CHAPTER NINE
WHAT DID A woman wear for a casual evening with a man she was trying to keep at a distance?
It had taken her an hour to decide. She’d discarded her little black dress—too formal—and her blue sundress—too pretty?
In the end she’d pulled out a pair of jeans she hadn’t worn for at least four years. The weather was too warm for jeans but at least it wouldn’t look as if she’d tried too hard.
Hot and uncomfortable, Élise paced across her tiny kitchen.
She met attractive men all the time. Some of them were even interesting enough to warrant further attention. But never, ever, had she been tempted to take a relationship further. She’d give her company, her food, her laughter and conversation, occasionally her body—but her heart? Just that one time. Never since.
Sean had promised to do the cooking, but to distract herself she’d made an appetizer of grissini infused with rosemary and dusted with Parmesan cheese that she was thinking of offering with drinks at the Boathouse.
The scent of baking filled Heron Lodge and soothed her. It reminded her of her childhood. Of her mother.
She felt a pang and wished for a moment that she could turn the clock back. That she could have her time again and make different decisions.
She wanted to grab the rebellious, wild, eighteen-year-old version of herself and shake her.
Because she occasionally liked to remind herself of what was important, she reached for the photograph she kept on the window in the kitchen.
A beautiful woman smiled down at the toddler who stood on a stool next to her, whisking ingredients in a bowl, smiling back.
The photo gave no hint of what was to follow.
Pain and guilt clawed at her but then she heard Sean call her name and put the photograph back carefully so it was in its place when he appeared at her door.
“I thought I’d make plenty of noise this time so you couldn’t accuse me of trying to scare you. Something smells good. You weren’t supposed to be cooking. Not that I’m complaining.” He strolled into the kitchen, two bags in his arms. He sent her a lazy, sexy glance that sent her tummy spinning and her pulse pumping.
The suit he’d worn on his mad dash from the hospital had been replaced by a pair of worn jeans and another of Jackson’s shirts. She decided he looked equally good in both.
“This is just an appetizer. You can tell me what you think.”
“I think I’m going to move in here.” He put the bags on the counter and helped himself to the freshly baked grissini. “They look like the ones I ate in Milan. Another experiment?”
“It’s just something simple. I love working with dough.”
“You work too hard.”
“Cooking never feels like work. It clears my head and helps me relax.” And right now, with Sean standing in her kitchen, she needed all the help she could get with that.
He snapped the breadstick, tasted it and gave a moan of masculine appreciation that connected with her insides. “This is better than anything I tasted in Italy.”
“It’s the quality of the ingredients. Local flour and rosemary grown outside your mother’s kitchen window.”
She wasn’t used to seeing a man in her home. In her kitchen. This was her space and she treasured it, protected it and, most important of all, felt safe in it.
Right now she didn’t feel safe at all.
His hair was slick and damp from the shower, his jaw freshly shaven.
Jackson and Sean were identical twins and yet to her there were obvious differences. Sean’s face was a little leaner and he wore his hair shorter. She suspected some might find him a little more intimidating, his smile a little less ready. He was certainly more complicated.
Or maybe it was her feelings that were more complicated.
Deciding that she didn’t want to examine that idea too closely, Élise pulled a couple of plates from the cupboard.
“It’s a beautiful evening. Let’s go out on the deck.” It would feel less crowded. Less intimate.
“First I need to cook the steak and prepare the salad.” Sean opened a bottle of wine and poured her a glass. “Try this. It’s Californian.”
She sipped and gave a nod of approval. “It’s good.”
“I picked it up in the village when I was buying a few things for Grams. She sent her thanks to you for filling their freezer, by the way. That was kind of you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Why? Because I’m not family?” The rush of emotion knocked her off-balance like a gust of wind and she knew it was because she’d been looking at that photo. “To me they are like family. And nothing is more important than caring for people you love.”
He reached for a skillet. “I wasn’t questioning your affection for them or your relationship. Simply observing that between the restaurant and the café you already have more than enough to do.”
And she’d overreacted. She could see it in his eyes.
