Recipe for Redemption--A Clean Romance

by Anna J. Stewart

  He carried her out of the kitchen, through the dining room and out the side door to the wraparound porch. Then he set her down.

  “Well, that was unnecessary,” she grumbled.

  “What did I tell you about sandals in the kitchen?” He loomed over her, nudged his foot against hers. Her backside hit the railing.

  “That they’re dangerous.” She bit her lip. “But—”

  “There are no buts, Abby. It’s like everything I’ve taught you this last week disappeared into the ether. Now tell me what’s going on. You’ve stood up to plenty of people before—why not Roger? What possessed you to think a week’s worth of cooking lessons means you can prepare dinner for a dozen or so people?”

  “Desperation.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you, I couldn’t risk losing the business.”

  “He wouldn’t have gone anywhere else,” Jason told her. “He needs to be in town to work. Commuting thirty minutes every day isn’t an option.”

  “And how was I supposed to know that?” Her energy drained. “I’m running out of time, Jason. The festival’s less than a week away, and if today’s any indication, I’m never going to win, and now Mr. V’s talking about selling and—”

  He moved in as if he were about to throw her over his shoulder again, but instead, he kissed her.

  Solid, firm, hard and quick. Or it would have been if she hadn’t gripped her fist in the front of his T-shirt and held on. She heard herself whimper in the back of her throat when he placed his hand on her hip, as if making sure she wouldn’t try to run.

  As if she would. As if she could. Her knees wobbled. Her head spun. And every word poised to flow out of her lips vanished.

  “So that’s how to shut you up.” He stroked a finger down the side of her face before he stepped away. “Now. Back up. What’s this about Mr. V selling the inn?”

  She grabbed hold of the railing. “You should patent that move. It’s like you put the whammy on me.” Abby blinked to get her focus back. Except he was still there. Close. Too close. She planted a hand against his chest and shoved him away. There. Better. Somewhat.

  “Some big hotel chain’s made Mr. V an offer on the inn and they want an answer in three weeks. And they aren’t the only ones.” She sighed. “When I got to his room, I overheard Gil trying to convince him to sell to another corporate chain interested in the property. But that was before he told Mr. V I didn’t have a prayer of winning. Clearly he’s onto something, given what just happened.” She swiped her stinging hand over her thighs.

  “He’s not right, he’s an idiot.” Irritation flashed in Jason’s eyes. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Why would I call you?”

  “For help, Abby. With dinner.”

  Was he serious? “Because—” She broke off. It didn’t occur to her to lie. “Because you don’t work here. And—” She hesitated, then found she didn’t have the energy to lie. “Honestly? I didn’t think you would.”

  “You didn’t think—” He scrubbed his hands down his face and let out what sounded like a primal growl. “After everything we’ve gone through the last week, you thought I’d abandon you now? Abby, you’re the only reason I’m still here.”

  Her heart stuttered. “I’m the what?”

  “Well, you and the competition.” He paced in front of her. “I’d planned to be long gone before any of them showed up.” He pointed a finger over his shoulder. “I told you, I don’t want this world anymore. I don’t belong in it, and in case I didn’t mention it before, Roger Evans is one of my least favorite people on the planet.”

  “Okay.” Where was this going? What was he saying? The frustration wafting over and off him fascinated her.

  “Given all that,” he said, “why else would I be here except for you?”

  She wasn’t following. “If I had called you it wouldn’t have been about the competition. It would have been about cooking dinner. For people. In a restaurant. And as helpful as you’ve been in instructing me, it’s not as if you’ve been whipping up some miracle meals around here. You haven’t cooked anything yourself since you got to town. You’ve barely picked up a knife.”

  He shoved his clenched fists in his pockets. “That doesn’t mean I can’t.”

  “No, it means you won’t. And I understand that, Jason, I do. But you can’t get upset with me for assuming you wouldn’t want any part of the mess I’ve made. Do you think I don’t see how much it hurts you every time you step foot in my kitchen? I don’t want that for you, no matter how much I might need your help.”

