He kept his head low, his every touch careful despite the force his body was capable of. His eyes remained concentrated, framed by fine lines that crinkled when he smiled. A slight crook shadowed his nose from where he’d probably broken it, though I couldn’t remember when. It must have happened after he’d gone pro.
There were faint lines around his mouth, too, that deepened when he smiled. A smile that made my heart flutter every time, especially when it was only for me.
Those smiles were softer. Slower. Like they were emerging from within rather than tacked on the surface, a sunrise of affection straight from his heart.
Or maybe that was what I wanted them to be.
He finished with the bandage and brought the wrapped finger to his lips. “A kiss makes it heal faster,” he said, almost bashful. “Mom always said so.”
I swallowed the lump from my throat. “I remember.” It was the kind of care I’d mostly forgotten since Nana’s death. “Thank you.”
He brushed it off as if it’d been only my finger I thanked him for. Then he tossed the scraps of packaging into the large trash can in the corner and glanced around. “Where’s your new chef?”
Right. I blew out a breath. “Not here. He never showed, and I haven’t been able to reach him.”
“Ah. I take it that’s your crisis?”
“Part of it.” He didn’t need to hear the whole sob story. I’d manage from here.
Only, he didn’t turn to leave. He rubbed his hands together and asked, “How can I help?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded for the second time in about ten minutes. “What?”
“Use me. I mean, if there’s a way I can be helpful. You probably shouldn’t trust me with a knife, but I can wash dishes or something. Unless I’d just be in your way?—”
“No.” My heart thumped as warmth unfurled in my body, bringing a fresh wave of energy with it. “That’d be great.”
Two hours later, he got back from the supermarket with the parsley and artichokes I needed—he’d sent me pictures of everything to make sure it was right—and I’d made it a third of the way through my prep list. Then he got to work in the dish pit.
By eleven o’clock, I was finishing the last item for the night, and he was mopping the floor. I’d been here well over twelve hours, far longer than I’d imagined at the start of the day, but it was frankly a miracle I was making it out of here before midnight.
“I owe you big time,” I said as I wrapped the last food tray in cellophane.
He smiled at the floor. “It was cool seeing you in your element. I mostly remember you eating lots as a kid, but not so much cooking.”
“That’s because your mom always stocked the best snacks.” Their pantry had been a wonderland of Pop-Tarts, Dunkaroos, and all the other sugar-laden, processed junk a kid dreamed of. My grandma preferred to make things from scratch, especially the sweet stuff, so the Hardt house quickly became where I got my junk food fix. They were to blame for the Lucky Charms sitting in my cabinet.
“Chocolate still your favorite?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure why my ears warmed at him knowing that. “Obviously. Chocolate is the best.” And don’t get me wrong, I was all for the fancy stuff. I made a dark chocolate cake with whipped ganache and tempered chocolate shards that would make Jacques Torres cry. But nothing could beat a good old-fashioned Hershey’s bar.
“I don’t know how you didn’t get sick of it after that one Halloween when you ate every one of our combined Snickers bars in one night.”
“Excuse me, they were Snickers Minis,” I said in defense. “It was a perfectly reasonable amount.”
“For a kid’s soccer team, maybe. I think that was the night Mom decided to make her sable cookies with chocolate instead of jam.”
“Now,theywere my favorite.” I hardly cared if I came in last at every game night as long as I got to sit next to the plate of buttery cookies.
“I know. So did she. It’s why she kept making them.”
I always knew that was why, but hearing him say it filled my heart full with as much love as grief. Maybe they were the same thing at this point.
“She’s part of the reason I became a chef,” I admitted as I wiped the counter.
“Really?”
I nodded. His dad was the true cook of his family, but his mom had been the one to make me feel food as an expression of love. She and my grandma both. “Her food always felt special to me. I wanted to learn how to give that same feeling to others.”