She wondered what it was about this man that brought out the worst in her. She’d tried to tame that part of herself and had thought she’d succeeded.
Until Sean.
Miserably aware that where he was concerned her emotions were all over the place, she walked across the kitchen and found him a bowl for the salad. Her insides churned like an ice-cream maker. “I’ll make a dressing.”
“I already made one. You can relax.”
Relaxing wasn’t an option so she drank her wine and watched as he unwrapped two steaks and heated oil. It was a simple enough meal but still it was all too domestic and for a moment Élise stood there, frozen by her own memories.
Which made no sense because her one tarnished experience of domesticity had looked nothing like this.
He flipped the steaks expertly and threw her a glance. “What am I doing wrong?”
“Nothing. I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I don’t think you’d describe this as cooking, would you?” His mouth was a sensual curve. “I live alone and despite what I tell my grandfather I don’t always want to eat in the hospital, in restaurants or get takeout so I taught myself the basics. And, of course, it’s useful for impressing women.”
“And does it work?”
“Taste it and tell me.” He plated up the steaks and salad. “I bought most of this from the farm shop on my way back from the hospital. There’s a fresh loaf in the bag.”
She placed the bread on a wooden board and cut through it, examining the texture with a nod of approval. “They have wonderful stuff. We serve their jams in the restaurant, although Elizabeth is working on a new Snow Crystal recipe. It’s going to be spectacular.”
“You serve jam and not just our own maple syrup? That’s close to heresy.”
“The maple syrup is available, too, of course. And not just because removing it from the breakfast menu would ensure your grandfather fired me.”
“My grandfather would never let you go. And neither would Jackson. You’re safe.” He handed her a plate, his fingers brushing against hers. “It must have been a big risk for you, leaving a restaurant like Chez Laroche and joining Jackson’s organization.” The question was casual enough, even reasonable, but it put her on edge.
She walked across her little kitchen and picked up napkins and cutlery with her free hand. “Why? Jackson had a very successful company before he came back to Snow Crystal. It was very early in my career and I had more freedom working with him at Snowdrift Leisure than I ever did working for Pascal.”
She’d practiced saying his name frequently so that she could be confident of pronouncing it without faltering or wanting to stick a knife through something.
“What was it like, working for someone as famous as Laroche? Did he have an ego?”
There was no reason not to tell the truth about this part, was there?
“He was complex. Charismatic, demanding, often unreasonable in his quest for perfection. A genius in the kitchen. Everyone wanted to work with him but for every person who came out able to get a job in any restaurant in the world, there were eight who he broke. Some never cooked again after working with him.”
“But he didn’t break you.”
Élise stayed silent.
He had broken her, but not because of their working relationship. That, she’d survived.
“I was eighteen years old and all I wanted to do was cook. He was a legend in Paris.” She shrugged. “Not just in Paris. There were no women working in his kitchen. He didn’t believe women could make great chefs. He believed we didn’t have the temperament, the stamina, the ‘balls.’ I told him I would take any job he would give me and do it better than a man.”
“And?”
“The first day he made me scrub the toilets.” It surprised her to discover she could talk about it so easily. “When I came back the next day he laughed and gave me the floor of the restaurant to clean. He used to say that running a successful business was about so much more than food and he was right, of course, although his way of making his point left a lot to be desired.”
“How long before he let you inside the kitchen?”
“One month exactly. It was a Saturday night and he was angry with everyone, screaming if a plate of food didn’t look exactly the way he’d envisioned it. Three of his staff were off sick with stress and then two of the young trainee chefs walked out. They’d had enough. I told him I could do the work of two. He told me I wouldn’t last a night working in the pressure of a busy kitchen.”
Sean leaned against the counter listening, the food forgotten. “I’m assuming you lasted a lot longer than that.”
“I was the only girl in a kitchen of twenty-two men. I had long hair then and I tied it back in a ponytail.” She remembered her mother brushing it when she was a child, long rhythmic strokes that had soothed her. “He used to drag me around the kitchen by that ponytail. He wanted me to cry. He wanted me to walk out so that he could prove once and for all that women are too soft for a kitchen.”
