Chapter Eight
Bec hadn’t been kidding about the inadequacy of her kitchen. Wyatt managed not to grimace as he checked out the equipment. He had indeed worked with worse—he hadn’t been lying. On the other hand, he hadn’t done a great job with worse, and he sure as hell hadn’t been happy doing it. Still, right now he needed to impress her with his skills, and he couldn’t do that by whining.
He opened the smallish refrigerator, checking the meat drawer and the hydrator. Chicken breasts, lettuce, a few stalks of broccoli.
“Where do you keep the rest of the food?” He gave her an encouraging smile. Not a criticism, so help me.
She gestured toward the wall cabinets. “First one on the right is sort of the pantry. I’ve got dishes and pans in the others.”
He nodded, pulling open the pantry door. Sandwich bread, peanut butter, a half-empty jar of blackberry jam. And—oh, thank you, kitchen gods—a bag of noodles. “Okay, one chicken divan coming up.” Assuming she also had milk and cheese in the refrigerator. And flour in the pantry. And maybe a little chicken broth somewhere and—if the kitchen gods could come through again—some sherry or white wine.
He rifled through the shelves quickly, finding a carton of chicken broth and a canister of flour. The refrigerator had a carton of milk and a block of something that looked like white cheddar but might have been fontina or jack. Didn’t matter—any of those would work.
He took a breath. “Do you by any chance have some sherry or a little white wine?”
Bec frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t drink much wine. And I’ve never had any sherry. All I’ve got is beer.”
He paused for a moment, trying to think of substitutes. “Any pilsner?”
She shook her head again. “I’ve got some wheat beer. From Great Divide. Would that work?”
“It should. Or at any rate, it’ll be interesting.”
He pulled a frying pan and a saucepan off the other shelf, then opened one of the drawers and frowned. “You have a whisk?”
Bec’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “I’m not sure. Maybe.” She walked over to a closet door on the other side of the room and pulled out a cardboard box. After a moment of rifling through the contents, she pulled out a whisk. The loops were slightly bent, as if it had been shoved under something heavy. But it was a whisk, nonetheless.
She gave him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. I don’t use it much.”
“That’s okay. It’ll work.” It would have to. He set the frying pan onto the two-burner hot plate, then grabbed a bottle of olive oil from the pantry. “How well does this thing heat up?”
She shrugged. “It’s okay. About like a stove, I guess.”
He poured a tablespoon of oil into the pan after he turned on the burner, then headed back to the refrigerator for the chicken. Getting it out on a plate and applying salt and pepper gave the oil enough time to heat up. He plopped the chicken into the pan, hearing a satisfying sizzle, then headed back to the refrigerator again.
Bec stood at the side, well out of the way, and watched him, frowning slightly. He had a feeling she’d have used a stopwatch if she’d had one. Just watch the technique, babe. Maybe a little rusty but legit.
Which, now that he came to think of it, applied to a lot of his moves. Maybe he could give her a demonstration later on. Focus, damn it.
He gave her a quick smile, then slid the broccoli into the microwave with a little water to steam. He came back to flip the chicken. “You ever use that toaster oven for anything besides toast?”
She frowned. “I did brownies once. They were…okay.”
He sighed. “We’ll risk it. This needs to finish in an oven for a half hour or so.”
He grabbed the saucepan and set it on the second burner, turning the heat to high. He threw in a couple of tablespoons of butter to start melting, then turned toward the counter again. “Where’s the beer?”
“In the pantry. It’s not cold. Sorry.”
“Not a problem. You don’t want to cook with cold beer.” He pulled open the pantry door again and found the six-pack of bottles. Back at the stove, the butter had begun to brown as it heated. He tossed in a couple of tablespoons of flour and grabbed his whisk, stirring quickly. “Okay, I could use a sous chef for a minute here.”
Bec pushed herself away from the wall where she’d been leaning. “What do you want me to do?”
“Grab the chicken broth and the bottle of beer.”
She picked up both and moved beside him at the hot plate. “What now?”
“Now you pour around half a cup of the chicken broth into the pot where I’m whisking.” He gave another quick stir to keep the flour moving.
