by A. J. Pine
“What night works for you—to bring Maman back for dinner?”
His sous chef was trying her hand at running the kitchen, so he’d suggested this Saturday night. Three days from now. Walker not only hadn’t forgotten, but he was planning to cook for all of them. Her throat tightened, and for a few seconds she stood there, mouth open, unable to speak.
“You all right there?” he asked, and Violet finally found her voice.
“We’re really going through with this? I assumed I’d come up with some last-minute excuse, like Olivia needing me at the desk for the weekend rush or something.”
Walker shrugged. “I’ve got burgers and Gouda. And Lily said I could do this fancy ham wrapped around melon for an appetizer.”
Violet laughed. “Prosciutto?”
He pointed at her and grinned. “That’s it! You know, I’m pretty handy in the kitchen, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret.” He leaned in close, cupping his palm around her ear. His warm breath made her shiver. “Never bought a melon before in my life.”
She took a step back and smacked straight into what felt like a brick wall.
“Whoa, there. Sorry about that,” a deep male voice said.
Violet spun to face another equally tall and strapping man, but this one had short, dark hair where Walker’s was California sun-kissed and overgrown. The stranger was clean-shaven, so she could admire the square line of his jaw.
“Just thought I’d stop by and say hello, Everett. Haven’t seen you since—”
“Hey, Sam,” Walker interrupted, setting the melon back down with the others and shaking the other man’s hand. “It’s been a while, huh? This is Violet Chastain, Crossroads Vineyard’s new wine expert.”
Violet held out her hand. “I also do some work over at the Oak Bluff B and B. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Sam Callahan. I’m heading up the remodel on the B and B,” he said as he scrubbed a hand across his jaw. “Coworkers then, huh? I thought maybe—”
“Nope,” Walker said emphatically, cutting the man off again. “You thought wrong.”
Violet hoped she disguised her wince with a smile. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with what Walker said. Whatever Sam was insinuating about the two of them, Walker was simply being honest—quickly and efficiently honest.
Sam gave her hand an extra squeeze before letting it go.
“Nice seeing you, Everett,” he said. His eyes turned back to Violet. “And it was extra nice meeting you, Ms. Chastain. I’m guessing we’ll be seeing a lot more of each other at the bed-and-breakfast.” He smiled, gave Walker that male nod that could mean hello, good-bye, or anything in between, and walked away.
Violet was still watching him leave when Walker broke the silence.
“You’re not going to need my services much past this weekend, I’m guessing.”
She pivoted to face him, cheeks burning. “I wasn’t—I mean, I didn’t—”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter what you did, Teach. He’s already picking curtains or color swatches or whatever it is you do when planning a future with someone else.”
He smiled ruefully, and ugh. Why did he have to call her Teach? Forget what she said about the personal touch of calling someone by their name. Nicknames were something else entirely. Was he flirting or simply being friendly?
She rolled her eyes. “I’m not picking anything out with anyone,” she insisted. “I don’t see why it matters, though, considering we’re nothing more than friends.”
“You’re right,” he said, his voice even. “Doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you were about to show me how to pick the perfect cantaloupe—you know, so as to impress your parents with a fancy but no frills appetizer. Lily’s words, by the way.”
Violet grabbed a melon that was heavy in her hand. When she pressed her nose to the rind—its texture like raised netting against her skin—she breathed in deep and grinned. “So sweet,” she said, then held it out toward Walker. “This is the one.”
He reached for it, but she snatched it back.
“On one condition,” she added.
He crossed his arms. “And what’s that?”
She nodded toward his shopping basket. “I need one of those wheels of Gouda. You don’t need both to make burgers for four.”
He eyed her warily. “Yeah, but the woman selling the cheese said it’s the best and that she won’t have any more for at least a month. Figured I might want one for myself. Helping me pick a melon is hardly payment for the last of a dying breed.”
Violet laughed. “Do you even know the difference between Gouda and the prepackaged processed crap you buy in the refrigerator section?”
