Cooking Up Love

by Gemma Brocato

  “Where do you want these?” Avery asked, lifting the basket in her direction as she entered the room.

  “Set it there, by the baker’s rack. I’ll put them away later. While you’re there, grab an onion, a loaf of bread and the large mixing bowl. We’re making meatloaf sandwiches today. Think the guys will like that?” She pulled out a cutting board and watched him tilt his head to the side, thinking about her question.

  “I guess it depends on how you season the meat. Maybe you could add some heat to it. Like with cayenne pepper or Cajun spices. Guys like a little heat.”

  “You do know your way around a kitchen,” Jem looked at him, a plot forming in her head. If he was as good as she thought, she’d try to hire Avery away from Jack as a cook for the café. She could train anyone, but she’d be willing to bet he’d be a great student. “There’s an extra apron on the back of the door. It might get messy. And don’t worry, it isn’t pink or frilly.”

  Avery laughed as he donned the white apron embroidered with Diet is a 4-letter word. Grabbing an onion and the mixing bowl off the storage shelf, he walked over to the scarred wooden counter by the sink and grabbed a knife from the block. “You want this diced coarse or fine?”

  “Coarse, please. I think people appreciate a bit of crunch in their meatloaf.” Jem turned to the refrigerator to grab eggs and steak sauce. “The recipe is on the counter, if you want to read it. Let me know if you can think of any thing you’d like to add.”

  Jem laid several slices of bread on a baking sheet and slid the tray into the oven to toast them. She cracked eggs into the mixing bowl with the other ingredients, tossing the shells in a scrap bucket next to the sink. The sound of Avery’s knife chopping onions accompanied her actions. His speed and skill impressed her. She mixed her seasonings together, measuring the quantities by sight, rather than with a spoon. First salt, then pepper, a bit of ground garlic. She checked her spice rack and found there wasn’t any cayenne, but she did have red pepper flakes. She grabbed those and her mortar and pestle and turned to the counter to find Avery holding the cutting board up for her to inspect the chopped onions. At her approving nod, he used the flat of his knife, like a true kitchen professional, to push the onions into the bowl with meat and eggs. Jem eyeballed the amount of pepper she’d poured into the mortar, added a little more, then set it on the counter next to the cutting board. As she reached for the pestle, Avery pushed her hand away, picked it up and went to work grinding the flakes to a fine powder.

  They worked together in companionable silence, the sounds of Coldplay accompanying them. Each time Avery finished a task, he asked for another and went cheerfully to work with very little instruction. He even offered to fold the ingredients together, which pleased Jem because her least favorite part of the process was shoving her hands through the gooey mess to blend it.

  She cleared her throat as she poured the meat mixture into loaf pans. “You know, I started working in the café when I was a freshman in high school. Just summers, you know. But those were great times. God, I was young. My parents knew how much I wanted to spend time with Caroline, how interested I was in cooking. My mom had turned the kitchen over to me by then. She agreed to do my laundry if I’d cook at least three nights a week.”

  “That’s a sweet deal.” Avery smiled engagingly at her. “How long did the arrangement last?”

  Jem turned to put the meatloaf in the oven, adjusting the timer, then reached into the refrigerator for a couple of stalks of broccoli and a package of bacon. “Until I went to college. Even then, every time I came home, we had an understanding. If I’d cook the whole weekend, I could bring home as many dirty clothes as I wanted. Believe me,” she said with a laugh, “I found ways to stretch out how often I visited the laundry room at school.”

  “My mom liked it when I helped in the kitchen,” Avery volunteered, as he rinsed the mixing bowl in the sink. “She’s a great cook. Everyone tries to get invitations to her parties, even my friends. She considered starting a catering business at one point. She didn’t because of the inconvenience it would cause my dad.” The look on Avery’s face softened as he remembered. “God, the kitchen was always the safest, warmest place in the world. When Dad was around, I couldn’t enjoy it as much. It was woman’s work, not for his son, he said.”

  “Someone should have told him many of the world’s finest chefs were—are men,” Jem protested as she positioned five slices of bacon in a frying pan and turned on the gas.

