Chance of Loving You

by Terri Blackstock

  Lucas agreed. The longer Aimee’s eyes held his, the warmer it got in this place.

  He told the aide where he’d be, and they wandered outside. It was nice; he’d forgotten. Flagstone patio with several small metal tables and—beyond a low rock wall and between some palm trees—even a glimpse of the Pacific Ocean. The sunset, already as pink as Aimee’s shirt, couldn’t have been better if he’d picked it out of a travel brochure and had it rushed FedEx. His grandmother would take one look and breathe, “God’s having art class tonight.”

  Aimee walked past the tables and sat on the rock wall.

  Lucas joined her. It was quiet except for the distant blend of traffic and ocean waves. He began to feel awkward and wondered if Margie, the icebreaker, had patio privileges.

  “That case you’re working on,” Aimee said, breaking the silence. “My cousin is an ER nurse here at San Diego Hope, but she also volunteers as a crisis chaplain. She offered support at the candlelight vigil. I hope they find that poor woman and that she isn’t . . .” She took a slow breath. “It has to be hard doing the work you do.”

  “Sometimes. But I like thinking that I’m helping to make sense of things,” Lucas told her. “Too many things don’t make sense these days.” Like my grandmother trying to die. “Too much bad news.” He saw her brow furrow and wondered what he was doing. They’d come out for fresh air, a respite, and he was—“But on the other hand, I heard you had some great news. Someone said you won a cooking contest?”

  “I’m a finalist, one of four. The final bake-off will be in a week. Valentine’s Day—my birthday, actually,” Aimee added, “not that it matters.”

  “It should.” Lucas decided pink was his new favorite color, those exact three shades: Aimee’s T-shirt, her modest blush, and that incredible sunset framing it all. She looked like . . . a valentine. He cleared his throat; workday fatigue was moving him fast into sappy territory. “Competing against those other cooks must be intense, I’d think.”

  “Not in the same league as CSI.” Despite the tease, Aimee’s eyes held an undeniable spark of excitement. “It was stressful and thrilling at the same time. Like trying to do a timed math test while using a paint palette some stranger mixed up.”

  “Paint?”

  Aimee laughed. “Metaphorically. I meant food ingredients, spices. We weren’t told ahead of time what they would be. We were all given a mystery basket of major ingredients, access to the same basic assortment of staples, then were challenged to put our own unique twist into creating a dessert.”

  “Ah.” Lucas smiled. Food metaphors—he hadn’t seen that coming. There was much more to Aimee Curran than he ever figured. He was intrigued.

  “Anyway . . .” The breeze blew a strand of coppery hair across Aimee’s lips, and she swept it away. “There I am, analyzing the ingredients, imagining the possible taste combinations, watching the clock tick, and trying to deal with unfamiliar commercial kitchen equipment without sacrificing a finger.” Her face lit with pinch-me-I’m-dreaming delight. “But I did it. I made the Vegan Valentine Bake-Off finals.”

  “You did.” He smiled, her contagious excitement exactly what he needed right now. “And I heard you were on TV. That they called you a ‘cooking star.’”

  “‘Rising culinary star,’” she clarified with a chuckle. “Not that I took it to heart, of course.” Aimee shook her head. “Wow, the hospital grapevine’s been buzzing.”

  “Yeah.” Lucas wasn’t about to admit that over the past week, he’d started to tune in whenever her name was mentioned. “But someone got it all wrong about what you cooked. It’s funny, really. They said you made black bean brownies.” His laugh faded when he caught the look on her face. “Wait . . . that’s right?”

  “Yes.” Aimee’s chin lifted. “I regret the name I chose. I should have called them ‘cocoa Brazil’ or ‘chocolate surprise’ or maybe ‘guiltless indulgence.’ Trust me; a thousand better ideas pummel your brain after they announce black bean brownies and seven other contestants start to laugh.” She shot him a pointed look. “Like you did just now.”

  “I’m sorry—handcuff me. But when I heard it was brownies with beans . . .”

  She raised her hand. “Doesn’t matter. The fact is that the addition of the beans is what put me in the finals. I was the only one with the guts to try them as a vegan ingredient. Processed into a smooth paste with coconut oil, Dutch cocoa, maple syrup . . . They were delicious.”

