by Brux, Boone
I pictured my own kitchen back at home, which was approximately the size of a glorified broom closet, and gulped. Bowen and I were way out of our league.
Leo’s back was to me, and he was talking ferociously into a phone hanging on the far wall. It appeared that he was wearing the same dark, worn jeans and biker boots he’d been wearing earlier this week. But over them he wore a starched chef’s coat that was as white as snow, contrasting shockingly with his dark, almost black, hair. Just below his hairline, but right above the collar of his coat, there was a small strip of his skin showing, and its color reminded me of a white-flesh nectarine, making me instantly hungry. Or maybe that was the way his backside looked in his jeans as he ranted into the phone.
“Damn it, you’re not listening to me.”
The angry words he snarled into the phone made me snap my eyes up to the back of his head where they belonged. Do not get caught staring at his rump.
“The last thing I need is to have to babysit some idiot kid while his mom moons over me, for Pete’s sake.”
My cheeks heated, and I held Bowen’s hand even tighter. What a rude son of a—
He turned around and his dark eyebrows rose on his face. No regret or embarrassment registered in his expression. Just surprise. “Oh, great,” he muttered into the phone. “They’re here. Call you later, sis.” He hung up the phone with a thunk, then faced me with his hands on his hips, waiting for me to say something. Daring me to.
I jutted my chin out at him. “You flatter yourself. You’re almost as ugly as your attitude.”
One of his eyebrows cocked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” Tugging my son toward the door, I said, “Come on, Bowen.”
Bowen looked up at me with his light eyes. “We aren’t gonna cook?”
My nostrils flared when Leo tapped his fingers on the metal countertop behind me, and I heard the approach of a pair of heels behind me “Not with this creep.”
Shoving the door open, I stomped past Gretchen, who looked from me, to Leo, and back again, before groaning. “Holy hell, what did you do?”
Bowen and I wound our way through the empty dining room for the exit. I wanted to punch that narcissistic bastard in the face, but wasn’t about to do it in front of my son. How dare he call Bowen an idiot? How dare he insinuate that I’d be mooning over him? Who did he think he was? I loved Gianna, but so help me, this wasn’t worth it.
We exited the Resort, the cold fall air whipping us in the face as we bypassed the valet and searched the oversize parking lot for my beat up Honda amongst the BMWs and Lexuses.
“Mom?” Bowen tugged on my arm. “I have to pee.”
“Excellent timing, kiddo.” I sighed and looked around. The Coeur d’Alene Resort was located at the waterfront, right on the shore, and unfortunately all the stores surrounding it were connected to the resort itself, making it impossible to take him to a restroom without walking back in through the doorway I’d just stormed out of. Argh.
“We’ll go potty at home.” I approached my car.
“I gotta go now!” Bowen’s voice was panicked.
I drug a hand down my face. “Okay. Fine, Bo. Let’s go to—”
“Anna!”
I turned around in time to see Leo sauntering toward us, his hands in his pockets like he was strolling through the park. A taunting smile tickled the corners of his mouth, and he appeared to be on the verge of laughing. The audacity of this man was killing me.
“What do you want?” I snapped.
“Listen, I’m sorry you overheard that. Come on in, and we’ll get started.” He tilted his head slightly, and with his chin pointed downward, he offered me a smile.
“Oh, no. No way.” I waved a finger at him. “You can direct that charming crap to someone else.”
His smile faltered. “What’s got you so bent out of shape?”
I leaned away from Bowen so that only Leo could hear my voice. “I heard you on the phone. I heard you call my son an idiot.”
For the first time since he turned around in the kitchen, he appeared concerned. “Wait. You think I…? No. Okay, I meant—”
I put a hand up. “You know what? Save it. I’m sure Gianna will be appalled when she finds out what you said.”
Leo’s hand came down on my arm gently, yet the electrical current passed from his skin to mine felt like it held four hundred watts. “Anna, what I said wasn’t referring to Bowen’s special needs. I didn’t mean to insult your son specifically. I was just running my mouth.”