  Avery shook his head sadly. “I tried. Mom tried. He wouldn’t listen. Father knows best. One day, just to twist him up, you know—yank his chain, I left brochures for a pastry chef school on the kitchen table, along with my partially completed admissions application.”

  “You like to play with fire, huh?”

  Avery shot Jem a wicked grin. “I guess. I didn’t come home until late that night. Mom called me, warning me to stay out, but he was waiting for me when I got home. ‘No son of mine is going to a sissy school!’ Jesus, you’d think he would have been happier when I got Marissa pregnant. His precious son wasn’t quite the girly-man he thought.”

  The despairing look on his face renewed Jem’s anger toward Avery’s father, even though she’d never seen the man. If she met him today, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to keep from kicking him in the—well, that wasn’t constructive thinking. She shook off the anger, handing him the broccoli to clean and cut up. “Cut bite-size pieces. Is going to culinary school what you really want?”

  “How the hell do I know? I’m a kid. I don’t know what I want.”

  “Oh, Avery. You’re not a kid. You’ve demonstrated how adult you are with the way you’re handling the unfortunate, no—not unfortunate, unexpected is a better word—situation you’re in. A kid might take the easy route. A man doesn’t.” The aroma of bacon wafted enticingly in the air as she propped a hip against the counter and regarded him. “Oh no, there’s not much truly kid-like about you. Marissa’s a lucky woman to have you standing by her side. If you were my child, I’d be so proud of you.

  “Thanks,” Avery said. His cheeks colored, and he bent his head over the cutting board to chop the broccoli. “How can you know, at seventeen, what you want to be when you’re forty or fifty?”

  “A fair question. I used to think I wanted to be a concert pianist. I took lessons for years. I even paid for some extra lessons with cookies and pies I’d baked.” Jem laughed. “My piano teacher finally persuaded me to focus on my home-economics courses. He knew I’d never perform at Carnegie Hall.” She sighed dramatically, for effect, then giggled as she set her knife down and reached for a measuring cup. “Most people your age will reinvent themselves several times before achieving a finished product. Life is a work in progress. Did you know Caroline was an accountant?”

  “Really?” The surprise on Avery’s face was priceless.

  “Yep. She worked for a three-letter government agency as a forensic accountant. She followed money trails.” Jem eyed the clear glass cup as she poured bacon grease to the line, then topped it off with an extra splash. “After a few years, she moved into the private sector. She was a part owner of a big firm in Boston. One morning she woke up, called her partners and told them she wouldn’t be in ever again. She sold her interest in the business to them, bought this café and reinvented herself as a chef. See? Work in progress.”

  “I used to think I’d like to be an architect. I changed my mind after shadowing an architect for a day in eighth grade,” Avery said.

  “Why?” Jem paused in mixing the dressing for the broccoli salad she planned to serve with today’s lunch.

  “It was boring. The guy went to meetings all day long. When he wasn’t in a meeting, he just sat on his butt working on his computer. There wasn’t enough activity, enough energy. It didn’t look like he was creating anything but the need for a new chair.”

  “Is that what you want? Movement, energy, creativity?” Jem was curious. Her plan to hire him away from Jack solidified as they talked.
>
  “Yeah. That’s why I like this job with Jack. Even though I’m not creating, I can see it being done.” Avery handed her the colander of chopped broccoli. “I need to move. Mom arranged to test me for hyperactivity. Apparently, that wasn’t my problem. My big-ass brain just moves fast, and my body keeps up. Mom forced me to sign me up for the track team, hoping to wear me out. That’s how I met Mr. Kerrigan.”

  Jem laughed at his description. “Sounds like something a mom might do with a kid with a big-ass brain.” She jumped subjects on him. “Do you see your mom much? I don’t mean to pry. Jack told me you and your folks weren’t seeing eye-to-eye these days.”

