Thyme for Love (Cooking Up Trouble Book 1)

by Pamela S. Meyers

“Boyfriend?” I asked.

  “That’s my goal.” Her face worked into a smile that would’ve lit a cave a hundred feet under. “Hi, Brett.”

  “Hey, babe.” He caught the bartender’s eye. “Give me a tall draft.”

  I gave the Bradley Cooper in a designer suit look-alike a quick scan. For all his good looks, he appeared no more Candy’s type than Hulk Hogan was mine.

  “April, this is Brett Hagenbrink. April is the chef where I work.”

  Brett nodded, then turned his baby-blues to a pretty blonde who sidled up to him.

  “Hi, Brett. Where did you get your handsome self off to lately?” The girl with the Barbie doll face and curvaceous body drug out his name in an accent that made me feel like I’d never left Atlanta.

  He grinned. “Oh, here and there. I wouldn’t go far from you, Tiffany.” He stretched an arm across her shoulders, his diamond-encrusted pinky ring twinkling.

  “You’re so funny,” she purred. “Come to my table and talk to me.” She hooked her arm with his.

  He tossed his jacket to Candy and let Tiffany lead him to a counter-height table where they slid onto a couple of stools.

  Candy threw the jacket toward a barstool, missing her target. She didn’t bother to pick it up. “That little—”

  “I’ll be glad when Ramón’s memorial service is over and things return to normal.” I stirred my soda with the straw. As if I knew what normal was around Rescatè.

  Her eyes flashed. “April, did you see what that no-good did?” She narrowed her gaze toward the couple.

  “Kind of conniving, I’d say.”

  “I’ll give them five minutes.” Candy spun around to face me. “If Tiffany doesn’t get her hands off my man, she’s going to have the same fate as Ramón.” She slammed her bottle on the bar and marched up to the pair. Had five minutes passed that fast? She tapped Brett on the shoulder then said something into his ear. He slid off his stool and they meandered to my side. His right arm hooked loosely around Candy’s neck, he mouthed something to her. She held a hand to her ear, motioning she couldn’t hear.

  “Did the deposit I made show up in your account?” Candy hushed his stage whisper with a scowl. He glanced in my direction, then shrugged and reached for his beer.

  Like a homing pigeon, Tiffany was at his side. “Come on, sugar. We didn’t finish our conversation.” In a flash he was gone. I wanted a rewind of the scene and write Tiffany’s interruption out of it, but what I did hear was enough to give weight to Kitty’s speculations. Coincidence, I told myself. Even Mr. Hunk’s reference to sweetening to her bank account didn’t mean Candy was guilty of anything.

  “I’ll get that Tiffany Hartsock.” Candy muttered.

  “Is that her real name?”

  “Why should it be? Nothing else about her is the real deal, unlike me. He’s already made plans with me for later.” She grabbed my arm. “April, I’m so lame. Here I invite you out then I totally ignore you. But you understand, right? I mean if Marc were here, I’d understand.”

  But she didn’t get it. Marc and I had no relationship. At least not the kind she meant. “No problem.”

  She leaned in. “The four of us could double sometime. That would be way cool.”

  I waved a hand. “Marc and I aren’t dating. Even if we wanted to, we can’t as long as we both work at Rescaté.” Seeing the sulk on her face, I quickly added, “Or that would be fun.”

  She glanced over my shoulder and her face lit up. “If you’re meant to be together you’re not going to let a little office rule stop you, are you? No time like the present to start. He’s standing behind you.”

  Chapter 15

  I turned.

  Marc stood several feet away wearing jeans and a polo. He offered me that lopsided smile of his. “Thought I’d check out the place since you said you were coming here. I looked first in the dining room.”

  My pulse quickened as my stomach dipped. I fought the grin working its way to my face. The man was determined to reel me in for a redo. Tempting, but I wasn’t biting. “If I’d known you’d follow me, I wouldn’t have been so open with my plans.”

  He acted as though my high-pitched tone of voice was normal and raised a finger to the bartender. “Soda water with lime, please.”