  “That’s what you think? That I’m not ready to cook again?”

  She raised her hands as if to strangle him. “It’s like talking to cement! Listen to me, Jason. Of course I think you’re ready. But I also think you don’t think you’re ready. You fight it every step of the way. I didn’t want to add to your burdens, which is why I dived in.” She flung her arm out, pointing toward the kitchen as he stopped pacing and looked at her. “Without thinking things through. As usual. And now everything’s screwed up, so unless you’ve suddenly had some great self-awareness epiphany—”

  “Do you want my help, Abby?”

  “Yes.” But more than anything, she wanted him to be okay. With cooking, she reminded herself. “Yes, I want, I need your help. But not because you feel obligated to. Not even because you want to. I want you to start cooking again because you need to. It’s who you are, Jason. Doing nothing isn’t working for you. But maybe this will.”

  “You mean you were wrong?”

  “Really?” She kicked out a hip and tapped her fingers against her waist. “That’s just rude.”

  “It might help to hear it. One time, please. Say it. ‘I, Abby Manning, was wrong.’”

  “Will it put an end to this inane conversation?” Inane, maybe. Enlightening? Definitely. Fun? She almost grinned. Absolutely. “Fine. Yes, I was wrong.”

  “It’s like a magic spell.” His handsome face broke into the biggest grin she’d ever seen. “I feel all tingly now.”

  “I should have made a bigger mess in the kitchen.” She would not laugh.

  “Messes can be cleaned up. And that’s what I’m going to do. I suggest you do the same.”

  “Of course.” Mop duty again. She was getting good at it. He caught her arm when she attempted to pass. “I mean go home and change. I don’t need you smelling like wine and...” He moved in closer and sniffed. “Rosemary. What were you doing with rosemary?”

  “Experimenting.” It had also been the first herb she’d seen in the fridge. “It looks like a tree.”

  “Interesting. Gives me some ideas.”

  “You have ideas?” That was fast.

  “Abby, I’ve been having all sorts of them since I met you. And as for you!” he yelled as he leaned over the railing and stared up at the sky. “Is this your version of a cosmic kick? How many signs are you going to send me?”

  Abby hesitated before she tracked his gaze. “Who are you talking to?”

  “David.” Jason shook his head, and for the first time since she’d known him, she didn’t see the sadness hovering at the mention of his brother. If anything, he looked at peace. “I’m pretty sure he’s been talking to me. I just wasn’t ready to hear him before now. I’ll meet you in the kitchen. Hurry up. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  JASON MIGHT NOT have met Matilda, but something told him if she got a peek at her kitchen right now, she’d walk off the job permanently. Abby hadn’t just dived in without thinking, she’d reverted to being a five-year-old who’d thrown a what can I get into party. What a mess.

  So this was the push he’d needed, was it? Abby and all her craziness had finally forced him out of complacency and back into the world where he belonged.

  Only this time, he
wasn’t in it for success, or fortune, or reviews, or accolades. Abby’s business, her home, was at stake, and after a bit of prodding, she’d admitted she needed his help.

  That part of himself he’d kept locked away for the last few months stirred to life, and where days before he’d found only fear and trepidation, a fire caught and roared to life.

  A fire he continued to stoke as he got down to work and cleaned up the kitchen so they—so he—could start over.

  By the time she rejoined him, in proper attire, he was putting the mop and broom away.

  “What are those?” He leaned his hands on the counter and stared down at her fluorescent pink feet.

  “My chefy shoes. I told you I ordered some. They arrived last night.” She held up her foot and rotated her ankle. The pseudo-plastic clog-style shoes were anything but attractive, but he recognized them from countless supply catalogs as being safely protective in the kitchen. “They’re super comfy.”

  “Looks like you’re wearing stuffed animals.”

