talking about? “Got what?”

  He motioned to her hands and the neat pile of napkin snow she didn’t even realize she’d been making.

  “Oh.” She swept the pile to the edge of the bar. She almost fell off of her barstool when Cooper burst into laughter, something booming and genuine. Something that was contagious.

  “What?” She failed to stifle a smile.

  “You’re funny, Sloane Bradley.”

  “Funny? Wha—Why?”

  “You do this thing when you’re nervous ab
out something.” He brought both hands up, moving pinched fingers in rapid motion. “Your hands always have to be working. See? You’re doing it now.”

  Sloane stopped fiddling with her straw and wedged her hands beneath her legs. “I’m not nervous.” She tried to sound insistent. Confident, even. But her words came out breathy and meek.

  The Jedi mind trick wasn’t working on herself.

  “Good.” The flecks of gold in his eyes twinkled in the dim lighting. “You don’t have to be nervous with me.”

  Something about the space and air between them changed. Like pulling apart two magnets, Sloane turned her gaze from his and took a sip of her Coke for something to do since she had no idea what to say to that.

  Thanks?

  You don’t have to be nervous with me, either?

  You have really nice eyes?

  “So tell me about Davon,” Cooper said. “How long have you been working with him again?”

  She swiveled her barstool a few degrees in his direction. “Oh, Davon’s such a great kid. I’ve known him for—two years now? And he’s just the best. He’s my favorite, but don’t tell him that.”

  “He’ll tell the other kids.”

  “Oh, he totally will.” She was laughing again. “And it’ll be really bad for everyone. Especially you.”

  One side of Cooper’s mouth curved upward. “I believe it.”

  Their wings arrived in a plastic waffle basket lined with soft newspaper pages. The smell was so glorious that nothing else was worth talking about. The bartender put two appetizer plates in front of them and a folded slip of paper that had to be the bill.

  Sloane sanitized her hands and speared a wing from the basket with her fork. While she studied it—glossy golden brown, plump, flecked with lemon zest and bits of black pepper, Cooper dove right in. And she could see why. Once she shredded a bite of the juicy, perfectly seasoned chicken breaded with the ideal amount of lemon and earthy, peppery spices, she didn’t even bother with her fork anymore.

  First the front seat and now eating with her hands? She was conquering all kinds of milestones because of this man. “I take it all back, Cooper,” she said with her mouth full. “These are so good!”

  “Yeah? I was beginning to wonder if you liked them.” He grinned at the telltale pile of bones picked clean on her plate. “Does our pizza crust do them justice?”

  Sloane answered by tearing into another wing. “You should rename your restaurant after whatever chef came up with these.”

  Cooper snickered, and they polished off the last few wings in lip-smacking, finger-licking silence.

  “You know, Sloane.” Cooper wiped his mouth with a crumpled napkin. “It’s been really fun tonight. You have a wonderful smile.”

  A slow pour of heat spread from her hairline to the back of her neck. “Thanks,” she mumbled. “And, to think, you got me loosened up without the assistance of alcohol.”

  Without the assistance of alcohol? Really?

  Cooper sat up straighter in his seat. “Is that what it usually takes, then?” There was no judgment or accusation in the question, just a curiosity in his eyes.

  “No. I don’t know why I said that. I don’t drink pretty much ever.”

  Relief bowed Cooper’s shoulders as he blew out a deep breath. “Me, either. I’ll tell you a little secret. I—”

  Paw-like hands clamped down on his shoulder and Sloane’s at once, sending her pulse into a dizzying rhythm. It wasn’t an assailant. It was just Cooper’s father, alone and looking oddly pedestrian in a ball cap and plain navy polo.

  “What are you doing here?” He pulled Cooper to his feet, staggering a little bit. Not acknowledging Sloane’s presence as he sized his son up. His face was red and shiny, his speech slurred. Clearly intoxicated. “Have you been drinking again?”

  Mr. Cooper’s booming voice caught the bartender’s attention over the volume of the crowd. He darted ominous glances at the two men.

  “No, Dad,” Cooper said through his teeth. “I haven’t.”

  “You know what happens if you start drinking, if you take one sip.” His father jabbed a thumb into his own chest, swaying with the effort. “You end up like—oh.” Sloppy features tightened in distaste when Mr. Cooper registered Sloane. “Oh. What do we have here?”

  Invisible hands squeezed Sloane’s throat at his degrading emphasis on the last word.

  The life drained from Cooper’s expression. “We’re just getting some wings, Dad.” He stepped toward his father, reaching back to give her knee the slightest squeeze. A way of apologizing for his father, she understood.