  “That’s putting it mildly. Did he tell you Walt, my dad, threw me out of the house? Except for the fact it kinda sucked to be out on the street, it was better overall. My parents never argued until I told them Marissa and I were going to be parents. After, I didn’t see them do anything but fight.” A dark cloud moved over his face as he reached for a clean towel to dry his knife. “It sucks to be the cause of problems in their marriage. I probably would have left if Walt hadn’t thrown me out.” He frowned as he hung up his towel. “I still see my mom. When Walt’s at work. I haven’t spoken to him since I drove the car through the garage door. And that was more shouting than speaking.”

  “Avery, you didn’t cause their problems. Your situation may have been part of it, but you have to believe there are other issues.”

  He slid a sideways glance at her, eyebrows raised toward the ceiling. “Yeah, well, like I said, I effed up and now I only see Mom when Walt’s not around. He won’t speak to me. I don’t think he knows what to say.”

  Jem started to speak but stopped when she heard heavy, booted feet racing up the stairs, followed by a brisk knock on the front door. She excused herself, wiping her hands on a towel as she went to answer. She was startled as Clooney leaped through the open door to greet her, followed closely by Jack.

  “Sit, Clooney.” He pulled her into his arms and began inhaling her with his full, sexy lips. After kicking the door shut, he turned her around in a circle and pushed her back up against the wall, without taking his tongue out of her mouth. He dropped his hands to the bottom of her sweatshirt and yanked it upward, sliding one hand underneath the edge and up toward her breast.

  “I almost came back.” Jack breathed hard as he pulled away, but kept stroking her rib cage. “After I let Clooney out. I was in my truck, with the key in the ignition, thinking about how I could make the pantry a happier place for you. The only thing stopping me was how exhausted you were when I left last night. This morning.” His smile reminded her anew of everything they’d done last night, and promised more of the same right now. The rush of heat accompanying the memories stunned her.

  Jem started laughing as she fought the upward progress of his relentless hands. His lips returned to hers, assaulting them with exhilarating fierceness. With her eyes open, she saw Avery quickly pull his head back out of the open doorway to the kitchen. Suddenly embarrassed, knowing he’d seen Jack with his hands up her sweatshirt, she let go of his hands and pushed against his shoulders as she spoke against his seeking lips. “Jack, hang on. Stop! Avery is in the kitchen getting a pretty impressive look at us.”

  “Fuck.” He released her immediately, took a small step backward and glanced over his shoulder. “Shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Talk about being caught with your hand in the cookie jar. What the hell is he doing up here?”

  “I overslept, which I’ll completely blame on you. I told Dave lunch would be a little later than usual. He offered to send Avery up to help me out.” She reached out to pet Clooney before she grabbed Jack’s hand, led him over to the couch and pushed him down. “Hang on, I’ll be right back.”

  “Hey, Avery, how are you at baking?” she asked when she walked into the kitchen.

  “I’m a wicked-good baker. Ask anybody,” Avery responded, which got a laugh out of her.

  Jack wandered into the kitchen as Jem and Avery bent their heads together over a recipe book. The boy glanced at Jack, a cool, appraising, protectively adult look on his face. A surprising blush rose up Jack’s neck and cheeks.

  Jem excused herself and herded Jack back to the living room, and pushed him down on the sofa again before she perched on the coffee table across from him. Clooney settled next to her and she scratched the dog’s ear as Jack laid his hand on her thigh. She lowered her voice and looked toward the kitchen as she spoke. “Avery likes to cook, Jack. And he’s good at it. A natural. He made some solid suggestions for today’s lunch. If he’s even half as good as I think he might be, I’m going to steal him away from you.” She held up a hand as Jack opened his mouth to interrupt. “No, wait, just hear me out. I need help in the café. I’ll need kitchen and serving staff, to make sure everything runs smoothly. I can’t be chef and front of the house at the same time. Doesn’t work that way, you know. It’s not very efficient. You’re right. He’s a hard worker, and he needs a break. I’ll be able to offer him full time, which you probably can’t. Plus I’ll be able to teach him something he’ll love to do, a trade where he’ll be able to earn enough money to support his family. I’ll even be able to offer him health care.”

