by Natalie Ann
“Sorry about that,” she mumbled.
“No reason to apologize. I’m weird, I know that.”
“Huh?” What did he mean by that?
“I like to see how something is being made from every angle. If I didn’t think you’d jump out of your skin, I’d mirror your hands right now.”
Oh God, please don’t do that. “That is definitely weird.” But comments like that were best kept to herself. Along with her wandering thoughts of how his hands might feel on hers.
Until he laughed, she hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud, that he was definitely weird. “Sorry, didn’t mean to say that,” she said, mortification crawling like spiders up her back.
“It’s fine. I hear it from my brothers all the time. I’m weirder than most, but not as weird as many really think.”
She had no clue what he was talking about now, but there was laughter in his voice so she figured it was fine. She continued to work on the dough, then placed it in the blast chiller to speed up the chilling process. Just this morning she’d had to use an old freezer at her grandmother’s. All these tools were like a dream to her.
“Do you always make the basic recipe first?”
“Yes. I always make the basic, and then the chocolate one. There’s no reason for it, but I think it’s just the one I learned first, so it’s what I do. We have a cinnamon one with dried fruit in the filling, but it wasn’t in the store often. I didn’t think you’d want that one today, right?”
He nodded like he understood, but she figured he probably thought she was a little odd herself. “Sounds like a good holiday one, but not right now.”
Once she was done with the chocolate dough, she checked out the first one and decided to take it out and move to the next step. Anything to get this over with and get the eyes off of them. Or his strong male presence away from her. What a distraction. Heaven forbid she mess this up because she was sidetracked. That would be an embarrassment to her family roots.
She started to roll the dough out and then pulled it through the pasta roller again and again until it was the desired thickness. Then she cut the shape and wrapped it around a metal tube to be dropped in the fryer.
He was standing in front of her now, so she shifted her eyes up, caught them on her, a brief smile, and an even briefer surge of heat through her body.
“How long do you fry them for?”
“Two to three minutes. I watch them for the right color more than anything. All oils are different, so until I know the first batch is good, I watch them carefully.”
“Show me, then I’ll keep frying them while you make more.”
They worked in silence, an assembly line of sorts, and, thankfully, it seemed fewer eyes were on them now. Or maybe it was wishful thinking on her part.
Once all the shells were done, she set them aside and started to mix her filling. “We don’t have to fill all the shells now. Maybe I can just do a quarter of them before desserts start being served. Then if they aren’t going fast, you can fill them as needed and they’ll be fresh tomorrow. The shells store for a long time in the freezer if you don’t use them all.”
“That sounds like a good plan. Show me the filling recipe now, and then we’ll make a few and have a tasting for the waitstaff. If they know how it tastes, they can sell it better while describing the desserts. Then I’m going to update the special menu quick and reprint for the day.”
***
Aiden wasn’t oblivious to the stares he and Nic were getting, but he didn’t care.
All he cared about was that pastries were never his thing. He tried, but could never master them the way he wanted. It was a bitter pill for someone who held himself so high on a scale that he couldn’t be the best at everything.
But those cannoli that Nic brought in this morning were something straight off the boat. The same as the simple but delicious meal she cooked during her interview.
You didn’t need high-end schooling or training to deliver results like she had. Those came from the heart. From the soul. From the very air she was breathing. Not many had that talent.
Did he know she was nervous right now? Sure. Did he care? Not in the least.
This wasn’t about her. It was about him. It was about him mastering his craft to the level that he always wanted to achieve.
He wasn’t using her; he wasn’t doing anything other than being taught something he was dying to know. It wasn’t like he knew the exact recipe; he wouldn’t ask that. But he wanted to watch her technique for the moment.
He could cook and create anything. But he couldn’t always taste his own food and feel like he was transported. He tasted Nic’s and that was exactly how he felt. How he felt those years he sought out the best recipes and tastes while he traveled the world.
So while he knew she was nervous and that he was doing this for himself, he was also doing it for her.
She had some serious untapped skill levels and it seemed when she started cooking those hometown favorites, the things she grew up with, she found her groove and shut the rest of the world out while she created.
He wanted her to find that confidence, and if showing him something—if teaching him something—gave it to her, then so be it.
Only, it seemed to be backfiring for some reason.
“Why is everyone staring at us?” she whispered.
“Jealousy,” he said, then watched as she tested the cream in the bowl.
She grabbed a spoon and put some on it, then handed it to him. “Why are they jealous of me?”
She had no clue, it seemed, and he let it go for now. Better to protect her and let her just cook.
He shrugged, then put the filling in his mouth, shut his eyes, and savored the assault on his senses. The creamy texture on his tongue, the hint of vanilla, strong enough to know it was there, but not enough to overpower. And something else. “Lemon?” he asked.
“Just a touch. It brightens it up. Too much? Most people can never taste that and I very rarely use it.”
He could pick flavor out of anything, blindfolded. “I can.” He glanced over and saw the sliced lemon on the counter. He didn’t remember putting it there.