“Knowing you, you didn’t cry or walk out.”
“I cut off my hair.” And then she’d cried, silent tears as she hacked at her glossy hair with kitchen scissors while locked in the cramped toilet used only by staff.
His gaze slid to her hair. “You’ve worn your hair short ever since?”
“Yes. And finally he accepted that I wasn’t going to be scared away easily. He started to teach me. He was a genius, but that sort of temperament isn’t easy to handle. Often the recipe was in his head and he’d lose his temper if one of his team got it wrong.”
“He sounds half-crazy.”
“He was.” And dangerously charismatic. That temper could turn to charm in the blink of an eye and it was that charm and skill that made everyone dream of working with him.
She remembered the first time he’d smiled at her.
And she remembered the first time he’d kissed her.
She’d been dizzy with it, her longing for him so powerful it was almost physical pain. It had drugged her. Blinded her.
She hadn’t allowed herself to feel that way since.
Until now.
Her gaze slid to Sean’s. “The food is getting cold. We should eat.”
He carried the plates out to the deck. “So you stuck it out, got a world-class training and then left the bastard.”
Élise blinked and then realized he was still talking about the job. “Yes.” She put the bread down on the table. “That’s exactly what I did. Fortunately I met Jackson. He gave me the freedom to take what I’d learned with Pascal and develop my own style of cooking.”
“Are you still in touch with him?”
“Pascal?” She picked up the knife and sliced the bread. “No. He wasn’t the sentimental type. And neither am I.”
Not anymore. He’d killed that side of her.
“And you don’t yearn to go back to Paris? I’m still surprised you don’t miss the city.”
“I love mountains. When I was a little girl my mother used to take winter work in the Alps, cooking. I went with her. It was magical. Working for Jackson was more of the same.”
“You’re not tempted to go back to city life one day? I thought every chef dreamed of opening their own restaurant.”
“Why would I want to do that when I have freedom to do whatever I wish here? And I am opening a restaurant. The Boathouse will be built up from scratch and the Inn is already fully booked months in advance. And I would never leave Jackson.” She sliced into her steak. It was perfectly cooked and she tilted her head to one side and nodded. “It’s good.”
“You’re very loyal to my brother.”
“Of course. I love my job.”
“With Chez Laroche on your résumé you could walk into any job.”
Do you think I’ll let you go, Élise? Do you think anyone in Paris will give you a job now?
She put her knife down, her appetite suddenly gone.
“I have the job I want.” It upset her that thinking of it could still have such an effect on her. She felt murky and dirty and she turned her face to the setting sun briefly in an attempt to burn out dark memories with brightness. “What about you? Will you stay in Boston?”
“It’s where my work is and, like you, I love my work.”
“And this week we’ve kept you from it.”
He reached for his wine. “I confess I’ve enjoyed working on the deck more than I thought I would. And watching the kids on the lake has been entertaining.”
“Brenna is so good with them. What did you love most about this place when you were growing up?”
“The skiing.” He didn’t hesitate. “First fall of snow and we’d be out there on the mountain. Gramps used to take Jackson and me but Tyler didn’t want to be left behind so he came, too. He was bombing down those slopes before most of his peers had learned to walk.”
“It must have been hard for him giving up competitive skiing. It was the most important thing in his life, like cooking is for me. I would die if I could no longer cook.”
“Now that’s a cause of death I’ve never come across.” Smiling, he leaned across and topped up her wine. “Is everyone in France like you? Are the intensive care units packed full of people dying because they can’t cook?”
“It is good to have passion.”
“I’m not disagreeing with you. In fact, I rate passion above almost every other quality.” His eyes met hers and the atmosphere shifted. The force of the connection shook her.
Putting her fork down, she told herself that physical compatibility had nothing to do with emotional engagement.
“It is not always good. When I love something I love it totally. I’ve never been good at half measures.”
And that, she thought, was her problem.
His gaze lingered on hers for a moment. “You sound like Tyler. He said much the same thing when he threw himself off vertical cliffs at the age of six without first checking his landing.” With that simple revelation he steered the conversation back onto comfortable ground.
