Hot and Bothered (Hot in the Kitchen) (16 page)

“I’d love to catch up properly,
dude
,” Tad said with a fuck-you smirk of his own at Aaron. “Sit down and tell me more about the rug business in Schaumburg.”

* * *

“And where did you get this one?”

For what felt like the hundredth time, Tad balled his fists and suppressed the budding growl in his throat. Jules lay her soft hand on Derry’s arm, questioning the provenance of yet another of his colorful tattoos. The usually brooding mountain certainly didn’t show any signs of minding.

“Marseille. Vintage Pinot. Seven hours,” Derry said. Anyone who didn’t know him would think he was being standoffish, but Tad knew better. Coming from Derry Jones, that was practically a gush.

Jules continued to caress one of the wine labels—which looked faded and could do with a touch up, Tad thought snarkily—and gazed in awe at Derry’s ink.

“Isn’t this early for you?” Tad bit out in Derry’s direction. He didn’t usually show up for prep until 3 p.m. and that he was here at noon rang a million alarm bells.

Derry looked sardonically amused. Dude always looked sardonically amused.

“Nope,” he answered, which wasn’t much of an answer at all.

Tad resented this cut into his time with Jules. For the last couple of days, once she had finished her prep and got her special on the stove or in the oven, he had been breaking out a nice bottle and completing her education. And then fantasizing about all the other things he could teach her.

A few days had passed since their conversation at the market when he had agreed with her about the crazy-cubed nature of his proposal.
Bloody hell, protection sex, Tad?
Said in that deadpan of hers that sounded even more mocking with that cut crystal accent. And he had laughed along with her when really he wanted to shout to the tops of the farm stands that he had never been more serious about anything in his life. He had meant every word and more. Itches would be scratched. Amazing orgasms would be achieved. Worlds would be rocked.

Worlds would be changed.

He had bailed because relationships were hard and a relationship with Jules—something real with this woman—would be his undoing and hers. But now he was starting to realize he had a bigger problem.

Out in the dating world, Jules was an unstoppable force.

Shane had filled him in on her disappointing dates so far, mostly idiots and guys with shit for brains. But that could not last and Aaron Roberts was probably the first guy who truly looked good on paper—stable, safe, suburban. Tad had nipped that in the bud by sticking around long enough to ensure it was the least romantic first date ever. Evan had played his part by throwing a tantrum and letting the Rugmeister know that this family business took work.

But Tad couldn’t be in position with a cranky toddler and a scowl, ready to sabotage every date. There would be others with good jobs and picket fences and no qualms about taking on another guy’s kid because Jules and Evan were an amazing package deal. Neither would it be long before she clicked with someone.

Seeing how guys reacted to her now that she was on the market was killing him. First, that farmstand guy at Green City, then Aaron Roberts, and now Tad had to watch her get all handsy with Kitchen Hulk.

“This one. That’s…” She scrunched up her face, squinting to figure it out. Tad loved that look on her, how the dawning recognition of a word overcame her frustration at not knowing it immediately.

“Beaujolais Nouveau,” Derry said, referring to an intricately drawn ink of a chateau winged by grapes. “Fifteen hours,” he added with a grim smile.

Jules turned to Tad, her face bright and open. “Do we have any Beaujolais Nouveau in our cellar?”

Our cellar.
That made him warm.

“A new batch is produced every November,” Tad said while he sliced some artisan cheddar. “We don’t cellar it because it doesn’t improve with age and people expect the latest vintage.”

Jules shook her head. “I’ve so much to learn between the vintages and the terms.
Cru, brut, cuvée.
There are so many and that’s just the French ones.”

“Tricky bastards, the French,” Derry said with feeling.

Tad just about managed not to roll his eyes.

After a few more minutes of ink adoration, Derry left to run some errands.
Yes, I am paying you to work here.

Jules’s disappointed gaze followed Derry out, but she covered quickly and returned to the crab with crème fraîche spread she had been working on before the Derry Jones tattoo slide show had begun.

Huh.
So Jules had a crush on a certain hard-boiled chef.

What did Tad expect? She wanted to meet someone and he wasn’t exactly stepping up to offer her anything beyond a good old-fashioned bang-and-bolt. Derry was a decent guy. Rumors swirled that he was ex-military, maybe a Navy SEAL. Not the most sparkling conversationalist but he seemed dependable and trustworthy. Real husband material. He’d make a good father to Evan while Tad was barely good enough to be uncle.

The idea of another guy soothing Evan to sleep or holding him when he was upset distressed Tad almost as much as the notion of Jules with someone else. With Derry.

Shit.

“I want to show you something,” he said to her back. “Wait here a sec.”

Thirty seconds later, he placed a black binder on the counter before her.

“It’s a guide to all the wines we have in the cellar.”
Our cellar.
“The selection is small enough right now that it can fit, but we could always add to it. I was creating it as a training tool for the staff and then I thought…” He trailed off, unsure how to complete that sentence. A pang of discomfort pinched his chest but it was too late to undo this.

Placing the knife down carefully, she flipped open the binder, her tight stance a brace against an encyclopedia of words beyond her understanding.

“It’s a picture book,” she gasped.

He had printed off images for all the labels and paired them with a legend for that wine’s characteristics. A globe for “earthy,” a lemon for “citrus,” a jar for “jammy,” and so on. She had an excellent memory and once she had committed the key to that quick-as-a-fox brain of hers, he was confident she’d have it down.

“You’re a visual person so this method might work better for you.” Dyslexics tended to see pictures instead of words and were more likely to perceive with all the senses. They also liked routines, but they got frustrated easily. Becoming a stellar chef like her brothers might seem difficult on the surface but she had innate abilities that just needed to be encouraged. He wanted to be the one to help her realize all that potential.

