Holding the baby, she came over to him and put a hand on his shoulder and looked him dead in the eye. “Go. Be brilliant. Make the shrimp thing. My dad already tried your recipe at home, and it was heavenly.”
Broussard tried his recipe?
“He really believes in you,” she added softly. “That’s why he’s squeezing. It’s his twisted and annoying way of showing love. Trust me, I’m an expert.”
“What’s your twisted and annoying way of showing love?” Jonah asked, utterly mesmerized by eyes the color of caramelized sugar fringed with those sweeping lashes.
“I’m holding him.” She grinned and lifted her chin defiantly and suddenly everything…was right.
All the things that were not good—the panic, the clock, the doubts about this decision—vanished.
But…what would her father say? “Are you going to tell the chef?”
“What the old guy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” she said. “If I get caught, we’ll deal. You just focus on the food. Driftwoodwould be a spectacular opportunity for you, Jonah, and Atlas and I need a win. Go get it.”
Atlas and…her?
He froze in place, unable to look away. “Where did you come from?” he asked under his breath.
She gave a melodic laugh. “Dropped down from heaven to save your tush. Go!” She gave him a nudge. “Get there early and impress your new boss.” She kissed Atlas on the peach fuzz and all he could think of was how much he wanted to be a small bald head at that moment. “Give me your number,” she added. “I’ll text you pictures and updates.”
Still rendered speechless, he handed her the diaper bag. “There’s a few?—”
She swiped the air. “You have two hours and change, Mr. Lawson. I assume you still have to shower because you smell like shrimp shells. Use the locker room in the west gym.”
He looked at her, marveling at how she was holding his son like he belonged there while encouraging him to chase his dream and obliterating every problem that got in the way. Something cracked in his chest, opening to allow…her. All of her.
“You’re right about one thing,” he whispered. “You came from heaven.”
“Go.” She shooed him with the hand holding the diaper bag. “And Jonah? You’ve got this. One hundred percent.”
You’ve got this, Jonah!
Suddenly all he could see was his bright-eyed mom, young and alive and so beautiful, jumping at the sidelines when he took the field, screaming her signature cheer.You’ve got this, Jonah!
Aw, man.
He grabbed his knife roll, kissed Atlas on the head, and walked out of the kitchen before he did something stupid, like cry. Or propose.
When Jonahfinally smoothed his chef’s apron in the kitchen at Driftwood and stared at a spectacular plate of Brazilian shrimp over coconut rice, he knew he’d cooked his heart out. Maybe his soul, too. Because there on that plate was the essence of a man who’d been kicked in the teeth by loss, dragged through the mud by self-doubt, and hung out to dry by the universe’s lousy sense of humor.
And still he’d won.
He’d created a masterpiece of plump Gulf shrimp in a rich, rust-colored sauce of tomatoes, coconut milk, and palm oil, the cilantro bright and fragrant, a wedge of lime balanced on the rim. Under the mix, the aroma of the rice rose to a pleasing crescendo.
Isobel Vega stood across the pass, a spoon in her hand, studying the plate with the focused silence of a woman who’d tasted ten thousand dishes and knew within seconds whether she was looking at a cook or a chef.
She tasted the sauce first. Then a shrimp. Then the rice, separately, then together. She set the spoon down.
The kitchen was quiet. Two of her line cooks had paused what they were doing to watch a career that was being decided ten feet away.
“The stock,” Isobel said. “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes. Low heat.”
“And the palm oil?”
“Stirred in at the end. With the coconut milk.”