“So it’s okay that you said it, because you use the term idiot as a blanket insult to all kids?” I jerked my arm away from his palm, and immediately felt the sting of its absence.
“I’ve worked in some of the top kitchens in this country,” he told me through gritted teeth. “I did my internship at Jacques Torres’s chocolate factory in New York City. When I was in Seattle, I worked under Miles Alexander. I am not a babysitter. I do not typically work with kids.”
“Well, if you’re going to volunteer to help kids, you’d better learn what’s appropriate to say, and what’s not.” I glowered at him. “Because so far you’re failing miserably.”
“I didn’t volunteer.” Leo scratched the back of his neck casually, revealing another tattoo on the front of his wrist at the cuff of his sleeve. Was there an inch of this man that wasn’t tattooed?
“Well then why the hell am I here?” I splayed my arms out at my sides.
He looked out at the water, his mouth pulling downward in a frown. “I owe my sister a favor. She’s considering this payment.” He brought his chocolate brown eyes back to mine. “Look, Gianna really cares about your kid—”
“Bowen.”
“Right.” Leo wiped a hand across the scruff on his chin. “Gianna genuinely cares about Bowen. And I care about my sister. So please let me teach your son how to cook this afternoon. I’ll watch my mouth, I promise.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Part of me wanted to hop in my Honda and peel out of the parking lot, hopefully splashing mud all over his shoes. It was because of pompous asses like Leo that Bowen was often overlooked. He excelled at mathematics, and had the first fifteen Psalms memorized of his own accord. But because of his strange quirks and his often-disruptive behavior, authority figures tended to ignore him in an attempt to keep his ill behaviors out of the spotlight.
I wanted to hold Leo Mancini accountable. Whatever “favor” he owed Gianna, I wanted to force him to make good on it. It would be healthy for him to discover that not only was Bowen not an idiot, but neither was any other child out there. I didn’t care who he was, or whom he’d worked for in the past. He was in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho, now, and was being asked to help out a little boy.
And then there was the matter of my weird, inexplicable draw toward Leo. It didn’t make sense. Out of the twenty minutes I’d been around him, I’d spent seventeen of them wanting to drag my fingernails down the side of his face. But there were those three minutes that I wanted to run my hands through that perfectly slicked-back hair and press my face against that damned bluebird on his neck.
Did I expect anything to come of this odd attraction? Certainly not. But did that mean that I didn’t want to give him another chance and admire the view while I did? Certainly not.
I looked down at Bowen, who—despite the fact that he gazed down at my shoes absently—said clearly, “I want to cook today.”
My heart warmed, and I squared my shoulders to face Leo head on. “Fine. Let’s do this.”
Chapter Four
Once we came back into the kitchen, Bowen darted for the restroom. I politely reminded Leo that glancing at his watch every twenty seconds while an eight-year-old peed was rude. Once the bowls and whisks came out, they got off to a great start.
I planted myself in the corner with a book, catching a glimpse of my newly trimmed and highlighted hair in some of the stainless steel, and rolled my eyes. Talk about a waste of money. Even if I were attracted to Leo, I’d just see
n him at his worst, and wouldn’t pursue it further. No way.
“Wow,” Leo said, an hour later. I looked up from the book I was reading in the corner. Bowen was standing on a footstool in front of the stovetop, stirring a large pot of homemade caramel, while Leo watched him in awe. Leo had put a long white apron and tall chef’s hat on my son, and the white fabric of the apron pooled around his sneakers.
“What?” I couldn’t help but smile.
“It’s just that I picked making caramel because it’s pastry school 101.” He glanced over his shoulder at me, and I tried to ignore how my stomach warmed to a simmer when his brown eyes reached mine. “Bowen seems to already know what he’s doing. I might let him help me make some macaroons before dinner service.”
“Bo really likes cooking. Dinner prep is our favorite time of day.” I put the paperback into my purse and stepped closer to where the two “chefs” were stirring the fragrant bubbly mixture slowly. “It seems to be the one activity that Bowen can focus on completely. When he does other activities, he is easily distracted. Sometimes he gets upset by different textures or things that feel particularly cold. But when we cook, he doesn’t seem bothered by that.”