  “And I’m an idiot. I don’t cook. Ever. I know nothing about food, except that I like to eat it.” Lucas shrugged. “Lately, with the caseload—and my grandmother—that usually amounts to a take-out burrito from Chipotle.”

  Aimee regarded him for a moment. “Black beans on that burrito?”

  “Of course.”

  She smiled. “No handcuffs then.”

  Lucas sighed. “Really, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have laughed.”

  “It’s okay. I get that it sounds strange. Besides, you were already suspicious of me because of the whole olive fiasco. And . . .” She lifted a shoulder, but it did little to diffuse the sudden discomfort on her face. “And because you think I’m only coming here to volunteer out of selfishness. To save my own skin.”

  “Hold on. That’s why I asked you to stay. I need to talk with you about that.”

  LUCAS WAS QUIET for a moment. Gathering his thoughts, Aimee assumed, as carefully as he sorted through forensic evidence. From what she’d learned of him, the man was methodical, analytic, and orderly. About his work, about his grandmother’s needs, and even about his appearance: clean, neat, not quite geeky but definitely classic casual. Which made the way Lucas looked today—slightly rumpled, shadow of a beard, and that dark, wayward curl straying across his forehead—so irresistibly attractive.

  “Look, Aimee, I was wrong to tease you about that food tray deal. It was as inappropriate as what that tech did to Wanda by making fun of her reaction. It was a cheap laugh. And even if I’d needed one that day—most days now—” Lucas frowned—“it should never have been at your expense. Especially now that I know how serious you are about your culinary art.”

  My art. Aimee battled an impulse to lean over and kiss his cheek.

  “And,” Lucas continued, “whatever prompted it initially, I am nothing but grateful for the kindness you’ve shown my grandmother. And that you came here today,” he went on, his voice thickening, “when you didn’t have to, makes me feel even more like a jerk for those things I said to you before. I wanted to go after you yesterday, apologize then. I should have. I doubted you’d be back at all. I figured you’d rather risk the wrath of Wanda than be forced to deal with me.”

  “Nah.” Aimee was grateful he couldn’t read her mind: kissing his cheek sounded like an even better idea now. Then reaching up to touch that curl on his forehead . . . “Besides, I think we’re even. I remember calling you a pest in my parting shot.”

  “Like my grandmother called my grandfather. Except . . .”

  “Not ‘adorable,’” Aimee finished, knowing she’d been completely wrong about that.

  “Can’t have everything, I guess.” Lucas laughed. “Really, Aimee, I regret all of it.”

  “I don’t. I loved hearing about your grandparents. Rosalynn and Louis Andre. And the way they met. It was so sweet.” Aimee sighed, thinking of that old framed photo and how very much Lucas looked like that smitten Frenchman. “How he found those wildflowers for her.”

  Lucas nodded, a smile teasing his lips. “And fraises des bois.”

  “‘Strawberries . . . of the woods’?” Aimee translated, trying to recall her high school French.

  “Wild alpine strawberries. Very tiny, very sweet, according to my grandmother. And hard to come by.” Lucas shook his head, his smile stretching. “My grandfather climbed for hours up a mountain to find them and then carefully carried them back in his cap to surprise my grandmother. I think it was the same day that photo was taken. She painted those berries too—here, wait. I’ll show you.” />
  Lucas leaned sideways to pull his phone from his back pocket, and his shoulder brushed Aimee’s. Ridiculously, her skin tingled at the small touch.

  “There,” he said, pulling up a photo file. He handed her the phone but stayed close as she began to scroll through. Aimee breathed in his clean, masculine scent. “Some of my black-and-white candid shots are mixed in, but see? There are the wildflowers.”

  “Yes . . . that’s lovely,” she told him, her heart rate beginning to skitter as their shoulders touched again. “I love the colors and how her brushwork is so bold. I wasn’t expecting that.”

  Lucas smiled. “She tends to take people by surprise.”

  Aimee’s breath caught as she saw the first black-and-white candid, his grandparents in a garden. Much older than in the bicycle photo but still so clearly in love. She scrolled further, each beautifully intimate shot hitting her square in the heart. The couple in their kitchen; dancing on a beach; walking hand in hand down the steps of a church; sitting on a sagging-soft couch and reading side by side, with one shoulder resting against the other’s. It was the essence of Rosalynn and Louis Marchal captured in shutter clicks. Forever love celebrated. “These are wonderful. You took them?”

