Their trip had been productive. Enjoyable. Even deep on some kind of level. He hadn’t been bored. Frustrated, yeah. Worried about her. But he’d never felt . . . inadequate or like he had to prove himself. Even on the bike in the rain. Especially on the bike in the rain. She’d been okay with it. She’d said she loved it.
The hug at the end. He hadn’t known what to do. What with the hand holding and the not hand holding and the ride home . . . and the friends thing. So he’d hugged her. She’d felt so . . . right tucked in his arms.
So, yeah. Good day.
But the expression on her face when she said she was “haunted”—it wasn’t a joke. This guy she’d been with had treated her like crap, and she’d left home because of that. Maybe school too. And she was in therapy. That was serious. The more he thought about that, the more ticked off he became. The more he wanted her tucked in his arms.
Because he cared about her. He cared about her a lot.
He grabbed his phone off the nightstand and Googled “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”
After reading through it a couple of times, he texted Georgie. He could do that. Friends texted. Just read Prufrock. Measuring my life in tablespoons. He paused, hoping that didn’t sound too corny. Thanks again for your help today. He hit send and waited, wondering if she was already asleep. After a few minutes, he decided it didn’t matter if she was asleep. She’d get the text in the morning. He set his phone back down just before it buzzed.
She’d answered him. You can thank that stupid bee.
He smiled. The honey was a brilliant idea. Good night, Alfred.
He waited again, a little uncomfortable with how eager he was for her answer. She might not answer. Why would she answer? She was probably rolling her eyes—
His phone buzzed. Stop calling me that. I’m not a guy.
He smiled again. I know.
Chapter 17
The morning shone beautiful and bright, and Jace had propped the back door of the restaurant open.
Of course, he thought, looking out at the clear sky. On the bike, rain. Working inside today, sun.
But he hardly cared. He’d be inside cooking with Georgie. They’d start with the salsa for the halibut first. And they would try pan searing as well as grilling the halibut steaks. He pulled a heavy-bottomed fry pan from the rack and prepped the grill.
“Good morning,” Georgie said. She stood in the doorway, her hair kind of lit up from behind.
Jace stood back from the grill, trying to ignore the pleasant jump in his stomach. “Good morning.”
She reached for an apron and tied it on. “I’m sorry I’m late. I slept in a little bit.”
“No problem.”
She smiled up at him, reserved but friendly. “What are we doing first?”
“The salsa,” he said.
She looked around. “Should I have tied my hair back?”
“No,” he said a little too quickly. “I mean, it doesn’t matter. We’re just cooking for us.”
“Halibut for breakfast, yum.”
He moved to the cooler. She followed.
“So what do you think for the salsa?” He opened the heavy door and allowed her through, then pulled out the box of ingredients he’d separated from the others. He handed them to her as he named them. “Tomato, of course. And onion, green pepper—basic salsa.” He grabbed some mandarin oranges and a little black-topped glass jar. “Mandarins and this.” He shook it gently.
“What is it?” she asked, peering closer.
He handed her the jar. “Saffron.”
She studied the reddish-orange threads in the jar. “But what are they?” He opened the lid, and she sniffed. “Smells sweet.”
“They’re the stigmas of crocus flowers. Can’t get more spring than that, right?”
She looked up at him, her eyes wide. “You’re kidding. Those little things in the centers of the flowers?”
“Would I make that up?” He screwed the lid back on. “They’re used as a spice and a food coloring. Very subtle but worth a try if we’re going for something different.”
“Interesting,” she said, still studying the saffron in the jar.
He grabbed a container of steamed clam meat; peeled, cooked shrimp; a bunch of fresh cilantro; and a few other ingredients. She followed him out with the vegetables.
Jace showed her how to peel and seed the tomatoes and zest the oranges. Then they went through their routine of measuring each ingredient and noting it in Jace’s book. He dumped the contents of half a dozen little bowls into a pile on a large cutting board.
“Now,” he said, “take one of those saffron threads and crumble it up.”
She looked at him like he’d asked her to step into a bullfight.
“Here.” He chose a thread from the little jar and took her hand, turning it palm up. She watched him cautiously, and he smiled. “Just gently rub it between your finger and thumb.” He demonstrated, and the bits of saffron fell into her cupped hand. He held the remaining piece out to her.
She took it and rubbed the thread carefully between her thumb and finger. It didn’t make much, but it was plenty for the salsa.
“Now sprinkle it on our pile here.”
She did, and he added a pinch of sea salt.
“Instead of chopping each of these up individually, we’re going to chop them all together, so the flavors and juices mix, and that will be our fresh Cioppino salsa. Or something close to it.” He picked up the large chef’s knife and began to chop swiftly, giving it a good start.
“That smells amazing,” Georgie said, watching over his shoulder.
“It does. And now it’s your turn.”
She took a step away. “Oh, I’m not a good chopper.”
“I think you might be. Look, this is about the easiest thing to learn on. It’s just a pile. No grains to follow, no particular size except smallish. C’mon.” He held the knife handle out to her, and hesitantly she took it.
“Okay, but let the record show that you are the one who handed the crazy lady the knife.”
