Can't Stand the Heat

by Shelly Ellis

  “OK, Cris,” she said calmly. “You . . . you think about it.” He could tell it was like eating glass for her to have to say that. “Give me a call when you’re ready to talk.”

  “All right, I will.”

  “Bye, Cris. I love you.”

  “Bye, Alex,” he said, purposely avoiding using the “L” word.

  He hung up the phone and let out a puff of air he had been holding between his cheeks.

  That phone call had been hard. He hadn’t expected any visits from ghosts from his past, but one had certainly shown up today. Despite what she had done to him, part of him still missed Alex and wanted to tell her to hop on a flight to Dulles Airport. But another part of him fought that urge. He had to move forward, and letting Alex back into his life wasn’t the way to do it. He had plans and he intended to follow them.

  “Speaking of plans,” a voice said inside his head. “Did you forget the very important thing you planned to do today?”

  Cris glanced down at his wristwatch. “Oh, shit.” He saw that it was seven minutes to three p.m. The movers would definitely have to pick up the pace if he wanted to have enough time to get to Le Bayou Bleu before the restaurant opened for the dinner rush.

  He marched out of the great room with the intent to carry the furniture himself if it would speed this up.

  Chapter 8

  “Lauren,” Paula called across the kitchen as Lauren stepped out of the women’s locker room. “There’s someone out front lookin’ for you.”

  “Huh?” Lauren shouted over the cacophony of kitchen noise. She tied a black apron around her chef’s coat and knotted the strings in the front around her waist. She then adjusted the red bandanna on her head, making sure every loose lock of hair was tucked underneath. “Who’s lookin’ for me?”

  Paula’s pink cheeks were smudged with flour. “I have no clue. They just told me to tell you when I saw you that someone’s out front waiting.” With deft hands, Paula quickly laid bars of chocolate in the center of the dough that would be neatly rolled into croissants. “Check at the maître d’ desk.”

  Lauren’s frown intensified. What’s this about?

  She was “raring to go,” as Phillip would say—ready to fire up the burners and set her knives flying—and now her afternoon was suddenly being veered off course. The heady anticipation she always felt when she entered the kitchen was being dulled by confusion. She instantly tried to think of whom the guy out front might be, but she drew a blank.

  James, maybe?

  God, I hope not, she thought. The last encounter she had had with him had been ugly (she still had the bruises on her arm and shoulder to show for it) and, quite frankly, if she went another year without seeing James Sayers again, she would be ecstatic.

  Was it a bill collector?

  It better not be! She had heard of bill collectors calling people’s jobs to harass them about some overdue bill, but she had never heard of one coming to someone’s place of work. If it was a bill collector, then he was definitely in violation of the law and she would tell him so. She would also share a few choice words with him about overstepping her line of privacy.

  Lauren slowly walked out of the kitchen, leaving the door swinging behind her. She hesitantly rounded the corner and walked toward the dining section, still nervous about whom she might find waiting.

  The restaurant hadn’t opened yet for the day, so it was mostly empty, with the exception of a few busboys who were preparing the dining tables for the evening crowd. She watched as they neatly set out bread plates, water glasses, and napkins. They painstakingly wiped wrinkles from white linen tablecloths and removed wilted leaves from the flower vases at the center of each table.

  Lauren squinted to see if she recognized the tall black man in gray slacks and white button-down shirt who stood up front chatting with Nathan near the maître d’ desk. As she drew closer, he turned around and she could see the profile of his handsome face more clearly. Lauren abruptly stopped in her tracks.

  It was Cris Weaver; the guy from more than a week ago, the one who had wandered into the kitchen looking for Phillip.

  After Cris’s promise to come back to Le Bayou Bleu, Lauren had eagerly kept an eye out for him, expecting every night that the ex-football player would step through the kitchen door. But when he hadn’t shown up after a week, she felt like a silly girl with a high school crush and gave up. In retrospect, he was probably just being polite when he’d said he would come back to the restaurant. And maybe he did come back after all, but just to eat the delicious food, not to flirt with the sous chef.

