by Lilli Feisty
“Aw, poor Nick. Reduced to living like a normal single man.”
“Well, Sherry, I’m glad you think my situation is so amusing, because I sure as hell don’t.” He lit another cigarette.
Her voice softened. “Is it really that bad?”
“Yes.” He blew out a lungful of smoke. “It’s worse. You don’t understand. These people—most don’t eat meat. Quite a few are vegan.” He spit the word out as if it tasted bad. “I mean, what’s the point of living if you forgo luxuries such as cheese? The owner has no taste for anything new or different. And she’s bossy. She doesn’t listen to a thing I say. She’s always hovering over my shoulder, as if I don’t know what I’m doing.” He brought the cigarette back to his mouth. “Did I mention she’s bossy?”
“She sounds just awful.” But he could tell Sherry was biting back a smile.
“She is.” But Phoebe hadn’t looked awful earlier, when he’d been spooning caramelized bananas into her mouth. Her eyes had gone glassy, and her breathing had quickened. He’d found himself drawn to her luscious mouth, leaning toward her, as if he was going to touch his lips to hers—
It was a damn good thing that she’d pushed him away.
Wait? She’d pushed him away? That hadn’t happened since…Sherry.
He shifted on the hard wooden porch swing. “She’s incredibly annoying. She has no idea what she’s doing.”
“Well, didn’t she inherit the business?”
“Yeah. From her aunt and uncle.”
“Does she have another job?”
Nick brought the cigarette to his lips. “I guess so. Some organic farming business. And that’s another thing. She always expects me to cook whatever random vegetables she brings me and make them into something amazing.”
“And this is a challenge for you?”
“Hell no. But I can only cook so much cabbage and carrots before I want to slice my hands off.”
“Ah. Local cooking. It’s actually all the rage.”
“Not where I come from.”
“Nick?”
“What?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but regional cuisine is popular here as well. You just don’t know it because you’ve been so caught up in your own world.”
The words stung. He hadn’t been caught up in his own world. He’d been a professional, a traditionalist. He wasn’t prone to fads and he liked himself more for it. Everyone else could sod off with their passing trends.
To this day, Julia Child sold more cookbooks than any modern chef. Her classic recipes using basic things like dairy were as popular now as they were twenty years ago.
He exhaled a breath of smoke. “It is a fad. What people really want are delicacies, things they can’t make at home. That’s what I do.” It’s what he loved to do.
“I know, Nick. And you’re damn good at it.”
He grunted at the compliment. “That’s not the point. The point is, I don’t bow to trends. Not in Los Angeles, and definitely not here.”
“Anyway,” Sherry said. “So, back to your boss.”
“Phoebe?”
“Yes. Phoebe. So she’s an organic farmer who knows nothing about running a restaurant and is driving you crazy.”
“Pretty much.” He poured another few ounces of tequila into his glass.
“Is she cute?”
“What? Why?” He shifted in his chair. “And no.” But even as he said the word, he could envision her green eyes and imagine the way her nose crinkled up when she was annoyed with him. And he longed to bury his nose in the crook of her neck and inhale her scent. Honey. She smelled like honey.
“No,” he repeated. “She’s not cute at all.”
He could practically hear Sherry shrug. “You just have a funny tone in your voice when you talk about her.”
“That tone you hear is my infinite irritation at being stuck in a place I hate, working for a woman who has no palate whatsoever, and spending way too much time sitting on my front porch when I should be out getting laid.”
Sherry ignored his tirade. “So. She’s an organic farmer.”
“Yes.” Shifting, he took another deep drag of smoke.
“That would explain why she isn’t exactly an expert in the field. She’s been concentrating on other things. What’s the name of her business? Maybe I’ve heard of it.” Sherry specialized in organic California wine and was the lead distributor in Southern California.
“I have no idea,” Nick said.
“Well, find out.”
Nick grunted. “Why does it matter?”
“Because you’re going to be working with her for the next eleven months. You may as well at least try to make the best of things. Why don’t you think of it as a learning opportunity?”
“I already know how to cook vegetables.”
“Maybe this is your chance to get back to basics, to relearn your craft.”
He clenched his hand around his tequila glass. “I don’t need to relearn my fucking craft, Sherry. I’m the best at what I do.”
“Don’t get your panties in a wad, hon. I’m just suggesting that maybe…”
“Maybe what?”
“Maybe this will be good for you.”
“Maybe this will kill me.”
“Nick. You know I love you.”
“Right.”
“And, as your friend, I have to tell you, I think you were on a dangerous path back here in L.A.”
“What are you talking about? I was at the top of my game!”
“But it’s not healthy. Drinking all night, smoking a pack a day. Having sex with a different girl every night.”
“Not every night,” he mumbled. “And I was always careful.”
“I know. But despite all the fun you were having, you didn’t seem happy. At least not to me.”
“Well, you were wrong.” She couldn’t be more wrong. “And this is supposed to make me happy? Living in the middle of some forest, listening to crickets? Spending my time creating a hundred and one ways to make broccoli?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“That’s not true. I just had a colonic. See? I truly am an L.A. girl at heart.”