Leo looked temporarily perplexed. “That’s baffling. My sister describes some of her cases to me, but I never put a face with the impairments. So he isn’t normally focused like this?”
Shaking my head, I shifted on the stood I was sitting on. “No. He’s normally very uptight. His tactile issues are a real burden.”
He watched Bowen for a few beats, then smiled at me, making my stomach twist. “He really has a knack in the kitchen.”
“I’m glad he enjoyed himself.”
Leo checked the candy thermometer. “I’m surprised that I enjoyed myself, too. I guess my sister was right. My whole family gave her such a hard time when she chose her line of work. I’m starting to see why she loves her job.”
“What did your family want her to do?” I pictured the giant Italian family Gianna had described.
Leo looked into the pan and patted Bowen’s stiff shoulder. “Good job, buddy.” He focused back on me. “My family owns a bread bakery in Lincoln City, Oregon. I think my parents wanted her to take over when they retired, especially after our two older brothers went off to college in other states, and I went to New York for culinary school.”
Bowen pulled the spoon out of the simmering caramel, and cast a cautious glance at Leo. “More?”
Leo reached underneath the countertop and produced three plastic spoons. “Well, every good pastry chef tastes his food. You’ll never know if you’ve cooked it correctly if you don’t taste it.”
He dipped his spoon in the caramel, then twisted it between his fingers a few times until the string of candy broke. Bowen mimicked him, not flinching when a string of caramel landed on his knuckle, and Leo nodded at me so that I would come closer and do the same. Together we all put the spoons to our mouths and tasted. Tears sprang to my eyes when Bowen took a small bite of the treat. This was the kid who hadn’t voluntarily eaten an unfamiliar food in years.
“Oh, this is incredible. It’s so buttery.” I licked my spoon.
Bowen nodded stoically, and Leo clapped a hand on his back. “Well done, Chef Bowen. You’ve made your first caramel.”
There was a hit of a smile teasing the corners of my son’s mouth.
“I was expecting to have to rein him in a time or two, at the least.” Leo threw away his used spoon and held his eyes on mine for just a beat too long, a tiny spark flickering between us. “The way Gianna described Bowen, I thought that this was going to be more of a struggle. But he cooks like a champ.”
I beamed. “I know. He even collects cookbooks.”
“Cookbooks?” Leo looked at Bowen with raised eyebrows, and turned the gas down underneath the pan. “How many have you got, kid?”
Bowen glanced at him, but quickly focused back on the caramel. “Eighteen.”
Leo’s lips pulled upward, revealing a startlingly straight, white smile. “Eighteen? Wow. Impressive. Maybe someday you’ll have one of my cookbooks on your bookshelf.”
“I don’t keep them on a bookshelf,” Bowen said matter-of-factly. “They’re under my bed.”
“You don’t have a bookshelf for your cookbooks?” Leo was quiet for a beat. “Hmm. I don’t know if I can give you a copy of my cookbook someday if you don’t have a shelf to put it on.”
Bowen swung around to face me, his face pure white. “I need a bookshelf.”
I would have laughed, except that the expression on his face spoke of pure terror. “We’ll work on it, buddy.”
“I need a bookshelf, Mom.”
Leo observed Bowen’s wide eyes. “It’s okay. I was just kidding.” He looked up at me and smiled sheepishly. “I just threw off his whole afternoon, didn’t I?”
I shrugged and squeezed Bowen’s wiry shoulders. “It’s okay. He’s been pretty focused for a while. Maybe it’s time to take off for the afternoon. What do you think, Bo? Should we head home to make some dinner?”
Bowen shook his head. “I need a bookshelf for Leo’s cookbook.”
Pressing a kiss on his blond head, I glanced at Leo, who had taken a step backward to observe me as I pressed my hands down on Bowen’s shoulders again and again. The sensory input my hands offered his little body didn’t seem to be working as well as it usually did. “Say, Leo, where can we get a copy of your cookbook?” I asked.