“Sure do.” He raised his brows. “Prepackaged crap is yellow.”
He snatched the melon from her without incident, set it down in his cart, and tipped an invisible hat in her direction. “Many thanks, Teach. I’ll see you Saturday.”
“Wait!” she said, grabbing hold of his cart before he strode away. “I promised Olivia I’d get her that Gouda for Friday’s wine tasting. You wouldn’t want me disappointing my other boss, now, would you?”
He scratched the back of his neck and narrowed his gaze. “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Please?” she asked, batting her lashes. “S’il vous plait?”
He chuckled but shook his head. “Oh no, you don’t. I don’t care how pretty those brown eyes are. You want a favor from me? Then I get to ask a favor of you.”
She blew out a breath. “Fine. Name your price.”
“Jack’s meeting with a client, Ava’s got her college class today, and Owen’s at school. No one around to let the dog out.”
Her shoulders sagged as her hope deflated. Flirting or not, she and Walker were having fun without it being awkward, weren’t they? And here all he wanted was to assign her another errand like she was doing for Olivia and Cash.
“Sure,” she said flatly. “I can do it right after I walk Dixie for the sheriff.”
Walker’s brows furrowed. “Nice of you to offer, Teach. But all this food shopping’s worked up my appetite. Figured since I was heading over to let Scully out, I could raid Jack and Ava’s fridge for lunch. Figured you might be hungry, too.”
“Oh,” Violet said. “I thought—”
“How about this?” he interrupted, then reached into his cart and handed her the coveted wheel of Gouda. “Run this over to Olivia, grab the sheriff’s dog, and meet me in front of the antique shop in ten minutes. Dixie can hop in the back of the cab and come with us. Jack and Ava have a nice-size yard with a fence, and she and Scully get on great. They can have free rein while we fix ourselves something to eat.”
Violet couldn’t wipe the smile off her face if she tried.
“I think I’m going to like being friends with you, Walker Everett.”
He winked. “I think you already do.”
Twenty minutes later the sheriff’s German shepherd, Dixie, was chasing Jack and Ava’s chocolate Lab, Scully, through their spacious backyard while Walker rummaged through their fridge.
“So…this is the house you grew up in?”
He emerged from behind the refrigerator door with a jar of pickles in one hand, a stick of butter and a squeeze bottle of Dijon mustard in the other, and two deli bags hanging from his teeth.
“Oh my God. Do you need help?” she asked, but she was laughing. “Wait. First…” She held up her phone. “Say cheese!”
Instead his blue eyes shot daggers at her while she snapped the photo.
He spun toward the counter, dropping the bags and setting the pickles and butter down next to them.
“Thanks so much for the help,” he said, but she could tell he was biting back a grin.
“Thanks so much for the photo op,” she countered. “That might be my new wallpaper.”
He grabbed a bag of sourdough bread from a basket and slid it her way along with a knife.
“If you actually do want to lend a hand. How about cutti
ng us four pieces about a half-inch thick?”
She nodded. “I guess I can do that.”
He went to work with his own knife, shaving a dill pickle into paper-thin slices. When she handed him the bread, he buttered the outside of each piece, then layered the inside with the mustard, cheddar cheese, turkey, and sliced dill.
She wrinkled her nose. “Pickles on a turkey sandwich?”
He huffed out a laugh. “You grew up in your dad’s restaurant, and you’re afraid of a little pickle? I’m disappointed.”
Her brows drew together as he pulled a skillet from under the stove and fired up one of the burners.
“I’m not afraid of pickles. They’re usually a side item is all. But I’m sure your weird sandwich will be delicious.”
He raised his brows but said nothing, so she let him be. She knew her way around a kitchen well enough to find plates, glasses, and napkins, so she kept herself busy setting the table and filling their glasses with ice water. The kitchen looked out onto the backyard, and she could see the two dogs now resting in the shade. Beyond that lay part of the pasture, and farther out she could see the beginning of the vineyard. The view was nothing short of spectacular.