“You have a passion for surgery.”
“I wouldn’t describe it that way.” He helped himself to more salad. “I have an intellectual interest in being able to fix something that is broken.”
“Including my deck?”
“That, too.” He piled more salad on her plate and she shook her head.
“No more. I’m not hungry.”
“You should eat and this salad is homegrown.”
“You don’t need to lecture me on nutrition.”
“Good. Then eat.”
“This place is your grandfather’s passion.”
“I’d call it an obsession. It makes it impossible for him to understand that other people might not feel the same way.”
“Did your father?”
He stilled. “He loved Snow Crystal, but he hated the work. The irony was that working here stopped him from enjoying the place. He was too busy keeping it going to make the most of what it offered. He and Gramps clashed over it constantly when we were growing up.”
“Walter loves it with every piece of himself. I understand that because I feel the same way and I have only lived here for two years.”
“I admit I don’t get it.” Sean picked up his glass. “You’re a sexy, clever, confident woman. Why are you burying yourself in a sleepy resort in Vermont when you could be in Paris?”
“Why do the guests of Snow Crystal deserve less than the inhabitants of Paris? In Paris you can find good restaurants on every corner. Here, that is not true. Should people here not eat well?” Her anger flashed fast and intense. “I do not feel buried, and if you keep making stupid statements like that you will be the one who is buried. I will hide your body under the deck and no one will ever know.”
Sean sat still, watching her across the table with eyes that saw too much. “I didn’t mean to make you angry.”
She forced herself to breathe, knowing it was the mention of Paris that had triggered the anger. “If you don’t want to see me angry then don’t ever criticize something or someone I love.”
“Was it a criticism? I described the place as sleepy. In comparison to Paris, Snow Crystal is sleepy, Élise. That’s a fact.”
“If that is the case then I will sleep for the rest of my life.” She put her fork down with a clatter. “You are making me boil inside so now we must talk about something else. Something normal, that doesn’t make me want to kill you. Tell me something else you like about this place apart from the skiing.”
“Swimming in the lake. It was always fun pushing Tyler under water. What about you?” His voice softened. “Tell me more about your mother. She taught you to cook?”
The anger left her in a rush.
“Some mothers don’t let their children in the kitchen because of the mess, but my mother believed the mess was part of creativity. She used to stand me on a chair next to her and let me put my hands in the bowl and mix just like her. It fascinated me, that butter and flour rubbed together could turn into a fine powder. That an egg broken into flour and mixed with milk could make a thick batter. I loved the idea that two different things mixed together like that could produce something that didn’t resemble the original.”
“You said she was a pastry chef?”
“She worked in a bakery. And at home we baked together. There is nothing as comforting as baking. And she taught me to trust my instincts. She never used a recipe book. She cooked by feel and instinct, using her senses. She was very talented. She was the one who taught me that fresh is best. We grew herbs in tubs on our windows and salad in pots in the kitchen. It is one of the things I love about this area. People love using locally grown foods. Here we have farmers and chefs working together and we never had that in Paris. In Paris I could not go to the farm and meet the people and see the food. It is very exciting.”
“Did your mother know you got a job with Pascal Laroche?”
“Yes.” Emotion twisted deep in her gut and she felt her throat thicken. “She knew that.”
The rest of it, she hadn’t known. And that was a relief. Her mother had witnessed plenty of her mistakes, but she hadn’t known about the biggest mistake of all.
“I visited Paris once.”
Grateful for the change of subject, she wondered if he’d guessed how close to the edge she was. “When?”
“I was eighteen. Before medical school. I did a trip to Europe. I spent a month in England with my mother’s family and then traveled around a bit. Florence, Rome, Seville and Paris. I saw the Eiffel Tower.”
“That is for tourists. If you’d come to Paris with me I would not have taken you there.”
“So where would you take me?”