  Candy looked like she would burst out of her skin. “Hey, Marc. Glad you came. We need more socialization around that tomb.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Sorry. Lame joke.”

  Socializing was good, but not with my traitorous stomach having exchanged hunger pains for butterflies on too much caffeine. I had to get out of there. “I was just leaving.” I jumped off my stool and took a step toward the door.

  Marc grabbed my arm and drew me closer. He brought his face close to mine. “If you haven’t eaten yet, have dinner with me.”

  I pressed my lips together, afraid if I didn’t, I’d accept. I shook my head and looked away.

  “Come on.” He took my hand.

  I yanked my fingers out of his grip. “If you want a dinner partner, there’re plenty of women in this place who are willing.” I stepped around him and wove through the crowd toward the door.

  By the time I got to my car I wanted to retrace my steps. Was I being too stubborn for my own good? Did I really want someone like Tiffany going after Marc? But how could I go back and still save face? I clicked the lock on the key fob and grabbed the door handle.

  A hand closed over mine. “What if the only woman I want to have dinner with just left?”

  “I guess you’d have a problem.”

  Marc squeezed my hand and worked it away from the handle. “Mi caramela, we need to talk. What better way than over a nice meal? I know a great Italian place down the road.”

  He had me at mi caramela. What would a simple meal hurt? One supper a renewed romance did not make. But people fell in love over romantic dinners. No. I wasn’t going there again.

  I turned, forgetting his hand still held mine, and found myself in the crook of his arm. If my heart beat any faster, I’d be in need of CPR. “We’re supposed to have a business relationship only, remember.”

  “We can talk about menus for the funeral, if you’d like.”

  “We already did that.”

  “Okay, then. We can talk about how I think you should stay on at Rescaté after the funeral. We’ll carry on as Ramón wanted it.” He brought his mouth within an inch of mine.

  “How did he want it?”

  “He always encouraged the staff to get along, socialize after hours and be friends.”

  “Did that include a boss hugging his employee as one I know is doing now?”

  He brought his mouth to my ear. “I never asked, but I’m sure he would approve.” A million flutters filled my stomach. Then he kissed my ear, and my knees turned to molasses.

  “We shouldn’t ascribe thoughts to someone who can’t speak for himself.” My voice cracked.

  Marc pressed his forehead against mine. “Mi caramela, if you don’t let me kiss you right now I’m going to go crazy.”

  “I can’t let that hap—”

  His lips brushed mine—once, twice, three times, like butterfly wings. A soft moan issued from my throat and his mouth returned to my lips, this time remaining there. I’d come home. I wrapped my arms around his waist as the kiss deepened. Good thing we were out of the neon glare of the giant red apple, because we didn’t stop for breath for a long while.

  We stood silent, arms around each other, enjoying the closeness. I’d only dated one man since Marc, and that had been short-lived. And I hadn’t kissed a man like I did now since I last kissed Marc. Had it been the same for him? I had no idea. Just like I had no clue what had happened in California with that iron-solid plan of his. For all I knew, he’d been married and had a family in that length of time.

  I pressed my palms against his chest and pushed him away. “We can’t do this, Marc.”

  I could imagine the bewilderment on his face without seeing it in the dark.

  “I don’t get it,
April. What’s the harm in seeing each other again?”

  I wriggled out of his embrace. “I’m sorry for kissing you back and misleading you. I need to get home.”

  He didn’t move.

  “Please?”

  He stepped aside, allowing me room to open the car door.

  “April, you have to know that I’m still—”

  I pressed my index finger to his lips. “Unless you’re willing to tell me what happened to thwart your grad school plans, we can’t have a future.” When he didn’t respond, I slipped onto the car seat and closed the door. I started the engine as quick as possible. The last I wanted was to let him see me cry, and if I didn’t get out of there he would.

  The following day, I rested my hands on my hips and stared at the gaping hole in the arrangement of chocolate chip cookies.

  “I couldn’t resist helping myself.”