  Lauren had eventually decided it was for the best to not see him again anyway. He would be a distraction she didn’t need. She had too many things going on in her life to get sidetracked by falling for some man, she’d resolved.

  But all those thoughts faded now as she gazed at him. She could instantly feel the attraction toward him sweep over her with a warm familiarity. Her heart rate increased and the butterflies began to flutter in her stomach. Unfortunately, the same insecurities she’d felt the day they met also came rushing back, sweeping over her. She hastily yanked the ratty red bandanna off her head and finger combed her shoulder-length hair into place with the hope of making herself more presentable. She then glanced down at her chef clothes and decided to give up trying. This wasn’t exactly Dolce & Gabbana she was wearing.

  Lauren resumed walking toward the front.

  He finally noticed her coming toward them. Nathan followed his gaze and turned to face her. Her knees felt like taffy when Cris smiled.

  “Ah, there you are, Lauren!” Nathan said. He followed the greeting with the most fakey grin imaginable. “It seems you have quite a fan of your cooking here. Mr. Weaver asked if he could meet you. I told him you would be happy to.” He turned back to face the towering man beside him. “Though, as I mentioned before, Lauren is only our sous chef, Mr. Weaver. If you’re really interested in meeting the talent behind the operation, you need to talk to Phillip. He’s her boss and our executive chef. You missed him last time.” Nathan batted his eyes. “He’s running a little late, but he should be here in a few minutes. If you’d like to—”

  Cris shook his head. “No, this is exactly the person I wanted to see.” He stared at Lauren openly. She felt her face flush with heat.

  “Well . . .” Nathan glanced hesitantly at Cris and then Lauren and back again. “If you say so, Mr. Weaver. I guess I’ll . . . leave you two . . . to . . . do”—he cleared his throat—“whatever.”

  Nathan turned and strode back to the dining room. He began to berate one of the busboys for placing a spotted water glass on one of the tables.

  Lauren glanced up at Cris and met his eyes, but she had to break his heated gaze. It was too overwhelming. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her apron and stared at his chest instead.

  “It’s good to see you again,” she said.

  “Good to see you, too.”

  They then fell into an awkward silence that lasted for a good ten seconds.

  “I bet they’ve been keeping you busy here,” he ventured. “Every time I drive past this place, it’s packed.”

  Well, if you drove past, why didn’t you come in to see me, for God’s sake?

  “No more busy than usual.” She forced a smile, still gazing at his second shirt button, still refusing to meet his eyes. “So how are you enjoying your retirement, Mr. Weaver? Life in Chesterton has to be different from Dallas, especially for a Dallas Cowboy.”

  “Please, call me Cris. And how did you know that I played for the Cowboys?”

  “Oh, you’ve never lived in a small town before, have you? In a place like Chesterton, news travels at lightning speed. It also helped that they wrote an article about you in the Chesterton Times.”

  “I didn’t know that. I don’t see why I’m worth an article in the paper.”

  “You’re the biggest story since we got the new Savings and Loan on Main Street, which tells you somethin’. Things aren’t very exc
iting around here, so whenever there’s something or someone remotely new, they practically break out the high school marching band and fireworks.”

  He laughed and the sound of his laughter made her feel more comfortable. She finally quit staring at his shirt buttons and looked at his face.

  “So how can I help you, Cris?”

  Her eyes instantly focused on his generous mouth. She wondered what it would be like to kiss that mouth.

  “Well . . .” He leaned back against the maître d’ counter and crossed his arms over his broad chest. She wondered what it would be like to be embraced by those strong arms. “I have a proposition for you.”

  Lauren felt the flutter in her stomach again, but she quickly and silently told her nerves to calm down.

  “OK.” She mimicked his movements, crossing her arms over her own chest. “And what proposition would that be?”

  “Dinner. Sunday. Eight o’clock. Does that work for you?”

  Wow! He doesn’t waste any time, does he?