She must have followed his eyes. “I grabbed it when you were at the fryer. I wasn’t sure how much I’d need, but since I was making so much, I feared it’d be heavy.”
“Why put it in today, if you rarely do? The quantity you’re making shouldn’t make a difference.”
Her cheeks got slightly pink. “Would it surprise you to know that I don’t use it when making it at home? I go by taste. By the quality of the ingredients. I’ve never used this brand of ricotta before and it’s different than what I’m used to. Than what I used at home or even in the bakery.”
“What brand do you use?” he asked.
She looked away, then said, “We don’t buy it.”
“You make your own ricotta. Those cannoli you brought over had homemade ricotta in them?” Yeah, this girl was straight Italian to the bone. She had red sauce pumping through her veins. How did he get so lucky to have her land in his kitchen? He was talking about her cooking, right? Sure he was. When did he become a master at lying to himself?
“Yeah. It’s cheaper.”
“Better,” he said, not wanting her to feel any embarrassment over that because her face was turning a deep hue of pink now. “Not cheaper when you factor in the time.”
“True. Definitely better. But I put the lemon in when making the ricotta, so I don’t normally need it like I did just now.”
“Homemade ricotta the next time you make these.”
“Next time?” she asked.
“Yeah. These are going to fly out the door, even with store-bought ricotta,” he said, laughing loudly, drawing attention to them. He knew these things, and he was positive about this.
He followed her glance across the room to see interested eyes, then whispered, “Does that bother you?”
“A little. More like it makes me uncomfortable.”
; “Don’t be. You’ve got serious talent and you should be proud.”
“I am. But I’m more than Italian.”
He turned to her and looked in her eyes, saw the uncertainty and concern. “Embrace what you are and what makes you so good. Don’t try to focus on anything else.”
“I’m not,” she argued.
He could see he hit a nerve. “That came out wrong. What I mean is that this is in your blood. And while I, for one, love expanding my talents, and I encourage others to, you’ve got a gift here and you should share it. Thank you for sharing it with me,” he said softly, trying to remember the last time he’d thanked someone for that. Years ago, when he was learning his craft.
Her Name
Two weeks later, Nic was getting ready to walk out of the pantry with more breadcrumbs when she heard voices. Not really whispered, but not a normal volume either. Trying to be sneaky, just not sneaky enough.
“Looks like Aiden is tasting more than food in the kitchen now.”
“What does that mean?” someone else asked. She couldn’t make out who the voices belonged to though. One female, one male.
“Come on. Have you seen the way Aiden is all over the new girl? What’s her name again?”
“The little one working in the pub kitchen?” the other voice said. “Nah. He’s not doing anything he hasn’t done with other new employees.”
There was a female laugh. “Really? You weren’t here the day Aiden watched her baking. She was teaching him how to make something. No one has ever done that in this kitchen.”
“That’s wrong,” the male voice said. “I’ve seen it before. You know how Aiden is. He always wants to taste everyone’s creations. If he likes it, he wants to know how it’s made. You’re nuts and looking for something that’s not there.”
“I’m telling you. Everyone is talking about her. It wasn’t just that. It was the way he was looking at her. Touching her. At one point he grabbed her shoulders to force her to look him in the eye. There’s all sorts of heat going on there, and not the cooking kind.”
Nic was feeling heat right now herself. Straight up shame. Talk about a difficult situation. The last thing she wanted was anyone thinking she was making time with Aiden. Or anyone for that matter. But the boss? No way.
Just because she was having little secret fantasies about him meant nothing. She’d kept that all to herself. She never even agreed when the other women in the kitchen talked about Aiden. When they said how hot he was, or how they’d like his hands on them. All those things women say in private. Nope, she turned away and went back to work.
She might have felt some jealousy over those comments, but she ignored them as if she were those three monkeys with her hands over her eyes, ears, and mouth, and just did her job.
It didn’t seem to matter though. She was being talked about as a result of nothing she could have controlled. Story of her life, it seemed.
Maybe she shouldn’t have brought in those cannoli for Ella. She didn’t do it for any reason other than as a thank you. She wasn’t trying to suck up or get extra attention from Aiden. If she’d known that would have happened, she wouldn’t have brought them in.
Was she thrilled her cannoli sold out before the dinner shift on Monday? Definitely! When she’d come into work the following Saturday, Aiden had asked her to make ten dozen of each type of shell, hoping to get them through the entire weekend and extras for the pub menu too.
She’d even watched Aiden replicate her filling after she’d shown him how she made the Moretti ricotta. His first attempt didn’t taste quite like hers, but she was afraid to say anything. He was her boss, after all.
But he knew it and said, “What am I missing?”
“It’s good,” she argued.
“But not as good as yours. What’s wrong?”
“More lemon. A little bit more salt and more heavy cream. It makes it richer. For the cannoli recipe we always wanted it as rich as we could get it. Decadent even. It’s a dessert. An indulgence. Italians like things rich, decadent, and a treat for the mouth as well as the eyes.”
