She frowned and considered his words. “So I guess he knows what he’s losing.”
He stilled at that perspective.
She dumped a cup of blackberries into the processor. “You’re lucky. Not many people understand that until it’s too late.” She looked up at him.
“You’re suggesting it’s not too late.”
She shrugged and added the measuring cup of lime juice to the blackberries. She scratched her forehead and sighed. “He’s still alive, right?”
He didn’t answer, and she picked up his pen. “Write the amounts down in your recipe journal thingy.”
He did.
Half an hour later they had three blackberry sauces cooling in the fridge and were preparing to make the shrimp.
Jace couldn’t help observing how cooking with Georgie was different from cooking with Brenna. On the occasions when he’d cook for Brenna, he did all the preparations before she arrived, or Brenna sat in the other room while he worked in the kitchen.
“I’ll just be in your way, babe,” she’d say, then get on her phone and text or read. Now that he thought about it, even when he’d asked her to help, she’d seemed bored or impatient.
And it occurred to him how little he thought of Brenna anymore.
He watched Georgie sort through the ingredients for the next phase of their experiment, noticing a small splotch of blackberry pulp on her neck. He had the fleeting temptation to say something but chose not to. Then he surprised himself by imagining kissing her there, tasting the berries.
Followed by her punch to his gut.
Yeah, that was all he needed.
She turned, catching him watching. With a jolt, he grabbed the stack of bowls, and she quickly focused on the egg carton. She popped open the lid. “Do we have everything we need?”
He surveyed the ingredients, taking a deep breath. “Looks like it. We’re flash-frying so the shrimp stay light and crunchy without getting too greasy.” He slid one of the small bowls to her. “Would you crack an egg in here?”
Georgie cracked an egg, immediately diving after a small piece of shell. He smiled to himself and scooped flour into the second bowl and then a handful of panko crumbs into a third. He minced the washed parsley and poured the peppercorns into the grinder as Georgie wiped her hands on a towel. She set the towel down and waited.
“Well?” she asked.
“Well, now we figure out the seasonings.” They studied the array before them.
He raised his eyebrows at Georgie, and she shook her head.
“Don’t ask me. Until a few hours ago, I didn’t even know that panko bread crumbs were a thing.”
He nodded and reached for the salt. Pinch of that. Garlic. Minced parsley. He made notes as he went.
Faye wandered in to get a sweater. “Something smells good in here,” she said.
“We made blackberry sauce,” Georgie said with pride.
“Mm, heavenly. I thought about giving you some instruction in the kitchen, Georgie, but I’ll admit you’ve found a more interested teacher.” Faye winked at Jace, pulled her sweater on, and excused herself once more. “Let me know when it’s ready,” she called behind her as the back door shut again.
After Faye left, Jace found himself trying to look anywhere but at Georgie, and Georgie seemed to be doing the same.
She spied the ingredients. “What are those?” She pointed to a small glass jar.
“Black sesame seeds,” he answered, grateful to get back to the task at hand. “I thought they would add to the crunch and the look of the shrimp.”
She nodded, and she actually seemed eager, so he added the sesame seeds.
Then he lifted the pepper grinder. “How much black pepper did your friend’s mom use?”
“She sprinkled the heck out of them. Kind of made your lips burn.”
He kept himself from smiling. “Do we want our lips to burn?” He watched her gaze flicker to his mouth and back up, and the action made him strangely nervous.
She looked down and shrugged, tracing a dark vein in the granite countertop. “I guess it depends on what you want,” she said. “If you’re going to sell them as lip-burning spicy, then customers who like that will order them.”
He nodded. “Like buffalo wings.”
“Right. But if you want to appeal to a wider base, keep them on the milder side.”
“Which do you like?” he asked casually. “Lip-burning spicy or a slower heat?”
She looked up at him quickly, and her cheeks colored. “I . . . don’t—”
He considered teasing her, but something told him not to. Maybe it was that nervous hammering of his heart again. He was anticipating how this experiment would turn out, that was all.
He grabbed another small bowl and started grinding pepper like a mad man. “We’ll figure it out. The addition of the sauce will also be a deciding factor.” After filling the dish with a small mound of cracked pepper, he reached for a quarter teaspoon. Always start small.
“You tell me when,” he said.
“Me?”
“We don’t have to get it right the first time. We have plenty of tries. But you know what the pepper on the butter shrimp looked like.”
After three spoonfuls, she stopped him.
“You sure?”
She peered into the bowl. “Maybe one more?”
He added more, made a note, and mixed the crumbs a few times with his hand to blend the seasonings. He showed her the mix. “How’s that?”
She shrugged, nodding. “I guess.”
“Good enough for me,” he said. “Grab a bowl of shrimp from the fridge.”
As he washed his hands, Georgie brought out a bowl of four shrimp. He returned to the counter, and she set the bowl down in front of them.
“Our first victims,” he said.
“Bless their little shrimp bodies.”
“Amen.”
She grinned.
He showed her how to dredge the shrimp in flour, then egg, then the bread crumbs. She followed perfectly.
“Good. Now we fry them.”