He laughed at her change of subject. She really was a good friend to worry about him, even if her concern was misplaced.
“Listen, Nick. Just try to relax. Attempt to make the best of the experience. If you still hate it in a year, you can come back.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll be back.”
“Good. Because I actually miss your sorry ass.”
Nick smiled. “Back atcha, buttercup.”
He hung up the phone, took a final drag from his cigarette, and leaned back in the swing. A breeze blew through the redwoods in a whooshing sound, and crickets chirped loudly all around the cabin. Consciously, he ceased the jarring motion of his leg moving, up and down, up and down.
Then there was nothing. No noise. No distraction. Just Nick Avalon, alone. Alone in his head.
His palms got sweaty, and he jumped up. He threw his cigarette butt on the ground and stamped it out. Slamming the porch door behind him, he went to the stereo and pushed buttons until the fast, electronic beat of a techno song exploded through the room. Finally he began to relax. He let the music invade his head, his chest, his soul. With the song blasting through the house, he undressed for bed.
But he couldn’t wind down. It was too early. And somehow, even with the music pounding through him, it was too quiet. Standing in his room, he stared at his bed with disgust. The last thing he wanted to do was sleep. But what choice did he have?
There was really only one thing he knew that would calm his racing mind. So he went to the kitchen and started to cook.
Chapter Four
A rhythmic beat slowly drew Phoebe out of sleep. “What the…?” she muttered, opening her eyes. It was music. The unmistakable fast pulse of a drum coming through her open window. Or what should have been a drum. This sounded like some sort of ele
ctronic version of the instrument.
She glanced at the clock. “It’s one o’clock in the effing morning,” she said to herself.
Nick Avalon. Only one person would be blasting that annoying techno music in the early hours of the morning. “Inconsiderate jerk!” She threw off the vintage quilts that she slept under, then tiptoed out her bedroom door and down the old wooden stairs, being careful to skip the creaky one. If Jesse and Steve hadn’t woken up yet, she didn’t want to disturb them. Admittedly, Phoebe was a light sleeper, but anyone would agree that Nick Avalon was showing total disregard for his neighbors.
Still in her long nightgown and socks, she slid on the boots near the front door and stalked out into the night.
She tromped through the trees to the guesthouse, the music becoming louder as she made her way to the cabin. How dare he? Does he think he’s in an L.A. nightclub? “Insensitive, conceited, stuck-up jerk!”
She didn’t bother knocking on his door; he wouldn’t hear her anyway, not over all that racket. Instead she barged inside, slamming the door behind her. The loud bang produced no response from Nick, so she called his name. Still, nothing. She went to the stereo and turned the music off. And even then, Nick didn’t appear.
Then she paused as a waft of something sweet reached her nose. He must be in the kitchen. She followed the unmistakable scent of chocolate, her traitorous mouth already beginning to water.
She found him mixing what appeared to be batter. Dan and Sally had renovated the cabin not long ago, and the space was modern although it appeared rustic. Knotty-pine cabinetry lined one wall, and a faux-antique stove took up a large portion of the space. Despite the humble appearance, the kitchen was equipped for a chef.
And there happened to be one at the butcher-block island, mixing a bowl of something that looked creamy, chocolaty, and delicious.
Nick was staring into the bowl as he stirred. His expression was intent on what he was doing, and she realized he hadn’t even noticed that the music had been shut off. She paused. She’d never seen this expression on his face. Normally he was so aloof, so standoffish. So intense he seemed wired to explode. But now, here alone in his own kitchen, his own element, she saw something different. He looked serene. Why didn’t he ever look that way in the café?
Also, he never went without a shirt in the café, which, she had to admit, was a crying shame. Because just look at him.
She bit her lip. He was wearing nothing but pajama bottoms. His torso was lean but solid-looking, his arms defined. And then her gaze landed on the upper part of his chest. He had a large tattoo spanning the area just above his nipples. It was a word, decorating his skin in scrolling, dark script.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Obviously startled, he dropped the spoon in his hand. “What the fuck? Phoebe?”
She stepped into the kitchen and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Do you have your last name tattooed on yourself? You really are the most narcissistic, conceited man I have ever met.”
So why was there something about that particular facet of his personality that intrigued her? That shouldn’t happen. But then, none of the things she’d been experiencing since she’d met Nick Avalon should be happening. For example, she was in her nightgown, staring at his naked chest as he mixed some sort of chocolate concoction. In the middle of the night. This entire scenario really shouldn’t be happening.
But it was.
He picked up the spoon. “Yeah, well, no doubt I am the most narcissistic man you’ve ever met. So sue me.” He looked her in the eye. “How many men do you know out here in hippie country anyway, Phoebe?”
She raised her chin. “Enough.” But she had to admit, she didn’t know a man who was anything like Nick. For better or worse, every time she watched his easy, proficient way around the kitchen her pulse raced with excitement, and it didn’t seem to be a thing she could control.
He smirked. “I’m sure you know plenty of men. I bet just last night you had a hot stud in your bedroom.”
