How the hell was I going to make it three months living here with this man? He was the very definition of a distraction.
Chapter 18
I left my cottage the next morning feeling inspired. Rejuvenated, even. Maybe it was the restorative power of nature, or the handsome man who saved me from becoming a Popsicle last night, but I dare say I had a little pep to my step as I made my way to the kitchen to start breakfast. And when I walked in, there in the center of the marble island, was one single marshmallow waiting for me. The small token sent a giddy shiver all the way to my toes.
I knew I shouldn’t encourage this behavior. It was thoroughly against the pact I’d made with myself. And yet as I popped the sweet, chewy morsel into my mouth, I couldn’t deny I’d fallen hard for this guy. Sure, the situation was less than ideal, but sometimes perfection was the enemy of good.
Charles was a funny, kind, handsome, and charming man, who for some strange reason seemed to want nothing more than to make me like him. Well, mission accomplished. Now I just had to keep my wits about me and not let . . . whatever this was . . . get in the way of my job. No matter what else happened, work came first.
Which meant today I was making crepes. They were always a crowd-pleaser and a genuine demonstration of skill, from the perfect silky batter to the delicate sweetness that melted like fluffy air in your mouth. Plus, Charles might have let slip they were his mother’s favorite.
First, I got to work preparing a grazing tray of fresh fruit. Next, I whipped up batches of banana bread and oatmeal-raisin muffins for Mr. Hawthorne. Ali strode into the kitchen just as I was popping them in the oven.
“I’m doing table-side orange ricotta crepes,” I told her.
Ali’s eyes widened.
“Let’s set up a convention burner on a cart with a crepe pan. I’ll bring the rest.”
“Crepes are Mrs. Hawthorne’s favorite,” she said with a slight note of trepidation.
“Perfect.”
The batter was the easy part. I beat eggs in a bowl, then whisked in milk, flour, butter, and salt. All that was then strained through a fine-mesh sieve into another bowl, to get a texture like heavy cream. While that rested in the fridge, I got to work on my ricotta, which wasn’t nearly as complicated as it sounded.
In a Dutch oven, I combined milk, cream, and salt and brought it to a rolling boil. I stirred in fresh-squeezed lemon juice, then turned off the heat and let it sit for about ten minutes while curds began to float to the surface. I transferred those curds to a cheesecloth-lined strainer to drain the excess liquid for another ten minutes. To that, I added orange zest and another pinch of salt, stirring until creamy, and set it aside.
For my orange marmalade, I added the flesh and thin-sliced rind of several oranges to a small saucepan with sugar and a splash of champagne to cook down. By then, Ali was back to tell me the family was just sitting down to start on the fruit and muffins.
A brief wave of apprehension flooded through me as I assembled the portable cooktop and ingredients on the cart, but it was too late to back out now. Mrs. Hawthorne wanted to be wowed. This was the best I could come up with.
So, in my ironed white chef’s coat and with my hair pulled up tightly in a bun, I entered the formal dining room with my cart. Charles smothered a smile but gave me a meaningful nod as my eyes flicked to his for just a moment before greeting the family.
“Good morning,” I said. “I’ve readied a special tableside preparation for you today.”
I got the impression Charles might’ve kicked Amelia under the table, because she suddenly dropped her phone in her lap and glared at him before her startled attention landed on me.
“I learned the technique to a proper crepe from a French chef who was staging at a restaurant where I used to work,” I began.
Another thing he taught me was that the trick to a successful tableside service was talking. Building a rapport with the guest. It should be a show, so give them a little showmanship. A story.
“How fun,” Mr. Hawthorne mused, smiling at his wife, who flatly sipped her mimosa.
“He said more important than the batter or the seasoning was the cook.” I smeared my heated pan with a pre-cut cube of butter, letting it sizzle and coat the entire surface.
The Hawthorne family looked on with rapt anticipation.
“Crepes require patience and attention.” I poured the first batch of batter into the pan and used a wooden crepe spreader to evenly distribute the liquid across the entire surface. “People have a tendency to rush the batter. Because they’re so thin. But he said you have to trust the process. Trust yourself.”
Mrs. Hawthorne watched me closely, her icy gaze revealing nothing. And again, I stole a glance at Charles, whose nod of encouragement helped tamp down the butterflies.
With a spoon, I spread a thin layer of ricotta in the center of the crepe, then drizzled my orange marmalade on top. I used a silicone spatula to fold the crepe in half, and in half again, to form a perfect pie wedge, and slid it off onto a plate that Ali placed in front of Mrs. Hawthorne.
“That, he told me, was the lesson of cooking.” I repeated the process again for the rest of the family, each crepe sliding perfectly off the pan.
“Wonderful,” Mr. Hawthorne said, appreciatively inhaling as his plate hit the table. “Don’t these look great?”
“Delicious,” Amelia hummed around her first bite. “Compliments to the chef.”