She wouldn’t, because she had no intention of going back to Paris, but this was hypothetical, not reality. “I love the Jardin des Tuileries first thing in the morning before the city wakes up. I love watching the sun rise over the Louvre, and I love the little backstreets in the Marais district.” She thought of the elegance of the buildings, of window boxes stuffed full of tumbling color. “I like to walk around the out-of-the-way streets of Paris and find a little bakery making fresh perfect bread. I love to go to the Musée de l’Orangerie to see Monet. What is your favorite place in Snow Crystal?”
“I don’t have a favorite place.”
“Of course you do. For me it is the lake and the forest. I like to sleep with the windows open so that I can hear the sounds and smell the air.”
“Do I have a favorite place?” He drummed the table with his fingers, thinking. “I suppose it would be the mountains. Have you ever climbed to the top of the ridge? Takes about four hours from here. When we were kids Gramps used to make us pack up a tent, walk up to the ridge and camp overnight. In the morning we’d watch the sun rise over the mountains, wash in the stream and find our way home.”
“You camped?” Thinking about Sean camping made her laugh, sadness and anger forgotten.
“Don’t look so surprised. I could light a fire with nothing more than a hot look.” He was laughing, too. “I admit I haven’t done it for a couple of decades. I might need matches now. And a sprung mattress would be nice. And hot and cold running water and possibly room service.”
“That sounds more like a five-star hotel than camping.”
“Great idea. Let’s do that.” His voice changed and his eyes were locked on hers. “You, me, king-size bed and room service. I know a wonderful hotel near Burlington. Lake view. Four-poster bed. Goose-down pillows. All-night sex, no strings attached.”
She was tempted, oh, so tempted.
And because she was tempted, she stood up. “You should try camping again. Sometimes it’s good to go back and do the things you did when you were young.”
“What, lie on hard, stony ground while Jackson snores next to me? I’m not sure the appeal was that great first time around, let alone going for a repeat.” He stood up, too. “So I guess that’s a ‘no’ to a night in a four-poster bed with goose-down pillows? Just for the record is it because you’re allergic to feathers? Because I can request hypoallergenic.”
Trying to resist that charm, she stacked the plates. “Thank you for dinner. It was delicious. Good night, Sean.” Without looking at him she walked into her kitchen, but he was right behind her.
“Dinner was on me. I should clear up.”
“You cooked, which means I clear up. It’s an equitable arrangement.”
“Here’s another equitable arrangement.” He waited for her to put the plates down and then pressed her back against the counter, blue eyes locked on hers. “I kiss you and you kiss me back.”
Their mouths collided. He had one hand in her hair, the other low on her back as he held her trapped between his thighs and kissed her until the world around her ceased to exist. His mouth was skilled and clever, driving thought from her head and replacing it with hunger and heat. She slid her hands over his shoulders, feeling strength and the swell of muscle under her seeking fingers.
She was the one who pulled away, even though it took all her willpower to do it.
Not because she didn’t want this, but because she needed to prove to herself she was still capable of using her brain to make decisions.
When he would have kissed her again she flattened her palm to his chest. “Good night, Sean.”
“I want you.” His voice was raw and honest. “And you want me. It’s simple.”
But she knew it wasn’t simple. Relationships had a way of becoming complicated really fast.
“Not everything we want is good for us.”
“I’ll make it good for you.” His mouth slid from her jaw to her neck and she closed her eyes and tried to resist temptation.
“That wasn’t what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?” His mouth was close to hers, his tone intimate, and she kept her hand planted firmly in the center of his chest.
“I don’t want complications.”
“Neither do I. It’s yet another reason why we’re perfect together.”
“We had an agreement.”
“I don’t remember any agreement.” His eyes were on her mouth. “There wasn’t one.”
“It was unspoken.”
“Yeah,” he said, his voice a deep, sexy rasp. “I remember every moment of our not speaking session, but I don’t remember agreeing never to mention it again.”
She hadn’t factored this in. Hadn’t thought that he might push for something more. It had been a year.
“Good night, Sean.”
“You’re sending me away like this? You have no heart.”
She had a heart. Once she’d given it freely without question, but not any longer. Now she protected it with everything she had and that wasn’t going to change.