They added the shrimp to the fryer basket, and Jace lowered them sizzling into the hot oil.
He got out the sauces from the fridge, and Georgie set up paper towels on a plate for the hot shrimp.
The shrimp quickly turned crisp and golden, even heavily flecked with black pepper. Jace lifted the fryer basket and let it drain. Then, with tongs, he transferred the shrimp to a plate.
“Those look great,” Georgie said.
He had to agree. But even after the blackberry sauce, he knew successful first tries were rare. “Okay, when you taste these, I want you to consider your very first impression of that first bite, then what you think as you chew, and then what you experience after you swallow. Imagine yourself at a restaurant and trying these for the first time.”
He held the plate out to her, and she chose a shrimp. He chose his. She went to dip hers in the first sauce.
“Wait. Taste them without it first. We need to make sure they can stand on their own.”
“But they don’t have any feet.”
“Ha, ha.” He held his shrimp up, and she mirrored him. “Here’s to good ideas.”
“Cheers.”
They bit into their shrimp with the exact crunch he wanted to hear. He watched her as they chewed.
And then the heat hit.
Her eyes grew wide. Jace drew in a breath but choked. She waved her free hand near her mouth and hurried to the cupboard for glasses.
“Milk,” he cried, knowing water wouldn’t do much.
Georgie poured milk. They grabbed the glasses and gulped, then both gasped.
“The crackers,” Jace said.
Georgie attacked the box and shoved a few in his hand.
He bit into a couple and chewed. After wiping tears from his eyes, he asked, “What do you think?”
She nodded, finishing off her milk. “The first impression was perfect until, you know, my mouth ignited in flames.” She
shoved a cracker in her mouth and talked around it. “Swallowing left a trail of pepper lava. My ears hurt. But we’re close.”
He grinned, still choking a little. “You want to try them with the sauce to see if that will help?”
She shook her head. “Not even with ice cream.”
“No Ben and Jerry’s? No My Lips Are on Fire Ripple?”
Georgie laughed. “I’m so sorry,” she said, sobering a little.
“It’s not your fault. Experiment, remember? You’ve taken mad scientist to a new level. Fresh cracked pepper is always stronger than preground. I should have remembered. But now we know where to go from here.”
“We do?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Less pepper.”
She smiled and sipped more milk.
Three more tries later and Jace knew they were getting it. They held their crunchy shrimp in front of them in anticipation.
“Third time’s a charm,” he said.
“Smells good,” she offered. Their glasses of milk stood at the ready.
He smiled warily and took a bite. She followed.
As they chewed, Georgie’s eyes closed.
The burn was subtle, allowing the earthy flavor of the pepper to come through without overpowering the buttery sweetness of the shrimp.
“I like the lemon,” she said, her eyes still closed. “It’s not lemony but just a little . . .” She opened her eyes and studied her shrimp. “Lighter.”
“And the burn?”
She swallowed. “It’s good, but I can’t wait to try it with the blackberry sauce.”
That was exactly what he wanted to hear. He pushed the first bowl of sauce in front of her and spooned some onto her shrimp. She bit down and chewed.
“Mmm, that’s good. That’s really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Georgie spooned a little more sauce on her shrimp and pushed the bowl toward Jace. “Try it, sous-chef.”
He spooned deep-purple sauce over his shrimp, lifted it to his mouth, and took a bite.
Georgie nodded slowly, and Jace raised his hand to her, palm open for a high five.
She returned the gesture, her smile open and without caution. Her carefree expression was fleeting. She lowered her gaze and turned to the other sauces.
“We need to try these too, right?”
He nodded, feeling the triumph settle in. “This first sauce is going to be hard to beat though.”
“Definitely.”
With this boost of confidence, he no longer wished to be the only one giving answers. “Georgie, where do you come from, and how is it that you’ve never cooked before?”
Georgie bit her lip just as Faye came in from the back patio.
“How’s it going in here? It smells wonderful.”
Georgie gave her her full attention. “We just finished. Try this.” Georgie held the plate out to Faye.
Faye helped herself, and despite Georgie not answering his question, that small thrill of expectation ran through Jace. One of the best things about cooking was when he knew he’d hit the nail on the head and he got to share the first tastes.
Through Faye’s sounds of approval, Georgie invited her to help them choose the best sauce. It didn’t take long. They were all tasty on their own, but with the shrimp, it was clear.
“It’s unanimous,” Jace said. “The first sauce is the best.”
Georgie and Faye nodded in agreement.
“Incredible,” he said.
Georgie grinned. “So we’re done? We did it?”
He paused. “That depends.”
“On what?” she asked, opening the fridge.
He leaned against the counter. “On whether you were satisfied or you were left wanting more.” He glanced at Faye, who winked at him. He couldn’t help chuckling and offered her the fourth shrimp. She didn’t even hesitate.
Georgie pulled out the remaining bowls of raw shrimp. She set them down on the table with a clatter and lifted her gaze to his once again. “Let’s make more.”
Slowly he grinned.
Chapter 13
Jace picked up his helmet. “I’ll see you tonight at work.”
She nodded and folded her arms.
