Just get me through tonight.
• • •
The restaurant had a strange vibe.
Just as Connor reached for the door, an older couple stormed out, complaining about jambalaya. Was the chef’s jambalaya not up to par tonight? That seemed like a dish a place called Louisiana Kitchen would have perfected.
The building was an old wooden structure with a covered porch wrapping around three sides. Ceiling fans lazily spun every few feet. They didn’t do much to ease the muggy, early summer air, but their real purpose was to keep mosquitoes at bay.
The small lobby contained a hostess stand positioned to discourage patrons from seating themselves. Wooden benches lined the walls for waiting customers. Eclectic paintings and sculptures hung on the walls, all portraying some sort of Louisiana-esque theme. He studied an especially whimsical design of two crawfish that appeared to be holding hands—er—claws, until another unhappy couple who appeared to be in their forties walked into the lobby, chased by a frazzled woman with flour smudges on her face and curly blond hair attempting to escape the bun on the back of her head.
She had smooth, lightly tanned skin and looked as if she wore very little makeup. She was taller than average for a female, maybe five seven or eight, and most of that appeared to be legs. He had always had a thing for great legs.
Despite the smudges on her face, the snappy red and white sundress she wore was unsullied. Having worked in restaurants for most of his life, Connor immediately pegged her as some sort of manager. She’d probably been in the kitchen, sampling the chef’s dishes. Did the chef deliberately let her leave the kitchen looking like that, or was he so busy, he hadn’t noticed? Connor himself had experienced plenty of both types of days.
Except this restaurant didn’t look particularly busy. He could see into the dining room from his vantage point, and no more than half the picnic tables and booths were occupied. In Detroit, Thursday evenings were often nearly as busy as Fridays. Yet another difference between this place and his home.
“Please, Mr. and Mrs. Henry, don’t be upset. I know you were looking forward to the pecan-encrusted trout. I promise, next time you come in, I’ll have a new chef. That will be one of the interview questions,” the blond pleaded with the unhappy customers as they paused in the lobby so Mrs. Henry could dig her keys out of her purse.
Pecan-encrusted trout? New chef?
Connor could do pecan-encrusted trout, assuming the kitchen had the ingredients on hand, of course. His interest was officially piqued. Not only in the hot blond, but in the situation that was becoming clearer. His mind spun a million miles a second: here was a way to hide out for a while, until it was safe for him to go back to Detroit and figure out what the hell to do with the rest of his life.
It was crazy, but he had done crazier. It was risky ... Wait, no it wasn’t. This cozy, backwoods restaurant was not the sort of place his pursuers would ever dream of visiting. His family had no clue what he was doing. Hell, he hadn’t even told them he was applying for the chef’s position at the casino. He hadn’t wanted to face their disappointment if he didn’t get it. As little as his family offered their praise, they were far too effervescent with their sympathy when things did not work out to his advantage.
It was perfect. It was ... “Uh, excuse me, Mr. and Mrs. Henry.”
The blond and her unhappy customers all turned their heads to look in his direction. He offered his most charming half smile. The one most women found irresistible. Mrs. Henry’s eyes glazed, but the blond narrowed hers as suspicion bloomed on her face. Of course, when he was charming women, they were not normally under duress at the time.
“I’m sorry I’m late, uh ...”
“Emily Kate, is this your new chef?” Mrs. Henry gave him a hopeful look.
Emily Kate. While he’d only been in the South a few days, he had already decided he would never understand the locals’ insistence on using first and middle names.
“No, I ...” Connor cut her off.
“And, yes, pecan-encrusted trout happens to be my specialty.”
“It ... is?” She looked utterly confused. Connor bit the inside of his cheek to keep from chuckling. Sometimes, it was almost too damn easy. Another reason he couldn’t quite understand why his former boss up in Detroit had never promoted him. Everybody else loved him, almost instantly.
