Dining with Joy (11 page)

“Joy's your aunt?”

“Yep.” She set her chin on the counter to watch the noodles spin around.

“Ah, very cool.” Luke leaned against the counter. “What else do you like besides SpaghettiOs?”

“Pizza. Pop-Tarts. Smokey's barbecue takeout.”

Pop-Tarts? SpaghettiOs? Pizza and takeout? Luke bent forward to peer through the pantry door opening. The light was dim and his angle awkward, but from his vantage point, cereal boxes, Pop-Tarts, cans, and jars occupied the shelves. And a taco kit. Did he see boxed macaroni and cheese?

“I see you've met my niece, Annie-Rae.” Joy pushed the pantry doors closed with a short glance at Luke. “We need to go shopping.”

“Shopping . . . Hard to get it done on a busy schedule.” Luke stepped back, reckoning with the feeling Joy didn't want him examining her pantry shelves. Around him, Joy's floral fragrance cast its scent against the aroma of SpaghettiOs. “Annie, what are you doing? We just ate barbecue.”

She gazed down at the girl with one hand on her hip, her frown unconvincing. Her simple top exposed the curves of her arms. Her jeans hugged the contours of her hips. She was assured, more than he'd seen on the set. Comfortable. If the doorway image of Joy greeting him in her pajamas got to him, this scene sent him to the precipice.

“I was still hungry,” the girl said, without hesitation or trepidation.

“Hungry? Well, we can't have that, can we?” Joy smoothed Annie's hair before bending to kiss her forehead. “When Lyric comes home, tell her I said—”

“Joy.” Rosie's voice carried from the living room to the kitchen.

“I'll deal with Lyric. You get along now, stop fretting, stop keeping Luke waiting.”

“That's what he gets for showing up unannounced.” Joy pressed her palm to the pantry door, picking her purse off the counter. “Next time he'll call.”

“Next time? You think there will be a next time?” Luke tugged his keys from his pocket, turning down the hall for the door.

“Oh yeah, there'll be a next time.” Joy jerked open the front door, glancing back at him, a glint in her eye. “Bye, Mama.”

“Have fun. Stay out late. Make me worry.”

Five minutes later the Spit Fire shimmied and rumbled down the Sea Island Parkway.

“So?” Joy captured her flying hair and worked the ends into a loose braid. Under the fluttering, ragged top, the wind collected, filling the space between Joy and Luke. From the radio sitting askew in the dash, Josh Turner sang about the South Carolina lowcountry.

“So?” he echoed, shifting gears, precise and smooth. His cuffed, three-quarter sleeve exposed the strength of his arm. “I'm not getting the hang of the show very fast, am I?”

A clear, honest question deserved a clear, honest response. “Not really. But to be fair, this is my fourth season with the same crew and I'm used to hitting the set on the run, going through the script and the recipe while constantly looking for ways to be spontaneous, have fun, add humor.”

“I feel like a talking brick.”

She laughed. “I was thinking cardboard, but brick is good.”

“I've done cooking shows before but not where the director sets up ten different angles of you washing your hands or stirring chocolate.” He shifted again, the scent of pine and palmetto collecting between them. “I've definitely not had the privilege of working with a show host who suddenly decides we can't say the word
sauce
or
pan
for an entire show.”

Joy laughed. “But what a fun show.”

“Yeah, if you like the host yelling ‘Gotcha!' every two seconds while you sweat through your clothes.”

A sensation, almost intangible, seeped through her as she listened to him, as she inhaled his clean, soapy fragrance. In the blink of a firefly's light, Luke Redmond geared up from chef, from annoying cohost, to being a
man
.

Joy jerked around, angling away from him toward the door, wishing for cold air-conditioning to blow over her. Jutting her hand out the window, she gathered clumps of moist air to ease her hot skin.

“Sorry about the car . . . It was born in New York and delivered without air-conditioning.”

“The night air is cool enough, thick and moist.”

Luke slowed as the drawbridge light flashed from yellow to red. Beneath them, the Beaufort River cut through the darkness, flowing with the force of the tide toward the amber lights of the city. “Must have been difficult stepping into your dad's show shoes.”

“It was, at first.” For a lot of reasons. “But I've worked hard to make it my own. Enjoy the journey.”