Bec grabbed a measuring cup and poured out exactly half a cup. He could have told her precision wasn’t exactly necessary, but that would have slowed everything down. She poured the broth carefully into the pan as he whisked, then watched the liquid thicken. “Now what?”
“Now around a half cup of the beer.”
She nodded, then twisted open the bottle and measured again. The beer foamed into the pan, and he kept whisking. Bec’s face was suddenly very close to his as she stared into the saucepan, close enough that he could smell a faint breath of lavender from her skin. Lord above.
“Anything else?” she asked.
He took a quick breath, steadying himself. “Milk.” He nodded toward the refrigerator. “Maybe a little less than a half cup this time. And then you can grate up the cheese.”
She gave him a slightly tentative smile, then added the milk and carried the block of cheese to the counter along with a flimsy-looking grater. “All of it?”
He shrugged. “Sure. Between the sauce and the topping, we’ll probably use it all.”
As Bec grated, he drained the steamed broccoli, then sliced the chicken into strips, pausing occasionally to stir the sauce. He was careful not to watch her. He had enough distractions as it was.
“Okay. It’s done.” She shook her head at the slightly ragged pile of cheese, sending a quick shimmer of gold through her hair. “Not pretty, but done.”
“Doesn’t have to be pretty. We’re just melting it. Grab me a spoon, will you?”
She handed him a teaspoon, stepping close, and he got another whiff of lavender. He took a deep breath. At this rate, he’d be whimpering in another five minutes.
He tasted the sauce. “Okay. That works. I saw a baking dish in one of those drawers. Could you bring it to me?”
“Sure.” She headed back to her makeshift pantry.
He took his time arranging the broccoli and chicken strips to fill the Pyrex baking dish in stripes of green and white. Fortunately, Bec stood far enough away that he wasn’t breathing her scent and watching the play of light in her hair. He had food to cook.
He poured the cheese sauce over the dish, then sprinkled the last of the grated cheese on top. “Aluminum foil?”
“Right.” Bec turned to the drawers again and pulled out a roll.
He folded a piece of foil across the top of the dish, then placed it in the toaster oven. It took up all the available space, but at least it fit inside. He peered at the controls, then set it for three-fifty, hoping the thing would actually heat to somewhere close.
Bec folded her arms across her chest. He worked on ignoring the way her posture pulled her blouse tight across her breasts. “Are we done?”
“Almost.” He grabbed the one remaining saucepan and filled it with water and salt, then placed it on the burner. “The chicken needs to bake for a half hour or so. We’ll get this boiling and drop the pasta when we take the aluminum foil off.”
He leaned back against the counter, trying for nonchalance. He’d done it. It hadn’t been pretty, and he didn’t know if she’d noticed how many times he’d fumbled when he brushed close to her, but he’d done it.
And he’d managed not to touch her, although that had been even harder than the cooking.
He set the timer for thirty minutes. Now if the freakin’ toaster oven would only work right, he might be able to convince her that he could pull off Abe’s moonlight seduction dinner.
Bec narrowed her eyes at the half bottle of beer sitting on the counter. “What do we do with the rest of the beer?”
Wyatt let his grin slide into something less stressed. “What you always do with beer, ma’am. We drink it.”
…
Actually, Bec reflected, the room temperature wheat beer wasn’t bad, although it wasn’t great. She had a couple of bottles of IPA in the refrigerator that were a lot tastier, though.
She opened the kitchen window for the evening air. The scent of pine drifted in from the nearby mountain slopes.
“Nice view.”
She started slightly. She hadn’t known that Wyatt had moved so close behind her until he spoke.
“Sorry.” He gave her a quick smile. “Thought you heard me coming.”
“You’ve got ninja skills, I guess.” Her heart was still pounding hard, the result of being startled. She was almost sure.
On the other hand, she’d been trying to keep her heart under control ever since he’d walked into her kitchen.
He leaned back against the windowsill, half-turning to look at the sun sinking behind Black Mountain. “Like I said, nice view you’ve got here.”
“Thanks. My dad built this place back in the eighties. It was his warehouse. Then Liam and I inherited it and turned it into the brewery.” She worked on sounding casual. Casual was good.
“How long had you wanted to do that before it happened?”