“Remember, I mentioned it when we spoke on the phone? I also told you I might be a little late today, considering I had to drive up from New Orleans,” he lied through his teeth. It was worth the small fib, though. The Henrys were hooked. Emily Kate was still dubious, but she was about to not have a choice. Connor knew how to play this game.
“You’re from New Orleans?” Mrs. Henry asked, her voice breathy. Mr. Henry didn’t even notice his wife was all but drooling. He was clearly too busy envisioning the pecan-encrusted trout that was now in his immediate future.
“Studied there,” Connor hedged. He didn’t want to get too caught up in his own lies. He didn’t know jack shit about New Orleans, and if these people started asking questions, he’d be screwed before he even got started.
“How about you all take your seats, and the server’ll get you a drink while Emily Kate and I head back to the kitchen and I get started on your order. Is that two pecan-encrusted trouts?”
“Crab stuffed shrimp for me,” Mrs. Henry piped up. “With tezcuco seafood salad.”
Tuscan what? “Uh, right. Come on, Emily Kate.”
The Henrys happily headed toward the hovering hostess, while Emily Kate remained where she was, glaring at him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he chided. “I just saved your ass.”
“Who the hell are you?”
He thrust out his hand. “Connor Rikeland. Your new chef.”
She stared at his hand and did not shake it. “We never spoke on the phone.”
He dropped his hand. “Back to the saving your ass bit.”
“I don’t need a new chef.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve been here five minutes, and two customers stormed out because they think the jambalaya is lousy. This is a restaurant in Louisiana. I’m not even from here, and I know a restaurant can’t survive in this state without serving damn fine jambalaya.”
“My jambalaya is not lousy. Besides, we aren’t in Louisiana.”
“Wait—what? Where the hell are we?” Connor looked around, which was stupid, because the answer to his question sure as hell wasn’t going to ... oh wait—there it was. On the wall behind the hostess stand.
LOUISIANA KITCHEN
UNCERTAIN, TEXAS
“What the hell is Uncertain, Texas? And what does it have to do with a Louisiana kitchen?”
“This town is Uncertain, Texas,” the annoyed blond informed him. “And the restaurant is called Louisiana Kitchen. So named because we specialize in Cajun cuisine, which most people associate with Louisiana.”
“But we’re in Texas. Apparently. ”
“How do you not know where you are?”
Connor waved at the entrance, indicating the body of water outside. “That—that lake or bayou or whatever the hell you call water around here. When I left the boat dock, I was in Louisiana.”
“And now you’re in Texas. Caddo Lake straddles the state line.”
He cupped the back of his neck. That explained it. He’d headed west from the casino, and Shreveport was located in the northwest corner of the state of Louisiana. Hopefully, it was a good thing he was in Texas. Maybe it would make it harder for his pursuers to find him. Still ...
“Shit. I’m in the middle of nowhere, Texas.”
“Lady Bird Johnson was from Karnack, which is just down the road,” she said defensively.
“That’s your claim to fame?”
“No. I don’t have any claim to fame. I just want to run my restaurant and get on with my life.”
The frustration in her voice made him backpedal. He didn’t want to upset the hot little blond, especially not now, when she was abo
ut to inadvertently offer him the perfect hiding place from the slightly-more-than-just-scary bad guys who had been after him when he apparently drove a stolen boat across the state line. Shit, did that make the theft a felony?
“So if your jambalaya isn’t lousy, why are your customers walking out?”
She sighed. “Because jambalaya is just about the only thing on the menu tonight.”
“Why?”
She shifted her gaze to the dining room. “Because my head chef walked out about four hours ago. My weekend chef is on an Alaskan cruise for the next two weeks, and my sous-chef is about a 150 years old and can hardly do more than stir the roux.”
“Why the hell is he the sous-chef?” The person in that position usually did more than his fair share of the work because, generally, he coveted the head chef position.
She waved her hand as if swatting at a fly. “He’s an old family friend. He’s worked in this restaurant since he was fourteen years old. My grandfather would come back from the dead to scold me if I let him go. But this is all beside the point. You just sent the Henrys back into my restaurant, and now they are expecting a meal. A meal I can’t make for them.”