He grinned. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
She raised her eyebrows at him, then turned her concentration on the chop pile in front of her. She set the blade on the center of the pile and pressed it down slowly. She repeated the motion, moving it a little bit to the right. She repeated this action several times.
“Have you used a chef’s knife before?” he asked.
Her brow creased. “Of course I have. Just not like you do.” She sliced the knife through the pile, aiming for a shrimp. “You’re so fast. And precise.”
“I bet you say that to all the sous-chefs.”
She just shook her head.
“C’mon,” he said, reaching around her and placing his hand over hers on the knife handle. He glanced at her sideways, as they were almost cheek-to-cheek. He could smell her shampoo again. “You’re overthinking it. Just press the tip of the blade to the surface and keep it there. Think of it as your anchor, or your pivot point.”
She gave a little nod, and he felt her grip on the knife change accordingly.
“From this point, you move the knife handle up and down like a water pump, directing the blade through the pile.”
“A water pump?” she murmured.
“Yeah,” he said, then demonstrated the action. “Like pumping water.”
“Oh, a water pump,” she said. “I just used a water pump this morning after I made soap and milked the cows.”
“Ha, ha.” He smiled. “You get the idea.”
She grinned at him sideways, and he shook his head, allowing a laugh. She turned her attention back to the salsa and placed the tip of the knife to the cutting surface and rested her fingers on top to anchor it like he’d shown her. Then she pushed the handle up and down, like a water pump, pivoting the angle of the knife around in a fairly even, if still careful, rhythm.
He eased off until she was on her own. “There you go. See?”
“Thanks,” she said, h
er face a little flushed. “Next you can teach me how to hitch up ol’ Bessie to the plow. And churn butter. Or—”
“I get it.” He stood up straight and rubbed the back of his neck. “Let’s see if we can get through the salsa first, hmm?” He watched her smile as she concentrated on the chop pile. She bit her lip a little, and he had to step back and go over the notes he’d already taken. He found himself agitated in a really good way, and he needed to focus. Something had shifted again with Georgie. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but she was teasing him, and somehow that felt good.
“I’ll get the fire going,” he said, moving to the grill.
“I’ll pluck the chicken,” she said without missing a beat.
“I can arrange that.”
Her knife paused, and he grinned.
It wasn’t long before they sat on stools and sampled their Cioppino salsa on grilled halibut. They’d made a few adjustments to the salsa, but he thought they finally had it.
“This is good,” Georgie said, making sure to scoop a little salsa on her second bite of fish. “I like how you used the grill pan for the halibut.”
He nodded. In a last-minute decision, he’d chosen to use a grill pan with a little EVO and butter. It gave the fish just the right crisp-tender edge he was looking for while retaining the char marks everyone loved. “Slices of lime on the side would be good.”
She nodded. “Definitely. So we did it?”
“We did it. Again.” He held up his hand, and she gave him a high five. He clasped her hand quickly, not letting it go. “Thank you.” He studied her face. “It was a good idea.”
She met his gaze. “I don’t even know what I’m doing,” she said.
“That doesn’t seem to matter.” He swallowed. He felt that burn he experienced every time he touched her hand. That hum from her fingers right to the area just below his ribs.
She lowered her eyes, slipped her hand from his, and got up to scrape the remaining salsa into a container. He took a steadying breath and carried the dishes to the sink.
“So now we make the pork chop?” she asked, wiping down the prep area.
“Yup,” he answered, throwing the cooking utensils a little harder into the sink than he’d intended. He put his hands on his hips. Cool it, Jace.
A while later, Georgie stirred the honey glaze while Jace flipped the garlic-crusted pork chops. They worked side by side at the stove, and he worked to ignore the buzz of electricity between them. He told himself he was only grateful to have someone like Georgie so interested in cooking with him. He’d had no idea that sharing his passion with someone—who seemed to enjoy it too—could feel so satisfying. He was grateful. And that had to be enough.
“I was thinking we’d serve this with a vegetable. Maybe asparagus,” he said. “What do you think?”
She’d been quieter since the high five, and he found himself scrambling to say something to bring out the lightness in her again. He didn’t think she was upset, but she’d been so at ease with him earlier. He wanted her to feel at ease.
“I think vegetables would be good,” she said. “And it would be pretty. This is simmering. Do you want it to simmer?” she asked.
He peered over her shoulder. “Perfect. Take it off the heat, and let’s have a taste.”
She did as asked and retrieved a tasting spoon. She dipped it in the golden glaze—the color of her hair.
She held out the spoon, her hand cupped underneath. “You first.” She had a drop of glaze just next to her nose. He pulled his focus away from her face and leaned toward the spoon.
“Careful, it’s hot,” she warned.
He blew a little and sipped at the spoon. “That’s good.” He lifted his gaze once more, and she didn’t back away, only watched him with this sort of hopeful, careful look. “Really good.” He reached for another spoon and touched the tip to the glaze. “Now you taste it.” He held it out to her, and she blew on it softly, then, with a glance up at him, touched her mouth to the spoon. A smile played at her lips as she swallowed.