  “Over the years.” Lucas leaned closer and pointed. “That one was in July, a few weeks before my grandfather died.” He scrolled down for Aimee. “There it is. Her painting of the wild strawberries.”

  “Oh, my. It’s glorious.” Aimee’s eyes took in the image, the thickly layered strokes—a palette knife, if she recalled her art appreciation studies. “The color of those little berries all piled up in that blue wool cap, and its texture contrasted against the white lace tablecloth . . . and look, that one strawberry, bitten nearly to the stem.”

  Lucas chuckled, his breath warm against Aimee’s ear. “My grandfather loved to tell the story of how he climbed the mountain, picked those strawberries. And fed them to my grandmother one by one. He’d always say that their first kiss tasted of strawberries.”

  “Oh . . .” Aimee pressed her hand to her chest. “How romantic.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Lucas leaned away and cleared his throat, his expression hinting that he’d said more than he intended to. “That’s a Frenchman for you.”

  “So they say.” Aimee studied the photo again, amused by the fact that this analytical CSI tech was . . . one-quarter French? Wildly romantic by genetics? His work in these candid photos proved an inherent passion. She met his gaze in the deepening dusk. “Your grandmother was—is—an amazing painter. And you are an impressive photographer, Lucas.”

  “Thank you. I . . .” He hesitated for a moment as if considering his words. “I’ve always wanted to publish a book, using the color photos of my grandmother’s art combined with my black-and-white images. And the stories they’ve told me. It feels even more important now that I’ve lost my grandfather.” Lucas swallowed. “And because things don’t look good for my grandmother.”

  Aimee’s heart cramped. “She’s getting worse?”

  “I talked to her doctor today. The blood tests show she’s becoming dehydrated. That’s why she’s been so drowsy and weak. If she won’t take more nourishment by mouth, they want to give her intravenous fluids. And insert something called a PEG tube. So they can feed her directly into her stomach.”

  Aimee grimaced, reminded of her queasy U-turn from a nursing career. She certainly wasn’t going to recount her failures to Lucas. “When would they do that?”

  “They can’t. Unless my grandmother changes her living will. She’s adamant that there be no invasive measures for artificial life support, including IVs and feeding tubes.” Observable pain flickered across his handsome face. “I’m the trustee. I have to honor her wishes. If it’s what my grandmother wants, I’d have to . . . let her die.”

  Aimee touched his hand lightly. “I don’t want to imagine how hard that would be.”

  “I can’t stop imagining it.” His hand turned over, grasping hers very gently. “People keep reminding me that she’s seventy-six, that she’s had a good life—accomplished so much. And she had a wonderful marriage. But I’ve barely wrapped my head around losing my grandfather. How am I supposed to let her go too?”

  “Is there other family?”

  “Not really. I don’t have brothers or sisters, and . . .” His lips tugged downward. “My parents prefer to not be involved. From way back—my grandparents raised me.” Lucas took a deep breath, exhaled. “I sit there every night and read from the Bible. Her favorite verses about hope and God’s loving plan for our lives. All the while she seems determined to wither up and die. I can’t make sense of that.” He met Aimee’s gaze, blue eyes shadowed in the growing darkness. His thumb brushed the back of her hand. “I shouldn’t be dumping all of this on you. It isn’t what you signed on for.”

  “No,” Aimee admitted, struggling to summon a small smile. “Tray delivery is pretty limited in that respect. But I understand what you’re saying.” Her throat squeezed, choking her voice to a whisper as she thought of her mother, of those awful weeks they prayed for miracles and watched her die. Aimee blinked against welling tears. “I know how much it hurts. How helpless it makes you feel. I . . . I’m so sorry you’re going through this, Lucas.” A tear slid down her cheek. “I wish there was something more I could do to—”

  “Aimee, don’t cry . . .”

  Before she could blink, they were holding each other, a hug of comfort and compassion, shared pain—and because it was what made sense in this moment. Aimee wasn’t sure who reached out first; she didn’t care. She didn’t question, either, if anything more would come of it. She simply closed her eyes, nestled her cheek against the stubbled warmth of Lucas’s, and held on.