Her restaurant? “So you’ve been cooking, in the absence of a chef?”
“Yes.” Her jaw clenched, her shoulders bunched, and her hands were fists at her side. The woman was tense as a stretched rubber band.
Connor’s mind strayed away from the kitchen and into the bedroom. What would she be like in bed? Crazy and wanton, using sex as a means to burn off all that tension? He had a not entirely ridiculous urge to find out. Although, frankly, the urge wasn’t ridiculous at all. Despite her frazzled appearance, the blond was hot. And those legs went on for miles. He envisioned them wrapped around his waist, those sexy, high-heeled, red sandals still on her feet.
He forced himself to shake off the thoughts. He needed a place to hide, and he wanted to cook, run his own kitchen in a restaurant where his craft was appreciated. He needed to focus on these issues first. If, once he had that aspect under control, the opportunity to pursue the hot blond presented itself, well, he’d happily cross that bridge as well.
“Lucky for you, I can make the meal they’re expecting. So lead the way, boss.”
She didn’t move, but her jaw dropped to her chest and her eyes grew wide. Connor grinned.
“Congratulations. You’ve just hired yourself a new executive chef.”
“I—I—I—”
“We can discuss pay later. I’m pretty flexible at the moment.” He also had to figure out where the hell to hole up for a while. Hopefully there were long-term motels in the area. A place with a name like Uncertain, Texas, did not sound like a bustling metropolis.
There was also the issue of his stolen wallet. Maybe he could convince his new boss to front him some cash so he could sleep in a bed tonight instead of the boat he’d arrived in. He suspected the mosquitoes would eat him alive, assuming something bigger and scarier didn’t first.
When she still didn’t move, he added, “Let’s go. You don’t want Mrs. Henry to get upset all over again, do you?”
“I don’t know anything about you. Do you have credentials? Have you ever cooked in a restaurant before? Do you even know what pecan-encrusted trout is?”
“Yes, yes, and yes. We can do the interview in the kitchen, while I wow your guests. Although, I will confess right now that I don’t know what the hell Tuscan seafood salad is.”
“Tezcuco,” she corrected. “How are you supposed to cook in a Cajun restaurant if you don’t know the food?”
“Trust me, sweetheart. I’m an expert. You give me a little direction—or a cookbook—and I’ll dazzle the hell out of your guests. Now move.” He placed his hand on the small of her back and gave her a gentle push. He felt her tension racket up a notch at his touch, but he didn’t pull his hand away when she finally walked toward the kitchen.
He liked the feel of her dress against his palm. He liked the idea that she reacted to him. And he had to remind himself this was business, not pleasure. It was time to show these southerners that a guy from Detroit could cook Cajun like a pro. Because that’s what he was.
And it was high time someone recognized that.
Chapter 2
For crying out loud, what was she thinking? How had she let this man—a perfect stranger, one who wasn’t from around here—talk her into letting him have carte blanche in her restaurant? Louisiana Kitchen was hers now, whether she had wanted it or not, and no northern boy with a crooked grin, twinkling blue eyes, and far, far too many bulging muscles was going to bully his way into her kitchen.
Wait—that was exactly what he’d done.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t bullied, precisely. He’d simply smiled. She thought she did a reasonable job of hiding it, but that wicked half grin had sent her mind straight to the gutter—rather, the bedroom. It had the same effect on Mrs. Henry, too. Neither woman had been thinking about Cajun food, at least not for a few minutes anyway. If Emily Kate had been thinking of food at all, it would have been melted chocolate, the kind that could be licked off what she knew without a single doubt were six-pack abs. Did he have that sexy v-shaped muscle on his hips, the one leading into the waistband of his jeans, directing the admirer toward a certain other muscle that ...?