“Good, huh?”
She nodded.
He found it a little difficult to breathe as he reached and touched the drip away from her cheek.
Her brow rose in question.
“You had a drop of glaze.” Carefully, he reached again, daring to brush his fingers along her cheek, soft as a peach. “Just there.”
Her eyes fluttered closed at his touch, then she shook her head. She opened her eyes wide and stepped back.
She looked away, rubbing her forehead. “I’ll get the vegetables out of the cooler.”
He sighed. So much for making her feel at ease. “Georgie.”
She was already halfway to the walk-in. “I’ll only be a sec.” She opened the cooler and disappeared.
Ignoring everything telling him not to, he followed. He found her with her back to him, staring at the various bunches of vegetables.
“I don’t know what would be best,” she said without turning around.
“Don’t you?”
Her head dropped a little, and she traced her fingers over package labels.
These little things, these little touches and tastes and drips of sauce and steam rising . . . they were all driving him crazy. But he wasn’t sure what to do with it all. He wasn’t—
“How do you know?”
Her question caught him off guard. “What?” She still faced the shelves, and he stepped toward her.
“What kind is best? What if you think you know, but it ends up being all wrong? So wrong you’re afraid to even—”
He reached out and gently pulled her around. “Afraid to even what?”
She watched him with those eyes, again with that mix of hope and caution, and he stepped closer. “Afraid to even what?” he asked again more quietly. He tried not to show how hard it was for him to breathe.
“You’re very close,” she said, a tremble in her voice.
He moved to take a step back.
“No,” she said quickly, and he paused. “You’re fine. I just . . . You’re very close.”
He steadied himself, hoping she wouldn’t break her gaze. “Since you started working here, I’ve been trying to keep my distance. And then yesterday . . . I don’t know. How do I earn your trust if I’m across the kitchen pretending to study the grill?”
She swallowed, and he noted a tiny crease between her brows. “That’s a remarkable point,” she said.
He smiled.
She visibly shivered. “It’s cold in here.”
His smile disappeared. “You’re really cold?”
She shook her head. “That was a lie to cover my uncertainty. I don’t trust easily, Jace.”
He dared to draw her closer, slowly reaching his arm around her waist. “Uncertainty,” he said carefully. “You know, you’ve asked me a lot of questions, and I’ve answered them. You know more about me than my mom does.”
She swallowed and nodded. “So ask me something.”
He studied her, his heartbeat racing, feeling the electricity between them, his thoughts unable to land on a single question. It was his turn to ask a question, and he couldn’t think of anything pressing he needed to know about her that he didn’t already. She was unpredictable and kind and scared and brave and brash and looking at him. “You know what?” he said breathlessly. “I’ll figure it out.”
He closed the distance between them and met her mouth with his. She lifted her chin in response, tasting like honey and salt from the glaze. Her lips were cool for only a few seconds, and he enjoyed warming them. One-one thousand . . . two-one thousand . . . She pulled him closer, making a little sound, and any intelligent thoughts spun away from him. Kissing Georgie was like . . . kissing her was . . .
She pulled back, her eyelids heavy.
“What?” he asked, half dazed.
“Have you just been . . . looking out for me?” she whispered. “Like my uncle asked you to do?”
He frowned. “Do you need looking out for?”
> She watched his mouth and shook her head again.
“I didn’t think so.” He lifted her up on her toes, and she seemed eager to take up where they left off. His heart pounded, and he felt more sure of himself as her arms wrapped around his neck. He pressed deeply into the kiss, bracing his arms between her and the shelves behind her. She pressed back, and he sort of forgot everything but all of Georgie—her taste, her smell, her touch—for who knows how long, when suddenly she squealed and let go, scrambling for the door.
“The pork chops!” she cried.
He groaned and raced after her. Smoke filled the kitchen, and he opened the back door as the smoke alarm went off. Georgie turned off the heat and removed the pan. Jace reached for a towel, whipping it through the air just below the alarm.
Georgie grabbed another towel and started wafting the smoky air out the door.
The alarm stopped its screeching, and Jace filled a glass with water and poured it into the pan. It hissed, and steam rose from the ruined lumps of meat. He threw a lid on it.
From behind him, Georgie began to stammer. “I’m sorry . . . If I hadn’t run to the cooler . . . What am I even doing? I’m so sorry—”
He turned, throwing the towel on the counter. “I’m not.” He took her hand and pulled her to him again and did his best to stop the pointless apologies coming from her mouth. Between kisses he heard her say something about burned and ruined and out of her mind.
“I don’t care,” he whispered into her ear, brushing his hands through her hair, kissing her cheek, knowing he’d wanted to touch her this way for a long time.
“But it was going to be perfect.”
He took her face in both his hands and pressed his forehead to hers. “I’m okay with it. Aren’t you?” He hoped he knew the answer.
A small smile came to her lips, and she allowed a laugh to escape. He kissed her again.
And again.
And again.
* * *
Kissing Jace was like standing in ninety-degree weather and tasting the perfect ice cream.
The perfect. Melting. Ice cream.
Kisses in the Rain Page 22