  “I DIDN’T MEAN to pull you away from hamburger duty,” Taylor said, chuckling as she reached out to pluck at Aimee’s mustard-splotched dietary apron. She glanced from her table, through a clutch of OB staff, toward the hospital cafeteria grill. “Though it looks like your lunch crowd has dwindled. You didn’t add any scary pickle garnishes, did you?”

  “Gee, thanks.” Aimee tucked a strand of hair back under her paper chef cap. “I guess I needed that crack to keep me humble, and—” she covered a yawn—“awake. They had me here at five thirty to start the breakfast prep. At least I get to go home early.” She breathed in the salt-on-grease aroma of French fries and onion rings. “Another thirty-two minutes, not that I’m counting.”

  “Go home early to fret over your first-place recipe?”

  “No.” Aimee smiled at her cousin. “My test run was really good last night; no problems adapting Mom’s original recipe. I switched out the butter for a high-quality vegan spread, used organic sugar, and . . .” She lowered her voice and glanced around, feeling like an idiot to even imagine someone might try to steal her recipe. “I added some freshly grated nutmeg and orange zest. And a teeny splash of Grand Marnier. Might capture some overachiever points with the judges.”

  Taylor grinned. “I’m so proud of you, kiddo. You really want this.”

  “I do.” Aimee thought again of her brother and her father, moving on with their lives. Taylor too. Aimee didn’t just want this new career as a chef; she needed it. The contest was a week from today. Everything depended on her winning. Her testing proved the recipe would work. As long as she had everything prepped and ready and there were no last-minute problems.

  “So I go to the farmers’ market on Friday morning,” Taylor confirmed, “get the best berries I see, and pick up the rhubarb from Aiden and Eve’s biblical fruit stand. And take it all to your apartment.”

  Aimee frowned. “I’m not so sure now.”

  “But you said the recipe went perfectly. And it’s your lucky birthday dessert.”

  “No, I didn’t mean that. I’m making the strawberry rhubarb crumble. It’s my wheezing, antique refrigerator I’m not so sure about.” Aimee shook her head. “I think it’s about to go on the fritz again. My butter looked too soft this morning. And my landlord
takes forever to get a repairman out. I don’t want to take chances.”

  “We’ll keep the fruit in my refrigerator, then. It’s practically new, with humidity-controlled fruit bins and all that fancy stuff.”

  “Thanks, but your place is too far away. The contest starts super early on Saturday. I think I’ll have you bring the fruit here to work. I’ll get the okay to keep it in the dietary fridge, pick it up Saturday morning on my way to the contest kitchen. Every speck of the work is done there in front of the judging team, from the initial chopping and measuring to my final strawberry valentine garnish.” Butterflies fluttered in Aimee’s stomach. “I need everything to go exactly right. No surprises.”

  “Well,” Taylor said, glancing toward the grill, “it seems you have one anyway.” Her green eyes glittered. “Over there, rising culinary star—you have a lunch customer. And he’s looking this way.”

  Aimee turned and felt her cheeks flame. Lucas. She returned his smile, offered a be-there-in-a-second gesture. Then glanced at her cousin. “I’d better—”

  “Go; scoot,” Taylor told her, clearly enjoying the little scenario. “I’m on my way back to the ER. And if I had to make a diagnosis right here, I’d say that guy looks seriously hungry.”

  Aimee hurried behind the grill counter, wishing to high heaven she wasn’t wearing the goofy chef cap or an apron that looked like it had played two rounds of paintball . . . and that her face would cool down. If this kept up, she’d need the fire extinguisher. It was a hug, nothing more.

  “Hey there,” Lucas greeted her over the stainless steel counter. “I heard you were chief fry cook.”

  “Not exactly chief,” she admitted, noticing that he was freshly shaved today, with no clothing rumples or rogue curls. But the same compelling eyes. Aimee tried to ignore a tingly memory of how it felt to be held in his arms. “Donny’s here somewhere, probably going over receipts. I’m his assistant.” She managed a teasing smile. “That would be ‘sous-chef’ if the ambience didn’t have sirens and stat pages for labor and delivery.”