He was exactly the sort of man her brother had been warning her away from for practically her entire life. “Never trust a guy with a charming smile,” Jack told her so many times she lost count before she was eighteen. And eighteen had been quite a while ago. “I’m one of those type of guys,” he had explained as he stabbed his thumb at his chest. “And I know what they want. And I’ll kick any guy’s ass who takes advantage of you like that.”
Emily Kate had taken her brother’s advice to heart, and as was the story of her life, she’d done exactly as she was supposed to. On the rare occasion she dated at all, the men were always good boys, always bland and boring and nothing at all like either Jack or Connor.
Her life had been boring and bland for twenty-seven years. The worst part was, when she’d finally tried to break out of her straight-and-narrow mold and attempted to chase her dreams, tried to make a living on her artwork, her grandfather had up and died, leaving the restaurant and his house to her. Just her. He had myriad other grandchildren, and he’d left it all to her alone.
“Why me?” she’d asked when her father had shown her a copy of the will.
“Who knows what that crazy old coot was thinking?” her father had said at the time. “But you have to admit, the timing’s perfect.”
In his eyes, perhaps. No one in her family had approved of her decision to leave corporate America to focus on her artwork. None of them understood her need to be creative, to paint, to pour out her emotions using color on canvas. Being an accountant at a food processing plant was anything but creative, and Emily Kate had felt freer than ever before in her life when she’d given her notice and walked out of that place for the last time, over a year ago. She’d barely been out of the work force three months when she found herself thrust into the role of restaurant owner, a position that required far more time than her accounting job ever did. She felt a pang when she realized she hadn’t lifted a paintbrush in over two weeks.
Pierre had been a great chef, but that’s all he’d done—cook food. She placed all the orders, took inventory, hired staff, and managed the rest of the restaurant. She knew from talking to other restaurant owners and managers that Pierre should have shared those responsibilities, but he’d never exhibited any interest, and she’d been too afraid to ask, for fear he would do exactly what he’d done tonight.
Even as she’d struggled to reign in the chaos as the restaurant fell to pieces earlier this evening, in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but think, What if I let it?
What if she let her grandfather’s fifty-year reputation as an excellent restaurateur go straight down the toilet? What if she lost so much business, she’d be forced to close the doors? What if she let every
one believe they’d been wrong about her, that she really couldn’t handle it?
Would they finally let her paint? Would they finally leave her alone, let her find her own way in life?
She would never know, now. Connor Rikeland had shown up, charmed his way into her kitchen, impressed the hell out of her guests, and quite literally saved the day. She should be thrilled. She supposed she was relieved, because truly, disappointing her family—and, frankly, her customers—was one thing Emily Kate hated even more than her inability to find enough time to paint. But a small part of her was disappointed, too.
Because, damn it, she wanted to paint. She wanted to lose herself in the fantasy world she created on the canvas, to let the stresses of life seep away with each stroke of the brush. Painting was soothing, calming, comforting. It was her escape. And she hadn’t had much escapism lately.
After the last customers left on the heels of rave compliments for the to-die-for roast duck with crawfish-cornbread stuffing, Emily Kate locked the front door and flipped the switch on the neon sign so the word OPEN stopped glowing. Finally, the hard part was done.
She checked with the wait staff, made sure they were prepping properly for the following day, and then headed back to the kitchen. She wanted to both congratulate her new chef and kick him out and tell him never to come back again. She doubted there would be any painting anytime in the near future. A new chef meant training and learning his nuances, his expectations. What he would and would not do to help in the success of the restaurant on a day-to-day basis.
He glanced up from wiping off the gleaming stainless steel prep counter, and she was once again bowled over by those fantastic blue eyes. Wasn’t there an old actor who was famous for his gorgeous blue eyes? She might have to look him up on Netflix, if she could ever find a couple hours to spare. That probably wasn’t going to happen, though. If she did find a couple hours of downtime, she’d rather spend it with brush in hand, painting those intriguing eyes instead of watching them on television.
“I let Andre go home,” Connor commented. “Hope that was okay. Poor guy looked like he was ready to pass out on his feet.”
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