“Didn't you have something you wanted to do before the show? Coach? What'd you study in college?”

“Coaching is too consuming. At one time I wanted a fam— Well, anyway, ideally I wanted to be paid to read and write. Majored in English at Alabama and thought I'd make it as an editor or writer.”

Luke whistled. “Speaking of torture.”

“Torture? Please.” She laughed in her chest. “There's nothing like curling up with a good book, or that moment when an idea sparks and I sit down to write and it all flows.” Cooking? Now that was pure torture.

And living with the fear of failing, of being exposed by a nosy reporter digging too deep. Or of Wenda Divine finally trapping her beyond escape. If one reporter found the right college roommate, the whole world would know about her infamous fiascos with microwave dinners.

“Naw, naw, there's nothing like curling up for a good, old movie with a plate of steaming tomato-and-garlic-drenched pasta, hot buttery bread, with chocolate cake waiting in the wings. It all comes together when I'm cooking, creating. I know what I'm doing in the kitchen, but not on set, not in front of cameras.”

“Just forget the cameras are there, Luke. Be yourself. The viewers will love you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, his humble
yeah
? slipping through her soul, a pearl casting an incandescent glow over her heart.

The bridge light flashed green and the Spit Fire motored forward, Sara Evans's smoky vocals coming over the radio, cocooning Joy in bright, bold melody.

“Who knows, maybe Allison's instincts are right. We're a good team, the tortoise and the hare. The stoic chef and the effervescent entertainer.” Luke urged the car forward the second the light turned green. “Not saying you're not a great cook too, Joy. More like maybe one day I'll make a good entertainer.”

“No offense taken.” She glanced at him, the dash lights accenting the high plains of his face. “You taking on the role of chef works for me.”
Hear what I'm whispering to you, Luke
.

At eight thirty on a weeknight downtown parking slots weren't hard to find. Luke slipped the Spit Fire into a parallel spot by the coffee shop.

“Downtown Beaufort is hot with activity tonight.” Joy motioned to the quiet sidewalk.

“Fits my plan. No waiting. But you?” He held up his hand to Joy. “Wait.”

“Wait? For what?”

His door dropped on its rusty hinges as he shoved it open. “Just let me . . . now wait, Joy.” Luke hitched up the door as he worked the door closed.

Joy watched through the windshield as he walked around the front of the car, his American-flag print shirt swaying loose over his boot-cut jeans. His boot heels resounded on the pavement until he stopped at her door and tugged it open. The hinge popped and squeaked.

Joy stepped out. “It's been a long time since someone opened my door for me.”

“Feminism aside, it's an honorable gesture toward women, don't you think?”

Joy's gaze lingered on his face. The streetlights dimmed. The city music faded. The only two people in the universe—she broke the moment by stepping back.

“Yes, I do think.” Her words sounded thick in her cloudy throat. She was going to do it again. Kiss him. What was wrong with her? There was no show, no audience, no Wenda Divine.

Clutching her handbag, she followed Luke to a corner table, away from Common Ground's counter and foot traffic. He drew a chair out for her. “What can I get you?”

“A latte and . . .” She tugged her wallet from her handbag as she sat. “And a cinnamon roll. They make the best in the city.”

“One latte and cinnamon roll coming up.” Luke walked away before she could fish a ten out of her wallet.

“You don't have to buy, Luke.”

He turned, walking backward. “After I dragged you out so late? Made you get dressed? Yeah, I do.”

She dropped to her chair. What was Luke up to with his sweep-a-girl-off-her-feet, cowboy charm? Had she let her guard down too soon? If she wasn't careful, he'd discover her secret before she had a chance to charm Allison into letting Luke man the kitchen while Joy went on the road, worked up comedy bits, provided the spontaneity and laughs.

Luke was the perfect straight man, and he might be struggling in front of the camera right now, but once he became comfortable, once the fans related to him, Joy's pretense could fade away.

When she glanced up, Luke was watching her from the counter. Joy shifted her gaze to her purse and fished inside for her phone. How did he make her feel so exposed, so vulnerable, as if he knew what she was feeling?

She tried to focus on her e-mail, but she couldn't seem to get past the distraction of just being out with him, the light in his blue eyes, or the cute way his brown bangs lobbed over his forehead.