“Oh, years, I guess. I worked for a couple of breweries in the other mountain towns around here—so did Liam. And we made beer at home. Both of us felt like we could do a better job than they were doing.” And they had. If she didn’t count the whole closing down part.
“I think I had some of your beer a couple of years ago. You did one called Ruby Range, right?”
She nodded. “An Irish red, yeah. It sold pretty well.”
“It was good.” He frowned slightly. “Really good, now that I think about it. Had a nice fruity flavor along with the malt.”
“It worked. Most of our stuff worked. We hadn’t started to do big runs, though. We were just beginning to catch on beyond the Western Slope. Then Colin walked out.” And took all the funding—and the future.
She shook her head. For one night, she’d like to stop thinking about Colin and all the heartache he’d caused. “What about you? How did you end up running a gastropub?”
He gave her another dry smile. “At least that time you didn’t sound like you had quotation marks around the word.”
Her cheeks heated slightly. “Well, I’ve never understood the difference between a gastropub and a restaurant that serves beer. What’s the idea behind having a separate word anyway?”
“The whole thing started in England—English pubs were places to drink. They never bothered much about food. Then a couple of guys decided their pub would do both—be a neighborhood pub but also pay attention to the cooking. You still get the kind of stuff you find in pubs: the games, the events, the general conversation, and so on. But you also get good food, not just sandwiches or frozen pizza. I guess it’s like a restaurant with benefits. Or a bar with a kitchen.”
She took a sip of her IPA. “How did you get into it?”
He glanced out the window again. “I was running a restaurant in Albuquerque, and I had a friend up in Denver. He wanted to start a gastropub there, and he asked me to run it. I decided to put some money into it, too. Now we’re partners.”
She had a feeling that was also the short version, but maybe neither of them was ready to go into a lot of detail about their lives yet. Yet? Right. They might never be ready to do that. But she felt as if they were moving a little closer. “Do you enjoy it?”
He shrugged. “It has its ups and downs, but overall, yeah, I like it a lot. Running Quaff sort of combines things I like about both restaurants and bars. And I think we do a good job with what we do.”
Her smile wavered slightly. “Like beer dinners?”
He glanced at her, then paused. “We do a great job with beer dinners. I’ll take good care of you and your Zoria.”
His dark gaze caught hers for a long moment. A quick shiver moved down her backbone. I’ll take good care of you… Don’t go there. Back it up a notch. She took a breath. “That’s good. How are we on dinner right now?”
His faintly mocking smile probably meant he saw straight through her attempt to change the subject, but he let it go. “About five more minutes. Then we’ll see if your toaster oven lives up to its name.”
“What do you want to drink?” She did a quick mental inventory of her beer supplies. “I’ve got more of this IPA, or I think there’s some stout.”
“The IPA’s fine.” He pushed off from the window, heading back toward the hot plate. “Let’s get those noodles on to cook. I’m not letting flabby pasta ruin my test run here.”
…
Wyatt wasn’t sure exactly what had happened during his conversation with Bec, but he was pretty sure something had. They’d seemed to be moving closer, until she’d developed a certain deer in the headlights look, or maybe more a deer confronted by the big bad wolf.
He blew out a breath. I’m tame, lady. Honest. Except, of course, he wasn’t. Not all that tame, anyway. He’d spent the last hour noticing the way her glowing hair set off the pale translucence of her complexion and the startling blue of her eyes. When she wasn’t wearing her cheese maker uniform, she was a knockout. He hadn’t exactly seen it before.
Liar. Okay, he’d definitely noticed it during their two previous dinners, but he’d managed to push the knowledge away. Up until now, noticing Bec as a woman hadn’t been in anyone’s best interests. It probably wasn’t in his best interests now, either, but he only had so much self-control.
He drained the noodles in the sink, then divided them between the two plates that Bec had placed on the counter in front of him. The Pyrex dish with the chicken sat on a trivet nearby. It smelled great, but Wyatt figured he wasn’t out of the woods yet. Not until he’d had a couple of bites and confirmed that using beer instead of sherry had actually worked.
Bec seemed oblivious to his doubts. “This smells terrific. Let me grab some silverware and set the table.”