He held her stare for several moments after she’d said that and she just wanted to die. It came out completely wrong and she was mortified he was drawing another meaning.
But then he’d pushed his bowl aside. “Make it for me again. Start to finish. I’m going to make it side by side with you, every step of the way. Are you okay with that?”
She’d dismissed all the eyes on them that day too. She’d been uneasy spending so much time with him one-on-one again but was told by Stacy that she wasn’t the first. He’d done it before with other people, and for her to relax and enjoy the individual attention that so many strive for and never achieve.
So she had…until now.
“I’m telling you,” the male voice said, “you’re looking for something for no reason. She’s a pub cook with little experience. She’s got the family name behind her right now and that’s it. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got the job for that reason alone. I’ve been to Moretti’s before. Half the time they were talking in Italian and you could barely understand a word they said. They are as authentic as it gets.”
Nic didn’t know what was worse. People thinking she had something going on with Aiden outside of work, or that she only got hired because of her name.
She should be happy for her grandparents. That she was a Moretti. Two people who came over from Italy in their twenties, barely speaking a lick of English, and opened up their shop. But instead she was embarrassed she was being talked about.
After the voices died off, she left the pantry with her head down and went right to work. When Aiden came in to check on her, her third day after starting full time, she gave him brief answers and continued to work, all but ignoring his utterly dominant male presence in front of her.
***
“How’s it going today, Abby?” Aiden asked his food plater early on Friday afternoon. Food had been flying out the door, but there was a slow spot, giving him a chance to chat.
“Everything is good. I’ve only had to send back two orders today.”
He rotated his head cooks to the plating area often. He wanted to see if they could determine when food was prepared properly if they weren’t the ones actually cooking it. It also gave them a break. He looked at every aspect of the kitchen when promoting staff to managers.
“That’s good. Glad to know everything is running smoothly.”
“It always does, Aiden,” Abby said. “You run everything so well here. You always have. Best day of my life being hired here.”
Aiden watched Abby’s eyes sparkle a little but pushed it aside. He was a master at deflecting advances. It happened all the time in the kitchen, but he’d never let anything develop before.
“Any questions before I go over to the brewery?” he asked, getting ready to leave.
A beautifully cooked salmon was slid onto the counter. “Actually, if you could show me how to plate this special again. It’s the third one ordered and I can’t seem to get it to look exactly the way you did when you showed us the other day.”
He walked behind the counter next to her and quickly and efficiently spread the cauliflower puree, placed three asparagus stems across it, then laid the perfectly grilled salmon over the asparagus. He grabbed the bottle of sauce that was a secret blend of spices and a touch of Mason’s citrus IPA, and swirled it around the outer edge of the plate in almost a lace pattern. Most people didn’t notice it was a cursive “F” at the north, south, east, and west of the plate, connected together.
“There you go,” he said pushing it toward her.
“It looks awesome. Thanks, Aiden,” Abby said, smiling at him.
“You’re welcome.” He walked away and out the back door to his car. He had time yet before he started cooking and needed to have a quick meeting with Mason.
“You’re late,” Mason said when Aiden walked into the brewery.
“Sorry. I got held up having to show someone how to plate a
special that she should be doing in her sleep by this point in her career.”
“Bet you did it all with your teacher’s voice and a smile on your face though,” Mason said.
“Of course. Didn’t Mom ever tell you you’ll get more with honey than vinegar?”
“Whatever,” Mason said. “I leave the food to you.”
Aiden shook his head. “You’re so cynical. You’re not any shorter with your staff than I am.”
“I don’t know about that,” Mason said. “Anyway, what are your thoughts for next week’s specials?”
“What does your stock look like?” Aiden asked.
“Stock is always fine.”
Mason ran a tight ship, Aiden knew that. “Anything not selling as fast as you’d wish, or left over?”
“With the end of summer, there’s some of that cherry sour left I wouldn’t mind moving out. Glad I didn’t decide to bottle it. I might bring it back next summer, but for now I’d like to make room for my fall brews.”
“I can work with that,” Aiden said. “I’ll come up with a few different specials using it for the week. Something each day in both the pub and restaurant. That should help sell it.”
“Perfect,” Mason said. “Hey, sorry about your new staff.”
“What? Which one?” Aiden asked. Was he going to lose someone else?
“The one you hired three weeks ago. I’m sure the talk will die down.”
“What are you talking about?” Aiden asked. His skin was starting to tingle.
“Never mind.”
“No. You brought it up, so tell me what’s going on.”
Mason sighed. “You know how rumors start. I’m sure it’s nothing more than that.” Aiden started to grind his teeth and Mason rushed out. “There’s some talk that you’re sampling something other than food in the kitchen. With Nic.”
Aiden stood up prepared to make a fast exit and start knocking some heads together. Maybe he had been thinking along those lines, but he’d given no indication of it to anyone.
Besides, Nic had been nothing but cold to him all week. If she even made eye contact with him, it was brief, and her words even shorter.