When he returned to the table, Joy had gathered herself, shoving aside her imagination. Luke was a colleague, a professional chef. Her way out of this mess. But oh, the narrow pathway between success and disaster.

“Never could get into the smart phones,” he said, setting down her latte and cinnamon roll. “I just have a little flip. It rings, I answer, all is right with the world.” He tossed sweeteners and stir sticks onto the table.

“You're an alien, then.” Joy slipped her phone back into her bag.

“From the twentieth century.”

“Growing up on a ranch, you learn to live simple and work hard.”

“You grew up on a ranch?” She smiled. “That explains the boots and plaid shirts. I just thought it was all you could afford after losing . . . I mean . . . Gee, Joy, open mouth insert foot.”

“After losing my restaurant. No shame in talking about it, Joy. I did go bankrupt. And yes, these are not only the clothes I can afford but also the clothes I like to wear. You can take the cowboy out of Oklahoma, but you can't take Oklahoma out of the cowboy.”

“So, how'd a Manhattan cowboy end up in the lowcountry?”

“The idea of sun and water and hanging out with Heath appealed to me way more than dust and tumbleweeds, manure scented breezes, living at home, bunking in my first ‘big boy bed,' listening to my dad grouse about the weather.”

Smiling, nodding, Joy sipped her latte. “And here I sit with you, pushed out the door by
my
mother.”

“It's different for women.”

“Thank you for that kind answer.” Joy pinched a bite from her roll, unwilling to shove the two-inch mound of dough, cinnamon, and icing into her mouth in front of Luke. “I'd planned to buy my own place this year until my brother and his wife decided to take off to Las Vegas without their girls.”

“That's how Annie-Rae ended up in your kitchen opening a can of SpaghettiOs?” He blew gently over the surface of his steaming, black coffee.

“Yep. I'm so used to them being around now, I'd be lost without them.” Joy took another small bite of her cinnamon roll. She ordered it, but now she wasn't hungry for it. “So, how'd you get to New York?”

“Long story.” Luke folded his arms on the table and leaned toward her. “But for your listening pleasure, I'll give you the short version. Went to visit Heath upstate one summer, we went down to the city and I found a job in Hell's Kitchen as a line chef. The executive worked me to the bone, but I'd found my passion.”

“Passion is good.” Joy swirled the foam into her latte before taking a sip.

“I'm a fan.”

The tone of his voice sent a warm flush over her temples. He was talking about food . . . his career . . . and he was just agreeing with her. She picked at the seam of her latte cup, her gaze averted, afraid to look up and see herself in Luke's eyes.

“I used to feel that way about softball.”

“I read your NCAA stats. Impressive.”

“I had some good days on the field. What about you? Any Hell's Kitchen stats?”

“Sixteen fires, eight trips to the ER, five second-degree burns, a total of seventy-five stitches, one broken bone, thirty unique dish creations, and one year I clocked in three hundred and sixty-five days.”

“My hat is off to you, chef. Very nice.”

“They don't call it Hell's Kitchen for nothing.” He eyed her over the rim of his coffee. “What about you? Any trips to the ER? Interesting burn or cut stories?”

His question cornered her. She shook her head slowly. “Actually, no.” She peered at him, trying to be confident. “A cooking show isn't quite as hectic and dangerous as a Manhattan kitchen.” Joy tucked her napkin around the cinnamon roll. She'd take it home to Annie-Rae. “Cooking on a show is rather beige most of the time.”

“Beige?” He laughed. Good. He had been getting too serious. “The woman who invented Stupid Cooking Tricks? The host who brought deep-fried peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to culinary television?”

“All in an effort not to be beige. But enough about me.” Joy reclined back, arms folded over her chest. “How did a rancher's son take up fine dining?”

“My mom died of an aneurism when I was sixteen, left Red and me.”

“And who is Red?”

“My father. Earl Redmond, but everyone calls him Red.” Luke cupped his hand around his coffee. “Mom left the two of us rattling around a big ranch house . . . felt like a sinkhole without her. She'd been gone about a year when I wandered into the kitchen and picked up her recipe box. I spent an entire weekend learning to make her lasagna. She made it with béchamel, and I used every bit of flour, which was probably over a year old, butter, and milk in the house. Red kept sending one of the hands after me, telling me to get my britches out to the corral and help with branding.” Something changed in his expression as he reminisced.