“This seems like a beautiful home,” she said. “And the view. All that land.”
“Mmm-hmm,” was his only response as he turned toward the table, sizzling skillet in one hand and spatula in the other.
He slid one sandwich onto each plate, returned the skillet to the burner, and met her back at the table. With the spatula still in hand, he split each sandwich in two so that the cheese oozed onto the plates.
Violet’s mouth watered.
“Feedin’ time,” he said, then dropped into his seat. He waited for her to sit before touching his food, but as soon as she joined him at the table, he tore into his sandwich like he hadn’t eaten in a week.
Violet stared at the crisp, golden bread and the perimeter of burned cheese sticking out from the crust—her favorite.
Walker swallowed. “Thought you weren’t scared of a few pickles,” he teased.
He was right. She was the daughter of parents who’d taught her to love everything from escargot to spicy sardines. Certainly she could stomach pickles on her sandwich instead of beside it.
“You know what it is?” she said, lifting half her sandwich and pointing at him with it. “I love pickles. I do. But they have such a strong, powerful flavor, right? Like, if I’m at a restaurant, and they put the pickle too close to the sandwich so that it’s touching, it’s game over, man. The sandwich tastes like a pickle. So I’m simply wondering if putting the pickle on the sandwich and using heat to—you know—seal in the flavor is really the wisest choice.”
Walker stared at her, said nothing, and took another bite.
Oh, screw it. She’d only had coffee and a banana for breakfast, and that was hours ago already. She sank her teeth into the crisp, buttered bread and tore off a hunk.
Her taste buds exploded with the tang of the pickle mixed with the heat of the mustard. The smoked turkey added an unexpected sweetness mixed with the sharp bite of the cheddar. Together, wrapped in the grilled sourdough, it was nothing short of perfection.
She moaned as her eyes fell shut, and even though she couldn’t see him, she knew Walker was looking at her with a self-satisfied grin.
“Mon Dieu,” she said. “If this is any indication of how you prepare a burger, my parents are going to be smitten.”
“You’re welcome,” was all he said, and Violet realized that while Walker Everett was a man of few words—even fewer when he ate—he was also a man who could hold his own in the kitchen, and there was barely anything sexier than that.
“He’s a good man,” Walker finally said after he polished off his last bite. “Sam Callahan, I mean.”
She took an extra few sips of her water so she wouldn’t have to answer immediately.
“I wanted you to know,” he added. “In case he asks you out.”
Violet nodded as she amended her earlier assessment in her head. There was barely anything sexier than a man friend who could hold his own in the kitchen. Despite his making lunch for her today and what he was doing for her Saturday night, she had to stop looking for something that wasn’t there and enjoy her time in Oak Bluff for what it was—a means to an end.
“Thanks for the heads-up,” she said at last. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Chapter Twelve
Walker stood in the doorway with a platter of freshly grilled Gouda burgers and stared as he watched Violet move about his tiny kitchen, opening and closing cabinets until she found what she wanted. Having her in his personal space was both disconcerting and comforting all at once, and he couldn’t figure out which part of that equation bothered him more.
“Oh, hey,” she said, setting a stack of plates on the table and then grabbing the platter from him. “Sorry. I didn’t see you standing there.” She breathed in through her nose and hummed a satisfied sigh. “These look and smell delicious.”
He cleared his throat. “Your dress is nice,” he said, admiring the long, maroon garment that hugged her curves and flared slightly where it pooled over her simple, gold sandals.
She stuck her thumbs behind the spaghetti straps of the top and held them out like they were a pair of overalls or suspenders. “What? This old thing?” she teased. She blew a corkscrew curl out of her eyes.
He loved that she’d worn her hair curly tonight. She was beautiful no matter which way you sliced it, but tonight—despite their charade—she seemed so comfortable in her own skin. He envied that about her, about anyone who could simply be.