Not Derry Fucking Jones.

“Tad, I…” Eyes shining bright with emotion, she raised a couple of fingers to her mouth and took a harsh breath.

Instinctively he pulled her in his arms, something he had taken pains to avoid since that night a year ago when he had almost lost himself in her. As always, touching her brewed up a storm of sensation that threatened to make landfall and decimate his last defenses. He gasped for air, got a lungful of her. She smelled like heaven, if heaven smelled like oranges and summer and home.

Shut up, brain.

“Jules, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

She rested her forehead against his shoulder and it was so perfect that he had to suppress a whimper. Or a grunt, not a whimper. He never whimpered.

“No—no, you haven’t upset me. It’s perfect. I just thought…” She hesitated.

“You thought what, honey?”

“After all the awkwardness, I thought maybe we weren’t as good friends anymore. It’s been sort of strained between us.”

Ya think?
He’d noticed but he was trying to power through. Making it work if it killed him.

“Jules, we’re going to have our good days and our bad days but I’m never going to stop being your friend. You’re my best girl.”

He pulled away but she held on tight, whispering, “Not done here.”

He chuckled against her temple and let the moment take him somewhere wonderful.

She peeked up and his breath trapped in his lungs at those ethereal green eyes beseeching him. “So, Teach, could I ask a favor while you’re feeling all educational?”

“Anything,” he breathed, and he meant it. He would give her anything, do anything to make her happy.

Withdrawing from his embrace, she lolled against the counter, her finger tracing a line along the stainless steel edge. “I was going to ask Derry for some tips but he ran out of here.”

His body tensed again at the mention of Derry’s name. “What kind of tips?”

She picked up an onion from a wire basket on the counter and threw it in the air, catching it easily as it fell. “I wanted to learn how to chop vegetables more quickly. Slice ’n dice.”

Panic threaded up from his gut, but he forced it back down his rapidly tightening throat.

It’s only an onion,
cretino.

“I could probably do that.”

* * *

For an awkward moment, she thought she’d made a mistake. Tad looked put out to say the least, but then he reached for something deep inside and his expression smoothed.

“Okay, let’s get started,” he said with not a trace of his former hesitation. “First, we need the right music.” He punched up a song on the iPod in the corner and the melodic strains of “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” flooded the kitchen. Tad’s favorite band was the Beatles, about the only thing he had in common with her brother.

“So today,” he said, “we’re going to learn not only how to chop an onion but how to do it without turning into a blubbery mess.”

“Cute,” she said, nodding at the iPod as the significance of his song choice dawned on her. “But not possible. I’ve heard all the tricks. Refrigeration, using a fan, onion goggles. Nothing works.”

He looked smug. “I’ve got the no fail way.”

“Get someone else to do it?”

“Other than that. Here, watch.”

With a quick slice, he peeled the onionskin away before she had a chance to see how he did it. Bet he was as quick shucking the clothes of one of his dates.

Holding the shiny white ball aloft, he said, “You leave the root and shoot on. The root is where the tear-making enzymes are located so as long as you don’t cut it off and make it bleed, there should be no tears. Capische?”

She nodded.

“Now for the knife. You need to be comfortable holding it, letting the weight do the work. Be one with the knife. We slice it in half”—he halved the onion through the root—“and then we arrange our fingers like so.” On the onion’s curve, he rested his fingers spaced in a triangle, the middle one in front, the other two behind. He ran his knife along the first knuckle of his middle finger. “Use this knuckle to guide the knife along the onion’s flesh.”

Flesh.
There was something very erotic about that word, or perhaps the lips that formed it. Yes, definitely the lips that formed it. Her body tingled in memory of how marvelous it felt to be held in his arms.

Like a good chef who was respectful of dangerous equipment, Tad kept his eye on the knife as he started to slice through, getting as close to the root as possible without cutting into it and releasing those testy enzymes. Her gaze ping-ponged between his focused concentration and his quick-moving hands. Lips, hands, so versatile and skilled. Good thing she wasn’t holding a knife because she probably would have lost several fingers by now in her distracted state.

Turning the onion, he placed two careful horizontal slices through the flesh, then pivoted again and gripped it before launching into the dicing part. So smooth and easy, the knife edged up along his quick-moving knuckle like it was part of his arm. She had never seen anyone so gifted, not even Jack.

“Use the weight of the blade,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Then we chop around the root and voila, a diced onion…
senza più lacrime
.” Finally, he looked up at her, and for the briefest second he looked surprised to see her. He had gone away for a moment.

“
Senza
…?”

“
Senza più lacrime
,” he said. “No tears.” But his eyes looked a little shiny all the same.

“Who taught you that?” she asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear him say it.

“My mother.” The slight break in his voice sliced through her quicker than the blade through the onion. He returned his gaze to the board. “Vivi taught me everything.”

“What was she like?”

In the pause, she thought he was going to ignore her but then he spoke in a low, husky tone. “She was a pain in the ass. Stubborn, pushy, with a laugh that lit up a room. She could cook anything, make everyone feel better with a hug. She was the best person I’ve ever known.”

“And you miss her terribly.”

He shrugged, but it was shaky. Pain bracketed his mouth. “It felt like her life was unfinished, like she had so much left to accomplish. Some people aren’t meant to leave us so soon.” He looked up and the hollowness in his eyes shocked her to the core. She didn’t like that statement or its implication. That some people
are
meant to leave.

Jules’s mother had died when she was two, her father three years later, and she didn’t remember either of them very well. Jack hadn’t been around much and living with her aunt and uncle, she may as well have been an emancipated minor. She was used to people leaving, but the last two years had opened up a new world for her. Being alone was not natural. People were not meant to leave.