  “Like I’d take fashion advice from a man who wears a stovepipe on his head.” She knotted her ponytail around the rubber band in her hair.

  “It’s a chef’s hat or a toque, and I don’t wear one.” Anymore. “That’s for you.” He pointed at the bag by the door. “Try it on. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  The greetings and familiar voices calling his name as he headed up to his room surprised him. Maybe the NCN employees were confused. Could be they thought they were dealing with David after all. Or maybe they figured Jason was no longer an entity to worry about now that he wasn’t officially associated with the network. Either way, he took some comfort in the fact no one seemed to be plotting his demise. Once he was in his room he dragged his suitcase out from under the bed. He flipped the case open.

  His hand hovered above the rolled cloth bundle. The monogrammed DC embroidered in the top corner brought a smile to his face instead of a pang to his chest. He had no doubt he was rusty. He needed all the help he could get. Given David’s spiritual participation in the day already, what did Jason have to lose?

  He grabbed the bundle and hurried downstairs. “Hey, Lori. Did Abby say what time dinner was being served?”

  Lori pushed her nutmeg-highlighted curls out of her face. “Seven. Wine and appetizers at six thirty. Thank you for the bracelet.” She held up her wrist and smiled. “It’s beautiful.”

  “You’re very welcome.” He hadn’t realized how satisfying it felt to give people tokens of his appreciation.

  “Is everything okay in there?”

  “It will be. Full service, Lori. For the guests and you and the staff. Alice, too, if she’s home by then, please.”

  “Sure thing. Is, ah, Abby cooking?”

  “She is. But don’t worry.” He hefted the bundle. “She won’t be on her own.”

  He found Abby waiting for him in front of the work counter, the coral-colored chef’s jacket he’d had personalized clutched against her chest. “You got this for me?”

  “Every chef needs one.” He tried not to read too much into the gratitude on her face. His growing feelings for Abby were only going to make things more complicated in the long run. Although...

  “Thank you,” she said almost reverently. “Do you have one?”

  “It’s at home.”

  “Then what’s that?” She followed him to the counter as he untied the knot and unrolled the bundle. “Wow. These are beautiful.” She ran a finger over the hilt of the knife. “Yours?”

  “David’s.” Speaking his name didn’t hurt. Much. “Our grandfather gave us each a set when we graduated culinary school.”

  “Let me guess. You left yours in New York with your jacket.”

  “These seemed more appropriate.” His fingers tingled as he gripped the hilt. “And who knows, I might need more help than I think. Speaking of help. Are you ready for your first go-around as sous chef?”

  “Sous...?” She looked as if he’d smacked her with a spatula. “Uh, yes?”

  “Give me that.” He plucked the jacket out of her hands, spun her around and helped her slip it on. He buttoned her up, tugged on the collar to make sure it wasn’t too tight. “Perfect.”

  “Five-Alarm Manning?” She poked a finger against the raised stitching.

  “A badge of honor.” Appropriate given her activities this afternoon. “Now, wear it with pride.”

  “If anyone asks, I’ll say I love peppers. A lie, by the way.” She stuck out her tongue and gagged. “Hate them.”

  “Good to know. Ready?” He headed over to the fridge and pulled out the chicken pieces left over from yesterday, then yanked out two more full birds.

  “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Cut these up.”

  “Ooh, chicken again. Fancy.” She wrinkled her nose but grinned. “I could have managed chicken for them.”

  “What temperature do you cook chicken to?” he asked.

  “Till it’s done?”

  “That’s what I thought. Grab a pair of disposable gloves, Abby. This is going to get messy.”

  * * *

  “YOU KNOW WHAT this means, don’t you?”

  “What does what mean?” Abby carried the last stack of plates and glasses in from the now empty dining room and set them in the sink.

  How she could smell the still-baking brownies over the intoxicating aroma of roasted lemon chicken was beyond her. Maybe her nose was just grateful to be inhaling something other than smoke fumes for a change.