  Normally, a dinner date would be out of the question with her schedule, but Sunday was one of the few nights of the week that Lauren had off. The restaurant was closed on Sundays. She was definitely free and could probably say yes to his invitation, but something held her back.

  Maybe it was his forwardness that had caught her off guard. He was an ex-football player and handsome, after all. Maybe he was used to women responding to him quickly. But now that Lauren’s gold-digging days were over, she had decided that any relationship she pursued would have to be done gradually. She wanted to get to know the guy first. Plus, she still wasn’t sure if she was ready to start dating again. She still had so much emotional and financial baggage she carried around. Saying yes to a date with Cris now—no matter how much she wanted to, no matter how much she was physically attracted to him—was out of the question.

  She hesitated. “Look, Cris, you seem . . . you seem like a . . . very nice guy.”

  He narrowed his eyes.

  “I’m really flattered and I would love to go out with you, but now is just . . . well, it just isn’t a good time for me. Honestly, I wouldn’t be much of a date anyway. I’m working through a few things and . . .” Her words drifted off when he slowly shook his head and held up his hands.

  “Wait. Wait. Look, Lauren, I think there’s a misunderstanding here.”

  “There . . . there is?”

  “Yeah, I think so.” He nodded and gave a half smile. “I wasn’t asking you out on a date.”

  Her stomach plummeted.

  “I was asking if you could cater for a small get-together I’m having Sunday night at eight o’clock. The renovations at my house are done for the most part and I wanted to show off the place to a few friends of mine. I was hoping you could cook something for us . . . if that night works for you.”

  Lauren’s cheeks burned. She had never felt so embarrassed in her life. She instantly wanted to disappear or dissolve into a puddle on the floor. She tried her best to recover from the mortification.

  “Oh. I’m sorry. I . . . I just thought that . . . That was really stupid of me.”

  “No, it’s OK.” His smile widened. “You don’t have to apologize. It was a misunderstanding. That’s all.”

  “No, I should apologize,” she said vehemently, wanting nothing more than to race back into the kitchen and hide in the locker room. “Please forget everything I just said. Let’s start over again. Please?”

  “No problem. Look, it’s late notice, I know. But I want you to cater an event for me. I wouldn’t expect anything elaborate; just elegant, simple food with some kick to it. Kind of like what you already do here. You get carte blanche on the menu choices. I’d like three courses. That’s my only request.”

  She shoved her hands back into her apron pockets, unable to meet his eyes again. “You know, if you want someone to cater an event for you, Phillip would be much better at it than me. He’s done it before. I’ve only done it when he supervised.”

  “I’m sure you could figure it out. I have total confidence in you.”

  “Look, really, I’m not a caterer. I don’t have any of my own equipment.”

  “That’s not a problem. I have a commercial-grade kitchen and appliances and the stove has barely been used except when I burned some baked beans.” He chuckled. “Tell me what you need and I’ll make it happen.”

  “I don’t even have a crew to bring with me.” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “It’ll be just me and only me. I can’t possibly do it by myself!”

  “It’s only a party of four. How much of a crew do you need for four people?”

  “I’m not licensed!”

  “So I’ll look the other way. Besides, I don’t need a framed sheet of paper to tell me that you’ll wash your hands and not sneeze in the food.”

  She closed her eyes. “You just won’t take no for an answer, will you?”

  “Not if I can help it.” He pushed himself away from the maître d’ desk and stood at his full height. “Look, if it’s an issue of money, I’ll pay you plenty for your time and inconvenience. Like I said, I know it’s short notice. Will fifteen hundred work?”

  She opened her eyes, blinking in surprise. “You mean dollars?”

  “Yes, dollars.” He laughed. “I’m not in the habit of paying in pesos.”

  “Cris, it’s not . . . it’s not an issue of money. I told you I can’t—”

  “Not an issue of money, huh?” he repeated incredulously. “I see. How about two thousand, then?”

  She continued to shake her head.

  “Twenty-five hundred? Three thousand?”