  I turned. Why did Marc always come up behind me like that? It was the first we’d been face to face since our parking lot make-out session the night before. I’d stewed half the night between remembering the bliss of his kisses and trying to be mad at him for following me to the Apple in the first place. When that didn’t work, I reminded myself of his silence regarding the past eight years and his missing PhD. Now, after one look at that crooked grin, all I wanted was to kiss him again. Talk about having feet of clay.

  His expression grew serious. “I owe you an apology for kissing you last night.”

  Keeping my focus redirected to the table, I moved the remaining cookies over to fill in the gap, then faced him, determined to keep all emotion from my face. “It wasn’t only you doing the kissing.”

  His eyes creased at the corners. “Don’t think I didn’t notice, but I’m the one who started it and I’m sorry. I should have respected your feelings.”

  I turned back to the table and moved a spoon over a half inch. “Wouldn’t it be easier to tell me what happened to the PhD?”

  “Nothing more than what I said.”

  “That’s what I thought you’d say.” I edged down the table and moved the salt and peppershakers over. Did I really want to know what happened? The more he avoided telling, the more I was afraid to know. At least his cop-out just now restored some of the anger that kept me tossing and turning all night.

  “April, didn’t you hear my question?” Marc had moved next to me.

  “What question?”

  “I said the spread looks great, but there’s a ton of food. Could we put some in the break room for the staff?”

  The man’s rating in my book soared. Not good. I wanted to stay mad at him. “Great idea. I’ll set up a table. Of course, if the volunteer you’d promised were here to help . . .”

  He whacked his forehead. “I nearly forgot. She’s coming this afternoon.”

  The conference room doors opened, and a half-dozen men drifted in. I wanted to escape to the kitchen, but at Marc’s insistence, I stood next to him at the table. As each man picked up a plate, Marc introduced me, and bragged on my cooking.

  My cheeks warmed. How could anyone judge my culinary expertise by a ham and cheese sandwich? A minimum-wage deli worker could throw something like this together. Although I did put out a special herbed spread and added dry white wine and tarragon to the potato salad.

  To keep my head, I focused on the men. A varied assortment of ages and builds if there ever was one. Most weren’t under the age of fifty and, by their physiques, I surmised they loved to eat. Good. They came to the right place.

  “We meet again, April. Your buffet looks great.”

  I hadn’t noticed Kendall come up. “Thanks.”

  “How’s the meal prep for tomorrow coming?”

  “Pretty good.”

  “Only pretty good?”

  I nodded. “Marc has arranged for a volunteer to help, so we’ll get a lot done this afternoon.”

  I was about to ask if he wanted to start the buffet line, but Marc approached us. “If you two are discussing tomorrow’s buffet, it’s all under control, thanks to April.”

  Kendall smiled. “And she told me you’ve arranged for some help for her.”

  “That I did.” Marc looked at me. “But it’s April who planned the menu, shopped and set up the prep work schedule.”

  And will do most of the cooking. I pasted a smile on my face.

  Kendall chortled. “That’s why we hired her. Right?” He picked up a plate and moved on.

  Marc’s piercing stare followed him. “I didn’t notice him around when I hired you. Did you?”

  I stuffed a giggle. Maybe later I’d tell Marc about the Kendall I knew. Sometimes things never change.

  “I let the staff know lunch is on the way.” Marc dropped a scoop of potato salad on his plate. “I really am sorry about last night. I only wanted to talk. Didn’t intend to, ah, communicate the way we did.”

  I eyed the men scattered about the room. “Maybe you should have phoned it in.”

  “But it wouldn’t have been as much fun.”

  “No. But it would have been a lot safer.”

  “Depends on your perspective.”

  I let my gaze return to him and gaped at his plate. “You planning to eat all that in one sitting?”

  He scraped half the potato salad back into the bowl. “Just lost track.”

  I spent the next fifteen minutes laying out food in the break room. All it took was a few calls from Rosemary to alert the troops, and they came like a swarm of wasps returning to the nest. As much as I wanted to stay and visit, I couldn’t. I made myself a roast beef sandwich and carried it back to the kitchen where I sat in front of the laptop computer, my to-do list for the afternoon on the screen. I lifted my sandwich to my watering mouth.