He glanced across the room at the small, Formica-topped table near a window. It looked a little neglected, just like everything else in her makeshift kitchen. But Bec didn’t seem to notice. Maybe to her it was more like a triumph than a defeat—after all, she was still standing even after her business had taken a serious hit.
She turned, giving him a quick smile as she pushed her hair back from her face. Oh, watch it, lady. Do not give me that kind of smile unless you mean it. He took another in a series of deep breaths.
He carried the plates to the table, sliding into the chair opposite her. “Okay, I’ve never made this with beer before, so I can’t absolutely guarantee it. But it should be edible.”
She gave him a quick smile. “It smells a lot better than that.”
Actually, it was a lot better than that. The beer didn’t have the nutty flavor of the sherry, but it gave the chicken a slightly toasted taste and worked with the cheese sauce. Not bad. Not bad at all.
“This is terrific,” Bec murmured after a couple of bites. “I’m sorry I ever doubted you. You definitely know what you’re doing. You can make dinner for me anytime—and probably Abe, too.”
“Thanks.” He felt a quick flush of pleasure that was complicated by a flush of something a lot closer to arousal. Not at all what he should be feeling right then. Not if he wanted to keep his hands off his dinner companion.
She still looked cool and uninvolved. Probably because he was the only horny bastard in the room. He still needed to take it down a notch.
“How did you get into cooking?” she asked.
“By being an idiot.” He took another bite of chicken before he managed a quick grin. This wasn’t his favorite story.
She frowned. “You think cooking is idiotic?”
“Not at all. But I was an idiot anyway.” He paused for a swallow of beer to give himself time to organize his thoughts. “My folks sent me to Purdue. My dad graduated from there, and he wanted me to have the same experience. I joined a fraternity. His fraternity, in fact. Unfortunately, unlike my dad, I majored in beer and parties. I flunked out after my freshman year.”
Bec grimaced. “Ouch.”
“Ouch is right.” He blew out a long breath. “My dad cut me off. He said from then on, I could earn my own way—he wasn’t going to give me anything more. So I did. Except there aren’t that many jobs available for lame-brained college dropouts. I ended up washing dishes and cleaning up at a diner. I got into cooking when the kitchen assistant didn’t show up one night. It turned out I liked the cooking a lot better than the cleaning.”
Bec pushed her empty plate away slightly, pulling her beer closer. “But you moved on from there.”
He nodded. “I wised up, slowly but eventually. I went back to school at night to get a business degree. Cooked during the day. It took me a while, but by the time I was done, I’d moved on to daytime manager of a restaurant that was a step up from the diner. And so on.” He shrugged. “I haven’t been in a kitchen for a while, but you don’t forget how it works.”
“Your dad must be proud that you turned it around.”
“Yes and no. My dad’s an engineer. Food service doesn’t rank that high with him. But yeah, he’s glad that I was able to make something out of myself. Even if it wasn’t what he’d like me to make. How do your folks feel about beer?”
She shook her head. “My dad never knew what we were up to, although he made a pretty good brown ale himself. He died before we got into the whole commercial beer thing. My mom kind of goes with the flow. She lives over in Grand Junction, and she doesn’t drink beer. Everything is sort of, That’s good, dear. Met any nice men lately?” She stopped, her cheeks suddenly blazing when she’d realized what she’d said.
Wyatt managed a sort of grimace-grin of his own. “Mothers do that, don’t they?”
She nodded, looking away from him out the widow, then turned back. “I guess I’ll load the dishwasher. Thanks for the dinner—it was great.”
It was one of the less skillful brushoffs he’d gotten. He pushed himself to his feet as she began to stack the plates. “Here, I’ll help.” He took the plates from her, their hands touching as he did. His body tightened again.
Oh, grow up. Nothing’s going to happen here. She’s not interested. He carried the plates and silverware back to the kitchen area. The dishwasher looked like something from a child’s playhouse. “Does this thing really work?”
Bec sighed. “Yeah. Well, sort of. My dad bought it for the coffee cups the guys used on break—it’s pretty old. I usually skip it since it’s just me eating here. It’s easier to wash the stuff by hand.”
“We could still do that.” He really had his doubts about that dishwasher.
She shrugged. “Okay. I guess there aren’t that many dishes.”
He stood next to her as she filled the sink with water and soap, then picked up the dish towel she had hanging from a hook at the side.