  Lauren held up her hands. “Please, stop throwing numbers at me. I’m telling you: It’s not the money! What you’re offering is more than enough—way more—but I—”

  “Thirty-five hundred,” he said firmly, cutting her off. He tugged a checkbook and pen out of his back pocket. He flipped the billfold open and started to scribble on one of its pages. “And not a penny more.” He ripped the check from its perforated edge and held it out to her. “We’re up to almost nine hundred a plate, Lauren. I’ll expect some damn good food for that much money.”

  She stared down at the check in his hand. He was tossing an insane amount of cash at her to do only one night’s worth of work and feed four people? Why? Was her food really that good? And like she said, she had never catered alone before. She couldn’t vouch that she could produce five-star work in a kitchen she wasn’t familiar with, with no line cooks supporting her, and with less than a week’s notice.

  “But you do need the money, Lauren,” a voice in her head argued. “Remember that stack of bills you have hidden away at the back of your kitchen drawer? Did you forget about them?”

  Lauren pursed her lips. Of course she hadn’t forgotten. How could she?

  Thirty-five hundred dollars wouldn’t wipe away all her debt, but it would definitely put her in the right direction. Besides, maybe if she did this dinner and did it well, it could lead to more catering work. She doubted that other clients would be willing to pay $875 a plate, like Cris, but after a year or two, maybe she could raise enough money to whittle away at the more than eighty thousand she owed. She could finally walk away totally from her old life.

  “You can do this, girl!” the little voice said. “You’re a good cook. Even Phillip thinks you are! Why not get paid for it? It’s not like the old days when men threw money at you because they wanted you on their arm or in their bed. Cris wants to use you for your talent, not your body! Why not do it?”

  Lauren slowly reached out to him. With some final hesitation, she took the check he extended to her. “OK,” she said quietly as she folded the paper and tucked it into her apron pocket. “I’ll do it.”

  He grinned.

  “But I have to tell you that you’re really horrible at bargaining,” she said. “I don’t know how they do it in Texas, but when most people around here try to play hardball, they bring the price down, not up. I would have done i
t for fifteen hundred.”

  “I just know what I want, and I go after it. It doesn’t matter how much it costs.”

  When Lauren met his eyes, her smile faded. She could have sworn she saw a fire flickering in those dark irises again. But she pushed that thought aside. She wouldn’t be fooled this time. She had already embarrassed herself by assuming that he was attracted to her and was asking her out on a date. She wasn’t about to make that mistake twice.

  “Well, give me your number and I’ll call later this week and go over a few sample menus. I’ll let you choose between them.”

  “My number’s on there.” He pointed at the apron pocket that held the folded check.

  “Oh.” She glanced down at her apron and smiled. “Of course it is. Well, thank you for the opportunity. I’ll give you a call by Thursday.” She extended her hand for a shake. “I’ll try to come up with something that is the closest I can think of to an $875 plate.”

  “As long as it tastes good, that’s all that matters to me.” He then took her hand within his own.

  Lauren instantly felt a charge shoot up her arm, like an electric current. Warmth surged throughout her entire body.

  You’re going to have to get this under control if you’re going to work for him.

  Lauren shook his hand, ignoring the physical reaction she had to him. “Talk to you then.”

  She then tried to walk away, but he didn’t let go of her. His grasp lingered a few seconds longer.

  “I look forward to it,” he said quietly, before finally releasing her.

  Lauren nodded, turned, and walked away. She made her way down the center aisle of tables and only glanced back over her shoulder when she was halfway to the kitchen. She saw that Cris was still standing toward the front of the restaurant, watching her. Lauren waved. He waved back. She then turned around again and bumped into one of the dinner tables. She cursed under her breath and continued to walk to the kitchen, this time at a faster pace.

  Since she’d been thirteen years old, she had been taught to understand men: their thoughts, their desires, and the needs that drove them. But judging from how badly she was reading Cris Weaver, she must not know men as well as she thought. Because she could have sworn he was behaving as if he was attracted to her.