“So,” he said, steering into the last turn he’d been avoiding. “The guy in New Orleans.”
Pepper’s expression shifted—not closing down, just rearranging into something serious.
“Over after five long, frustrating years without the commitment I wanted and deserved.”
He winced. “Sorry.”
She waved that off. “Same as dance—always in the ensemble, never the lead.”
Oof. It wasn’t the analogy that hit him, though it was rough, but the way her real pain came through the cavalier words. It made him think there were many layers to Pepper Broussard. Many.
“It’s my pattern, apparently. Almost but not quite.” She looked at him with those amber-tinged eyes glinting with a lightness he suspected was hard-won. “But hey—I’m here now. Fresh start, new city, zero expectations. Working for—and living with—my dad. No basement or Gulf of Mexico, but plenty of…peace. Which I need.”
Before Jonah could respond, he caught sight of a tall man in whites strolling into the café, eyes exactly the color of Pepper’s pinned on him.
“Speak of the…chef.”
“Yep.” She didn’t turn or follow his gaze. “I feel a change in The Force.”
Chef’s expression was neutral—the default Broussard setting that could mean anything from “mildly content” to “about to endsomeone’s career”—as he walked to the table. How did he know that was Pepper from behind?
Unless he was looking for Jonah?
He reached the table and stopped, looked from one to the other, and then the approximately twenty-four inches of table that separated them. Suddenly, Jonah was transported back to a middle school dance and a chaperone making sure the youngsters had a full basketball space between them.
“Pepper,” Broussard said instead of anything that sounded like a greeting.
She looked up. “Hi, Pops.”
His eyes flickered, clearly not a fan of the nickname. “The department coordinator needs the fall enrollment projections in less than an hour. They’re on my desk in the blue folder—she’ll need the originals, not copies. And I need you to call the vendor about the replacement immersion blenders. The order confirmation should have come in yesterday and it didn’t. The kitchen is essentially crippled without it.”
Pepper’s expression didn’t change, but Jonah caught the tiny, practiced shift of a daughter who recognized her father’s maneuver for exactly what it was—an end to this rendezvous.
“Right now?” she asked.
“My next class starts in a few minutes. I can’t do it.”
“Of course.” She stood, gathering her bag and her coffee with the grace of, well, a dancer. She looked at Jonah. “Good luck with the internship. And the basement.”
“Thanks.” He gave her a tight smile. “Good talk.”
“Say hi to my little man.”
Jonah smiled but Broussard’s mustache twitched.
Jonah resisted the urge to watch Pepper glide out of the room and appreciate the rear view but only because he valued his life and career.
Broussard slid into the chair she’d vacated with the ease of a man who’d planned this transition before he’d walked in. Had he known they were in here?
“So,” the chef said, folding his hands on the table. “Isobel tells me you have a kitchen test.”
The shift was immediate—from Pepper’s warmth and electricity to the cool, focused intensity of his professor. Jonah sat up straighter without thinking about it.
“I do. She wants a signature dish.”
“And you’re making?”
“Brazilian shrimp. Moqueca style—coconut milk, palm oil, cilantro, lime. Shrimp stock from the shells.”