“I usually let them drain,” she said doubtfully.
“But now you’ve got a volunteer. Might as well use me.” He managed not to look at her as he said it. Double meanings only worked with a willing partner.
Bec washed the dishes methodically, piling them in the pan of rinse water so that he could put them in the drainer. The process moved along briskly as long as he didn’t pay any attention to the tension between them that was thick enough to cut with a knife. The whole evening was rapidly drawing to a close. He could walk out of her apartment without causing any more problems—he’d be on his way back to the hotel in a matter of minutes. No harm, no foul.
Or not. He watched Bec for a moment. Her hair frizzed slightly from the warm damp air as she leaned over the dishes. He could see the faint fluff of red against the side of her face. Her milky skin was slightly pink from the heat.
He had a sudden image of milk white breasts with nipples like roses. The hair between her legs would probably be red, too. He’d definitely like to find out for sure.
She looked up suddenly, as if she’d only now become aware that he was watching her. Almost without thinking about it, he raised his hand to her cheek, feeling the warmth of her skin against his palm.
He brought his mouth to hers, breathing in her slight gasp of surprise, his hands dropping to her shoulders. For a moment they stood joined, her hands pressing against his chest, and then her mouth opened beneath his, and his tongue darted in to taste. Sweet, so sweet. But something else too, like salted caramel, sweet and savory and unexpected. He moved closer, sliding a hand down her back, and heard her purr of arousal as her arms went around his neck. He cupped her ass, tight with muscle, and his pulse beat hard.
What he’d been wanting all night. What he’d been wanting longer than that if he was honest. Touching, tasting, moving. Yes, yes, yes.
Or not. Bec stepped back, eyes wide, lips slightly open as she gasped in a breath. “No,” she whispered. “This can’t… We can’t… I can’t do this.”
“You can’t?” He narrowed his eyes. It seemed to him they not only could, they should. As soon as possible.
She shook her head, looking a little like a frightened child. “No. No, we can’t. I mean, we’re working together. We can’t…do this. It’s not a good idea for people who work together to get involved. It causes all kinds of problems.”
Wyatt paused, letting his pulse slow down. He had a feeling she was on the verge of either rethinking her decision or telling him to get lost. He’d rather it wasn’t the latter. “Okay,” he said slowly. “We can think about it.” God only knew he’d be thinking about it, probably for the rest of the night.
Bec drew in a shaky breath, as if she were steadying herself. Her cheeks were pink, her lips slightly swollen, her fine red hair floating around her head like a crown. She looked like a fairytale princess. Which didn’t make him any less likely to jump her. His body gave a quick throb of need.
“I don’t want to think about it,” she said softly. “I won’t change my mind.”
“Think about it anyway,” he repeated. He reached out one last time to cup her cheek, watching her eyelids flutter closed for a moment. Then she opened her eyes again, sky blue and troubled. Enough.
He forced himself to start to walk away.
“Wait,” she said when he’d finally reached the door.
Yes! He turned toward her expectantly.
“What do we do about Abe’s dinner?”
Abe’s dinner. Oh, yeah, his reason for being there that night. One of them, anyway. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, after I call him. He needs to set a date.”
“Set a date.” She nodded again, a little numbly. “Okay.”
“I guess I’ll head home then.” He opened the door, hoping against hope that she’d tell him not to.
“Okay,” she repeated.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.” And if she said okay one more time, he swore he’d go back and kiss her senseless.
“Tomorrow,” she said slowly. “Right.”
Technically, she hadn’t repeated it. But he knew when he’d been outmaneuvered. “Bye,” he said and headed out the door.
It was only when he was halfway back to his hotel, when his arousal had finally begun to ease, that he remembered what Abe had said. You another one of these fly-by-night, love ’em and leave ’em types? Assuming Colin Brooks had been the one doing the loving and leaving, chances were that Bec was the one who’d been left. Which maybe explained her aversion to having a relationship with someone she was working with.
Which would make persuading her to give him a chance infinitely harder. He gritted his teeth. All in all, he felt someone should kick Colin Brooks in the ass. He was only sorry it wouldn’t be him.
He headed back to his room and the first of what might be many very cold showers.