  “It means I’m officially your secret employee.”

  “Ah. Hmm.” Her grin faltered as she listened to the glug-glug of wine being poured. She wasn’t sure she liked the idea of a secret anything, let alone an employee. “That conjures up all kinds of ideas, doesn’t it?” she tried to joke.

  He’d been pinging about the kitchen like an out-of-control pinball in between scribbling notes on a spattered pad of paper he’d kept at his side all evening. She actually felt like part of a team. She found it much easier to follow his instructions now that he was showing her what to do instead of telling her. One thing was for certain: Jason Corwin belonged in a kitchen.

  “Now what are you doing?” she asked as he opened a small square door on the side of the stove and pulled out two clean plates. “So that’s what that’s for.”

  “The warming oven?” Jason’s perplexed look vanished as he filled their plates. “What else would it be? Doesn’t Matilda use it?”

  “She could. How would I know? I was banished from the kitchen, remember?”

  “Something tells me your banishment will soon come to an end. And now, since we’re done serving dinner, it’s our turn.”

  “About time!” Her stomach growled in agreement. She tugged at the stiff collar. As much as she loved the gift, she wasn’t used to the clinging fabric.

  “You can take that off now.”

  “Great.” She hung up the jacket on a hook beside the cleaning closet. When she turned around, she noticed a tired smile on his face. Until tonight, she hadn’t realized how depressed and withdrawn he’d been when he first arrived. From the moment he’d held his brother’s knife, he fell into what must have been familiar rhythms and he looked more self-confident, more content with each slice, chop and dice.

  It didn’t matter how many lessons he gave her. She’d never feel that confident in the kitchen.

  “Have a seat, Abby.” He held out her stool.

  “This is nice.”

  He’d cleared a space on the worktable, setting out cloth napkins and flatware for the two of them, her now-filled wineglass the final touch to the dining area he’d created for them.

  “Normally the kitchen staff eats before service, but we had a few kinks to work out this time around.”

  “What kinks?” She si
pped her wine.

  “If you didn’t notice, I’m not going to tell you. All that’s important is that clean plates came back. There’s no better evidence of a successful meal.”

  “Afraid you’d lost your touch?” She covered her mouth as she yawned. “Sorry. It’s not even eight thirty and I’m ready for bed.” And he looked ready to go out partying. Where did he get the energy to do this night after night in New York?

  “Lightweight. Dinner service would just be starting at JD’s.” He set her filled plate in front of her before returning for his own.

  Now she realized what JD’s stood for: Jason and David’s. Nice. “People eat that late in New York?” How did they stay awake?

  “People eat that late in a lot of places. Did I hear Alice singing your praises?”

  “Singing our praises, actually. I wouldn’t be surprised if you’re in the will now.” Abby’s cheeks warmed when she remembered her grandmother’s comments about her plans for Abby and Jason’s future. “That scarf you gave her is beautiful. Thank you.”

  “It reminded me of her.” Jason picked up his fork and started to eat.

  “You don’t strike me as the gift-giving type.”

  “I’m not.” He clinked his glass against hers. “Or I haven’t been. Looks like you and this town of yours are having all sorts of effects on me.”

  “It’s the butterflies.”

  “It’s something. What’s wrong?” He pointed his fork at her plate. “You’re not eating.”

  “I’m analyzing.” She took a deep breath and inhaled the aroma of roasted chicken. She rotated her plate, admiring the cooked bird, rice pilaf with tiny slivered almonds and golden raisins, and blanched and sautéed garden vegetables from every angle. The rim of the plate was pristine, as if the food had magically appeared with the wave of his knife. “How do you do that?”

  “Do what?” He drank more wine.

  “Make everything so pretty. Like a work of art.”

  “Practice. We eat with our eyes first. If it doesn’t look appetizing, chances are it won’t be.”