“You make your own bread.”
A statement, not a question. “I make my own mix; the bread machine does the rest.”
She stretched out a hand and pulled a piece off the tiny heel slice he’d set to the side. It looked flaky and light and as it disappeared between her lips, he found himself holding his breath, waiting and trying not to notice how soft her lips looked as she chewed.
“Youmadethat?”
Pride filled him, and he forced his gaze to her eyes as he nodded. “It’s my Italian blend.”
“Elias, it’s heavenly.”
“No eggs or dairy,” he added.
“How is that possible,” she asked, grabbing the rest of the heel to snag another piece. “I mean, admittedly I’m not much of a cook so I’m not sure what goes into bread, but it’sreallygood.”
She sounded so surprised that he bit back a grin. He quickly put together a small sandwich for her with the meat and other fixings he’d brought for it, added his mix of seasoned olive oil dressing and handed it to her. “Try this if you think that’s good.”
She set the last bite of the heel aside to accept the sandwich and take a bite. Her eyes widened as she chewed, shaking her head slowly back and forth.
“You don’t like it?” Disappointment filled him. More than he’d thought possible, considering it was a sandwich. Or was it the thought of disappointing her?
Once again, he locked down any thought of Quinley as more than a friend. An acquaintance.
“It’s fabulous.”
“Then why the head shake,” he asked, confused.
“Because—I judged, okay? When you start going on and on about it being gluten-free and egg-free andhealthy, I didn’t think it could possibly be that good.”
“Ah,” he drawled, “my brothers do the same. If I can get my food on the table at family dinners before they know I brought it, they’re fine. Otherwise they avoid it like the plague. It’s…maddening.”
“Mmm, well, I apologize on behalf of all judgy eaters. Have you considered being the chef of this restaurant of yours? I mean, you’ve obviously got the passion and the skills,” she said once she’d swallowed the bite and prepared to take another.
He drew back, and this time he was the one shaking his head. “No, I have too many other things to do, and this— This is too important. I’d be happy to lend a hand when and where I could, but the food has to be more than my level of cooking.”
“Does it though?” she asked softly. “I mean, you could start small. Test the waters with a tray of sandwiches or offer your oil mixes in your other businesses?”
“Maybe.”
“Because that’s not the dream,” she said as if reading his mind.
“No, it’s not. I want to be able to go somewhere, sit down, and eat like everyone else. Eat with my family and friends.”
“Then that’s the goal,” she said firmly. “What’s step one?”
A low rush of air left his lungs. “Funding. I’ll never be able to sell my brothers on this. A restaurant like this is too…specific and still caters to a minority. To get my brothers’ backing and Blackwell Enterprises to fund it means I have to have a broader customer base. It’s smarter, more sustainable.”
She frowned at his words, but she didn’t argue the wisdom of it.
He made his own sandwich and had just finished stacking it when she took the last bite of hers and seemed surprised to find it gone.
“I guess I was hungrier than I thought.”
“I can make you another one. You haven’t eaten much since you’ve been here.”
She patted her stomach and groaned. “No, I’m stuffed. That was delicious. But thank you. For everything. The food and the ride and a safe place to stay. All of it, Elias. If I can think of anything that might help you achieve your dream, consider it done.”
His gaze met hers, and—maybe for the first time—he was glad he wasn’t stuck in the cabin alone with his own thoughts and frustrations about how to make his restaurant a reality.