  “He is a good kid,” Jack said, a serious look on his face. “But his dad’s a pompous ass. You take Avery, you get Walt, too. He might try to make life difficult for you and the café.”

  “He can try. Doesn’t mean he’ll be successful. I worked for a reality TV star. I do tough bitch as well as the next woman, or man.”

  “I like your style, sugar.” Jack smiled, leaning forward to touch his lips against hers, with slight pressure. “If Avery wants to work for you, then go for it. But can I keep him for the next few weeks until we finish this project?”

  Her heart flipped over at the gentle brush of his mouth on hers. God, he was as good at sweet and sincere as he was with fierce and seductive. And more than exceptionally hot and hard. She was dying to see how he looked sated and sleepy, having been cheated out of it this morning, thanks to Clooney.

  The sound of the electric mixer running in the kitchen was loud in the quiet stillness of her living room after Jack’s kiss. She blinked hard and the moment passed. She laid her hand over his on her knee and gazed into his eyes, not bothering to hide the residual heat in hers. That earned her a big, sexy grin, the deep dimples bracketing his mouth and smile lines deepening around his eyes.

  She cleared the sudden frog in her throat and whispered, “When you come for dinner tonight, bring Clooney, okay? I don’t want you to go anywhere before morning.”

  “I have a late meeting with Sam, but I can be here by six thirty. Six, if I can sneak away sooner.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment flashed across her face. “Why don’t you bring Sam for dinner at five thirty? You can encourage him to leave by six thirty. Then we’ll have the strength and sustenance portion of the evening over,” she said hopefully.

  “Said it before: I like your style, sugar.”

  Chapter 18

  Lunchtime at the café became a regular feature for Jem’s new friends and neighbors. She’d met Malin, the florist down the street who stopped by with freshly cut tulips and daffodils, welcoming her to the neighborhood. Grant Dubois stopped in, but was too busy schmoozing with other guests to actually eat anything. He continued to unnerve her, but she couldn’t pinpoint why. There was something…secretive about him.

  Jack’s construction crew begged for permission to invite wives and girlfriends, and Jem never said no. Word of mouth advertising was worth more than the cost of groceries. Not to mention the practice she got by preparing food in bulk for large crowds.

  After Avery began coming up every day to help her prepare the meals, she and Jack talked to Avery about coming to work for her.

  “You can have the job if it doesn’t interfere with getting your GED,” Jem said. “It’s a means to an end if you want to attend culinary school. They won’t consider you without it.”

  “I hate t
o leave Jack without help,” Avery responded, looking at the older man. “I was desperate to find something, so going to work for you, you know, is like a lifesaver.”

  Jack assured him, “My original guy is going to be back soon, and there might not be work for the two of you. I’d like to keep you on the payroll for the larger jobs that require cleanup after hours. You’ll earn a bit of extra money when it won’t interfere with your work in the café.”

  “Sounds like a win for all of us.” Jem smiled. “Please, Avery, come to work for me.”

  “I’d like to work with you. But, I’m sure you’ve been told Walt sees it as his duty to make it difficult for anyone to help me. He wants me back under his thumb. He’s been pressuring Mom to convince Marissa and me to put the baby up for adoption.”

  “Sweetie, he can certainly try to make it difficult for me, but I’m not worried.” Jem reached across the kitchen island for his hand. “But, tell me. What do you want?”

  “You’re actually the first person to ask me what I want,” Avery said. “Most people tell me what I should do because it’s so hard it is to be a teen parent. No one cares that I want Marissa and the baby. But dammit, I also want Walt to be proud of me. I can’t believe I still want his approval after the way he’s treated Marissa and me.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair. “I’m not your dad, but I’m proud of you. I know men twice your age who are less mature. Jem will be lucky to have you as an employee.”

  “I’ll start you at what Jack pays you, along with health insurance to cover you and the baby. If you and Marissa get married, she can be added to the policy. Insurance rules, not mine. Once the café is established, we’ll talk about profit sharing.”

  “Okay—consider me your new employee.” Avery calmly accepted.