She looked him up and down, everything from his clean jeans to his green and white short-sleeve plaid button-down. “Thank you. You clean up pretty good yourself, though if we get too close we might look like a Christmas tree.” She let out a nervous laugh. How close would they have to get tonight to look convincing as a couple?
He shrugged. “Guess we’ll have to coordinate better next time.” When they’d have to pretend again.
“I’ll go grab my parents,” she said, heading toward the other side of the apartment where a small balcony looked out onto Oak Bluff Way. Violet’s mother and father each sipped a glass of the wine they’d brought as a gift to the host and hostess. Walker hoped his refusal was convincing but not rude, insisting that he never drank the night before he operated a circular saw, that he wouldn’t want the remaining shelves of the winery to be compromised.
They’d all shared a good-natured laugh, but he was running out of excuses not to drink, and he wanted to hang on to the fantasy—that he wasn’t an addict—for a while longer.
Thanks to the minuscule size of the place, Walker could hear Violet’s mother through the opened sliding glass door.
“Prosciutto and melon,” she said, holding up a cube of cantaloupe wrapped in the Italian ham and held together with a toothpick. “Délicieux.”
“That’s all Walker,” he heard Violet say. “He prepared the entire menu for tonight, which is why I’m here. Burgers are done. Go ahead,” she added. “I’ll get the dishes.”
After a half-hour discussion over s’mores of how the Dutch pronounce “Gouda”—“It’s chow-da,” Violet’s father insisted, pronouncing the ch like he was ready to hock a loogie—it was time to walk Mr. and Mrs. Chastain to their car.
Violet’s father linked his arm with his wife, and Walker linked his hand with Violet’s, her fingers snaking through his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The four of them rounded the front of the antiques shop where Violet’s father had parked.
“I guess I was wrong to worry about you working together and—well—you know,” Gabriel Chastain said.
Walker let Violet’s hand go to shake her father’s. Then he slid his palm to the small of her back.
“Pa-pa,” Violet scolded, but she was smiling.
“Thank you for dinner,” Camille said, kissing her daughter on each cheek and then doing t
he same with Walker. “You are welcome in our home any time,” she said. “On the weekends when Vee is home, Sunday dinners start at seven. Tell me you will come sometime.”
He felt Violet’s diaphragm contract as she sucked in a breath.
“I never say no to a home-cooked meal,” he said.
“Then we will see you both soon,” Camille added.
Gabriel opened her car door and helped her inside. The older woman was unable to mask the wince as she maneuvered into her seat.
He pulled Violet close, and she rested her head on his shoulder.
“Home next weekend, sweetheart?” Gabriel asked his daughter, his voice tight.
“Yeah,” Violet said. “I’ll head back after the wine tasting Friday night.”
He kissed his daughter on the cheek and made his way to the driver’s side of the car.
Walker stood there for several long seconds with Violet’s body leaning up against his until the taillights of her parents’ car were long out of view.
“I’ll help you clean up,” she said, the first to break the silence.
If he let her help, that meant the two of them alone in his apartment. But once she was there, the last thing he’d want to do is clean.
“I’ve got it under control,” he said. “Probably easier for you to head back to the B and B.”
She swallowed and nodded. “Probably.” Then she threw her arms around him and pressed her warm lips to his cheek. “Thank you, Walker. For everything. I don’t think I’ve ever had a friend like you.”
He didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing at all and simply hugged her back, savoring the feel of her body against his.
“Good night, Walker,” she said, pulling away.
“Night, Teach.”
And then she was gone.
It didn’t take long to clean and dry the dishes, but by the time he finished, he was physically and emotionally spent.
He opened the cabinet above the fridge and stared at the shot glass and bottle. But he didn’t pull it down, didn’t pour that nightly shot only to see if he was strong enough to pour it back. He was already slightly drunk on the high of the evening, even if it had ended with the word “friend.”