  A loud squawk sliced the air and I looked up. Pedro sat on the pot rack between a two-quart sauté pan and the stockpot, his little head raised, proud as a parrot.

  I dropped my sandwich onto the paper plate. “How did you get out?”

  The bird made a chattering sound then launched into a glide around the room. He took a turn over the sink and came toward me, his wings flapping. I ducked as he landed on my shoulder. His pointy claws dug through my shirt like needles. “Ana loves you.”

  I angled my head back and caught his beady eye. “How come you don’t have clipped wings?”

  The bird fluttered to the counter and strutted toward my sandwich, his colorful head bobbing like a drum majorette.

  “Oh no you don’t, dude.” I scooped up my uneaten lunch and whisked it into the fridge. I had exactly three minutes to get the escapee back in his pen and eat. After I cushioned my shoulder with a towel and proffered a potato chip, I managed to enticed Pedro to jump on board and we set off for his cage.

  With the escapee returned to his cell, I found Karl at work in the ballroom setting up the soundboard. “The kitchen just entertained a feathered visitor.”

  His face paled and he muttered a curse. “Did the board members see him?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. I thought pet birds had clipped wings.”

  “Not all, I guess. He’s a retired show bird. Ramón let him fly around down here at night. He probably thinks the place is his.” Karl stood. “I’ll rig up a lock he can’t figure out. I think one of his tricks was to escape his cage.”

  Chapter 16

  By the time I got to prepping the funeral lunch I felt like any moment I’d meet myself coming while I was still going. With the mise-in-place for Chicken George laid out, I arranged the chicken breasts side by side in a large roasting pan then checked my watch. Another five minutes without the help I’d been promised. Marc was fast losing those points he’d earned.

  “Excuse me.”

  I looked up and had to remind myself not to gape.

  The Vogue-magazine-cover-come-to-life raised her voice over Beethoven’s Fifth. “Sorry for shouting, but my knock couldn’t be heard above the music. Is Marc around? He told me to meet him in the kitchen.”

  My adherence to my mother’s admon
ition to never gawk having failed, I took in the quality of the woman’s curve-hugging knit dress, the diamond cocktail ring on her right hand, and the shimmering black hair that fell past her shoulders like an ebony waterfall. Suddenly aware that my lips hadn’t seen the business end of a lipstick since early morning, I glanced down at my spattered apron and wanted to slink under the counter. Was this beauty what happened to Marc in California?

  “Here I am.” Marc came up behind the thirty-something woman and for a moment, I expected him to hug her. He grinned over her shoulder. “This is Ana Velasco, your volunteer helper.”

  I gave the visitor a second assessment. This immaculate creature had no intentions of getting those hands dirty—not with their shiny fire-engine red fingertips. And those expensive clothes had no business being in a kitchen. Not to mention her stiletto sandals that were at least three inches higher than the chef clogs adorning my size sevens. This arrangement wouldn’t work at all.

  Did he say Ana? Not the same Ana who once wore Ramón’s engagement ring. I adjusted the volume on the speaker. “April Love. I’d offer my hand, but I’ve been handling chicken.”

  Expressionless, Ana flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. I’d better change.” She set a large leather tote on a stool and took out jeans, a yellow T-shirt, and sneakers.

  I grinned. “Glad to see you brought those. I was a little worried.”

  She uttered a laugh that sounded forced. “I wouldn’t boil water in this outfit. Be back in a sec.” She glided through the door and out of sight.

  How did she do that? I couldn’t even wear a pair of espadrilles without becoming a catastrophe waiting to happen. I glanced at Marc who was leaning against the kitchen counter, smiling as if he’d just solved the greatest problem of my day. “Well, she isn’t who I expected.”

  He scowled. “What do you mean?”

  “Isn’t she Ramón’s former fiancé?”

  “So?”

  “Who’ll help me tomorrow? I presume she’ll attend the service.” I walked to the sink, pumped hand soap into my palm, then held my hands under the hot water. He did bring the assistant he promised, but assistant for what? Did I have to spell out the requirements of a kitchen helper? I didn’t need an ornament that gave the job a lick and a promise. I needed a worker.