“Tomorrow we’ll explore a bit more. We’ve got to get a main dish. Start that brain of yours thinking in that direction.”
“No problem,” she answered, heavy on the sarcasm.
He grinned. “You have the day off tomorrow, right?”
She nodded.
“I think we should head over to the tulip fields. Maybe hit a few restaurants for inspiration.”
“Oh . . .” Worry suddenly clouded the lightness she’d felt in their success. “I’m not . . . I don’t . . .” Restaurants, tulip fields. It sounded like a—
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s on the restaurant’s bill. Research.”
The sensation of foolishness immediately took the place of her sudden nerves. He wasn’t asking her out. This was work. “Of course.”
“But there’s the matter of . . .” He looked down at his motorcycle. “Do you mind taking the bike again?”
She felt herself shaking her head no. She didn’t mind.
“I mean, I didn’t want to ask you to drive—”
“We can take the bike,” she said, recoiling at how eager she sounded. “Or I could drive.”
He nodded, studying her. “It might rain.”
She flung her arms out. “Whatever. Let’s just take the bike.”
He seemed to enjoy her awkward display. “Okay, then.” He pulled the helmet on, kicked up the kickstand, and got it started. “Thanks!” he called above the engine.
“For what?” she asked.
He just shook his head and pulled out of the drive.
Georgie watched him leave, his motorcycle growling away and up the hill, and she fought the smile tugging at her mouth.
She’d had no idea what to expect. She’d had no idea what kind of help she’d be or if Jace would be impatient or if he would do all the work. But he had been patient, and they’d worked together, mostly. Now they had their—his—appetizer for the menu. And there was something more.
She hadn’t felt incompetent, inadequate, or extra. She’d had fun. All morning. Cooking with Jace was fun.
She folded her arms, and her smile faded. She’d made that horrible comment about men and motorcycles, and then she’d managed a small tirade about Jace’s dad. At least he’d taken it well. Even, she sensed, with some amusement. At least about his dad. And when Jace had flirted with her—she was pretty sure it was flirting, despite her rants—the thump of her heartbeat had not been unpleasant. She’d struggled to downplay it. They were friends. After Uncle Dar admitted he’d asked Jace to keep an eye on her at work, she’d noticed Jace often went out of his way to draw a smile from her. And today she realized she appreciated it.
She pulled out her phone for the first time since that morning. Twelve thirty.
Her therapy appointment was at two. She sighed. The day had been great so far. And though the therapy was helping, it wasn’t fun.
At all.
Laurel Cruz leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees. They’d gone through the pleasantries, and now Georgie felt the lightness of her morning dim and deflate. She wasn’t in therapy for pleasantries.
“I’ve had a good day,” she said.
“Wonderful. What made it good?”
Jace. She pushed that answer away. It wasn’t Jace. Not all of it. “I was trying new things. I felt a lot like myself. It was distracting . . . from everything.”
“I’m glad you were able to have some distraction. I don’t think you’ve allowed yourself very much of that; am I right?”
Georgie nodded. She wanted more of that distraction—more feeling . . . real.
“Where would you like to go from here? Why are we here today?”
That was a loaded question, but Georgie knew what Laurel meant. “I feel guilty. Just . . . guilt. Most of the time. I
jump on things and people . . . Tons of questions keep floating around in my head, and I don’t know how to shake them or answer them.”
“What questions?”
Georgie sat on the edge of the chair and rubbed her forehead. “Should I have waited to break up with Ian? Why did I let it get so far? How was I attracted to someone like that in the first place? What caused the accident? Why did he have to die? How can I prevent something like that from happening again?” She rolled her eyes and fell back against the chair, realizing her tone had become urgent. “You know, just the usual.”
Laurel smiled patiently. “Do you think it was a mistake to break up with Ian?”
“No.”
“So, if you’re sure that wasn’t a mistake, why should it matter when it happened?”
Georgie dropped her hand and leaned forward. “Because he died.”
“But you don’t know what caused the crash. You don’t remember.”
“He was very angry. Really angry. I made him angry.”
“What are some general reactions when people break up with each other?”
“What?”
“Let’s just list some common reactions that occur during breakups.” Laurel stood and pulled the lid off a whiteboard marker.
“Um, okay. So, anger.”
Laurel nodded and wrote anger on the board.
“Sadness.”
Up the word went.
“Confusion. Heartbreak. Relief.”
Laurel wrote all these down and popped the lid back on the pen.
“Good. Now, you said Ian was angry. Why, of all of these emotions, do you think he chose to be angry?”
Georgie blinked, unsure of how to answer.
“Let’s try this.” Laurel tapped her pen at the words on the board. “We tend to attach the value of somebody’s romantic feelings, or love, to the type of suffering at breakup. What do you think of that?”
Georgie considered and leaned back in her chair again. “I think that when people are sad, really sad, it’s easier to believe they truly loved. Or thought they could truly love.”
“And what about when they choose to be angry?”
“It’s a little different. Maybe they’re hiding their feelings. Or maybe they’re mad because it wasn’t the plan. Maybe they’d invested a lot in the relationship.” Or they’re narcissistic psychos, she thought.
Kisses in the Rain Page 16