  “So you have time to go out with her while your acquisitions are down thirty percent?” He spread shaking palms a foot apart. “While you’re missing meetings and have a stack this high in your office to go through?”

  “I think we’d better call you a cab.” Cooper motioned to the bartender. “He’s had enough.”

  His father slammed a fist onto the wood, rattling the glasses and silverware, drawing every pair of eyes. “Listen to me!” The bartender lumbered toward them, but Mr. Cooper raised his palms in surrender. “It’s okay. Call the dogs off.” His voice hardened, attention returning to his son. “If you want to learn the hard way—again—have at it. But I want you in at seven-thirty to brief me on the Sanderson pitch, and you’d better be sharp, kid.”

  The tips of Cooper’s ears reddened, his jaw knotted. “That’s fine. We were just leaving.” The calm chill in his voice sent a shiver down Sloane’s spine. Cooper tossed a few bills onto the bar and squeezed her elbow. “You ready?”

  The night-and-day contrast of tenderness in his voice for her with the humiliation in his eyes pulled deep in her chest. She pushed off her stool and followed him.

  It was like Cooper had been reduced to a little boy after exchanging verbal blows with his father. What on earth was going on behind the closed doors of J. Marian Restaurants? Sloane had always gotten an unsettling vibe from the older Cooper, but no wonder his son was quick to correct anyone who called him Graham.

  “You’re not doing this because of Jordan, are you?” Mr. Cooper’s voice pierced through the hum of the bar.

  There was that name again. Jordan.

  Cooper’s posture went rigid. She could see the outline of his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Get home safe, Dad.”

  “Seven-thirty.”

  And just like that, their evening was over, the lingering taste of lemon-pepper wings now stale. The friendly banter they’d enjoyed replaced by a rigid silence that made the fall Texas night seem arctic.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS NIGHTFALL the next day when Sloane’s car dropped her off at Simone for another round of recipe development. She had lost track of time answering emails after she’d accidentally written tablespoons instead of teaspoons of baking soda on a recipe.

  Working with J. Marian Restaurants was ruining everything—even her readers’ cookies.

  She’d also had to pick up her running shoes from the dry cleaners after stepping in some unknown sticky substance that refused to leave the cracks and seams despite her best arsenal of cleaning tactics. And after a day of missed running, that errand wasn’t negotiable.

  Cooper hadn’t been far from her mind since last night at the bar. It was a strange tug-of-war, trying to remember they barely knew each other when her empathy kept him closer to her thoughts than should be.

  Her phone buzzed in the canvas tote that was doubling as her purse.

  Almost here?

  A text from Cooper. And another one she hadn’t seen in her hurry to clear her inbox.

  Dress comfortably.

  Sloane looked up as the restaurant door opened, and there he was. Something maniacal flickered in his eyes, a crazy grin taking up half his face. A suspicious grin. What w
as up with him?

  “Let’s go.”

  “What?” Go? Where? That wasn’t the plan.

  He cocked his head toward the street. “It’s a surprise. C’mon.”

  No way. Sloane didn’t do surprises. “What about the recipes we’re supposed to be shooting?”

  “Listen, Sloane.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Sometimes you have to relax. We’ve been working hard.”

  Sloane heaved an exaggerated sigh, and Cooper’s face angled to the ground.

  “It’s the least I can do after the other night.” His voice softened.

  So that’s why he was so insistent. “Cooper, no. You don’t need to—” Her mind went blank as his hands fell from her shoulders. She didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t apologizing or explaining, so neither of those words fit. But he definitely looked guilty about the whole thing.

  “The photos will look better in daylight anyway.” Cooper’s expression brightened.

  The man had a point.

  “Fine. Where are we going?”

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “Like I said, it’s a surprise.” His eyes slid down her form and stopped at her patent leather flats. A line creased between his eyebrows. “You didn’t see my message.”

  “No, I just got it.” Sloane looked down at her outfit. What was wrong with her ankle-length skinny jeans and black-and-white-striped top? “I have running shoes in my bag, if that helps,” she offered.

  Of all the days...

  She cringed at the idea of bringing her running shoes into whatever mischief Cooper had planned, every mile of their wear logged in a spreadsheet. And they’d just returned from the cleaners. But the adrenaline from the mystery heating up her veins dulled her reservations.

  “Where do you live?”

  “Kind of in the West End.”

  His face twisted, calculating. “We can swing by my apartment and get you a jacket or something to keep you warm.” He nudged Sloane out of the doorway and squeezed her elbow. Her brain was racing way too fast to protest.

  Cooper seemed unable to sit still on the drive to his place. He was like a little kid, fidgeting in his seat, checking his surroundings, holding back laughter.