Leo’s expression darkened. “I actually don’t have one.”
“Oh, I thought you—”
He shook his head, removed the pan from the flame, and turned the burner off. “I was unclear. It was my intention to put one out after I opened my restaurant.”
“Are you opening a restaurant?” I asked cheerfully, peeling the apron down Bowen’s torso. “Gianna didn’t mention that.”
“I’m not.” I could practically feel the icy wind rolling across the kitchen as Leo’s mood shifted. When he looked up from the caramel he gave one last stir to, his brown eyes were filled with resentment.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” My words came out quickly, as I helped Bowen off of the footstool. “I must have misunderstood.”
He glanced at his watch again. “Okay, so we’re done now. What do you think about Monday, same time?”
What just happened? For a few seconds, it was almost like he and I were getting along, and now…the moment had crashed and burned. Note to self: don’t bring up his dreams of opening a restaurant.
Bowen’s stared down at his sticky fingers with disdain, and I fumbled to wipe them off with a wet towel. “Um, yes. Monday is fine. Maybe you two can try that macaroon recipe you mentioned earlier.”
He nodded. Just once. “Monday it is.”
This man’s mood swings were worse than a premenstrual teenage girl’s. “Well then, thank you for your time. Bowen, tell Leo thank you.”
Bowen looked up at Leo’s face. “Can I have a cookbook?”
Leo’s frown twitched. “Sorry, kid.”
I squeezed my son’s hand. “Bowen, say thank you.”
“Thank you,” he said robotically.
Embarrassed by the sudden shift in his demeanor, I turned and headed toward the door without another word. I didn’t know if I was coming or going with this man, and it was giving me a stomachache. I heard Leo pulling pots and pans out from the metal racks as we walked, and my stomach turned uncomfortably.
“Hey, Anna,” Leo called across the kitchen, right when my hand touched the door. I turned around, tension squeezing my muscles tightly. When our eyes connected, his frosty exterior melted, and one side of his mouth tugged upward.
My eyebrows rose. What in the world was he pulling now?
“Your new haircut looks great.”
Chapter Five
Bowen managed to impress Leo the following Monday by practically making the huckleberry macaroons single-handedly—though Leo was the one who put them in and took them out of the oven. And while adding the huckleberry e
xtract had been a mistake in the beginning—Bowen had grabbed the wrong bottle—they’d turned out to be an impressive treat. When we bit into them, the tops had just enough of a crackle before melting into the soft, meringue-like middles.
We stood there munching, while Bowen watched us with a smile teasing the corners of his mouth.
Leo’s eyes widened. “Holy cow. This is really excellent.”
Nodding, I brushed a few crumbs off the front of my shirt. “I know. Bo, you did a great job.”
He was biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. “My hands are sticky.”
Leo tossed him a wet towel. “Here you go, champ. Anna, I’m impressed. I barely had to help him measure a thing. I basically just had to tell him what to put in.”
I beamed at my son, who was sitting on top of the stainless steel tabletop, diligently scrubbing between his fingers.
“It took me months to perfect my macaroon recipe.” Leo helped himself to another cookie. “This kid’s got it down at the age of eight.”
“Good macaroons don’t have cornstarch,” Bowen said to no one in particular.
Leo and I laughed, and I picked up the small brown bottle that was resting nearby. “So you make your own huckleberry extract?”
Leo nodded and stepped closer to me, igniting the air between us. It was clear that he felt the warmth, too, because his breath quickened before he replied, “Yeah. I make all of my own extracts. Almond, lemon, orange.”
“That’s fascinating. How do you make extract?” I bit into another macaroon.
“It’s not difficult at all. It just takes time and patience. You have to cook fruit down until it’s reduced to syrup, then combine it with alcohol.” Leo crossed the room to where a row of bottles were lined up on a shelf, and returned with three. He uncapped one and held it under my nose. “Orange.”
I sniffed it, ignoring how close his hand was to my face. “Smells divine.”
The next bottle brought his fingers even closer. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I had to suppress a shudder. “Oh, is that grapefruit?”