“How do you know that’s not true?” Last night she’d spent the evening reading The Honey Trail: In Pursuit of Liquid Gold and Vanishing Bees. And even though she thought lessons on how to avoid the varroa mite fascinating, she couldn’t focus. Her thoughts kept drifting to Nick.
“Anyway,” she said, “I know plenty of men.” They were all her brother-in-law’s friends or men she’d known since she was in kindergarten, but he didn’t need to know that.
“Been with a lot of guys, have you, love?” he asked, and his accent seemed stronger than ever.
She shoved her hands on her hips, arms akimbo. “It doesn’t matter how many men I’ve known. The fact is, I don’t need a man, and I don’t have time for a relationship.” She waved the spoon at him. “Why am I defending my love life to you?”
“I have no idea. But it’s truly fascinating. Please, continue.”
His sarcasm made her fingers curl to keep from punching his shoulder. For some reason he made her feel competitive, as if they were going for the same prize. Which was ridiculous. She was the boss. The only prize was continuing the success of the café. And they both wanted that. So why was he always taunting her?
Furthermore, why did she respond to his heckling?
“And,” she added, “I’m glad to say none of them have ever been vain enough to get their own names permanently marked onto their skin. Or did you do it in case you forget who you are?”
“Actually, you’re not far off.”
She narrowed her gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I legally took my mother’s name when I turned eighteen. This was my way of making it official.”
“Making what official?”
She couldn’t help it. No, no. Don’t go there; don’t get personal. But the night was already so strange, and whenever she was around Nick, her entire center seemed off-balance. And damn it, he was right. He really was totally unlike any of the men she knew.
Which was a good thing. The men she knew may seem boring by Nick’s standards, but they were good, down-to-earth people. Trustworthy. Unlike Nick.
Spinning the bowl in a slow circle on the counter, he stared into the depths of what he’d been mixing. “I didn’t want any ties to my father. The last time I spoke with him was twenty years ago. He was a bloody bastard, and I hated seeing his name every time I signed my name on something.”
“Oh.”
He shrugged. “Was getting this tattoo an immature thing to do? Probably. But it’s done now, and I’m not having it removed.”
Phoebe wondered what his father had done to make him so angry. Nick was confident, strong, and independent. It was difficult to imagine anyone making him feel bad.
At her farm, she often worked with abused kids. Every summer, a group would visit and learn about growing produce. She’d learned to distance herself somewhat from their situations so she could help them without becoming overly protective. But the thought of someone harming Nick…
It shouldn’t make her feel a bit ill inside. But it did.
Shaking the thought aside, she stepped into the kitchen and peered into the bowl of chocolate. She’d found food was always a nice distraction from stress, and Nick’s food was especially nice. “I came over because your annoying music woke me up. I mean, it’s the middle of the night. Do you really need to be blasting what you claim to be music?”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Did my loud tunes disrupt your beauty sleep?”
“It’s rude. You had your stereo up loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.”
He purposely looked through the kitchen window and into the darkness of the forest. When he turned back to her and spoke, his sarcasm wasn’t lost on her. “And the neighbors would be…who?”
“Me! And Jesse and Steve.”
He shrugged. “I only see you, bumpkin.”
She stepped forward. “Listen. You can’t blast music all night long.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. Won’t happen again. Promise. I’d
hate to be the cause of anyone in the town being awake past midnight.”
“Why do you have to be such a—such a…prick?” Immediately she put her hand over her mouth. Had she really just called her employee a prick?
Yes, Phoebe, you did. You’re standing in your nightgown, in the middle of the night, calling your chef bad things.
He actually looked shocked. “Did you call me a prick?”
She moved her hand aside. “Um. I guess that was a bit…unprofessional.” Had she actually hurt his feelings?
“I don’t give a fuck if it’s unprofessional. I’m just shocked to hear such a bad word come out of your mouth.”
“I can say bad words.”
“Obviously.”
Okay, it was time to get some control over the situation here. She sucked in a deep, calming breath. But then her senses were filled with the sweet scent of chocolate. She glanced to the bowl on the table. “That looks good. What is it?”
“Melted chocolate, butter, and cream. Very bad for you.”
“Looks yummy.” She dipped her finger into the velvety mixture.
But then his hand was wrapped around her wrist, firm and unyielding. “What are you doing?” he demanded.
“Tasting.” And wondering whether she was trying to irritate him or satisfy herself.
“Stop helping yourself to whatever I’m cooking.”
She tried to yank her hand back, but he held her tightly. For such a lean man, he was incredibly strong. “Stop being so uptight,” she said. God, it was this. This bickering that made something in her veins quicken. And it was bad. So, so very bad.
But she liked it. What was wrong with her?
“Phoebe. Stop trying to steal my food.”
“No.” Man, it was like an addiction. A dangerous addiction. She knew everything about this was wicked, that she should walk away and be an adult. The boss.
Sadly, she couldn’t. Something in him called to her. He was like a big plate of pasta, and she was on a low-carb diet. He was bad for her; he was forbidden. And the more she tried to deny what she wanted, the more her mouth watered. The more she wanted to dig in and devour him.