Broussard nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing in the way they did when he was building something in his mind. “The shrimp stock is smart. Most students would skip that step. How long are you simmering the shells?”
“Ten to twelve minutes.”
“Go fifteen. Low heat. You want to coax every bit of flavor out of those shells before you strain. And don’t add the palm oil with the sauté. Stir it in at the end with the coconut milk. It keeps the color clean.”
“I was going to sauté the aromatics in olive oil and add the palm oil later anyway.”
“Good. Then you’re already thinking about it the right way.” He paused. “What about the rice?”
“Just standard. Fluffy, neutral.”
“Consider coconut rice. Subtle way to tie the dish together. Isobel will notice the cohesion.”
Jonah filed that away. Coconut rice. Of course. It was the kind of detail that separated a good dish from a real winner.
“You’re ready,” Broussard said, and the two words carried more weight than a paragraph of praise from anyone else. “Practice the recipe until you could do it in your sleep. Trust yourpalate and don’t rush the stock. She’ll be watching your timing as much as your flavor.”
All good advice from a master. “Thank you, Chef.”
Broussard stood, pushing the chair back into place. He picked up Pepper’s abandoned napkin, folded it once, and set it on the table—a small, controlled gesture that seemed to have nothing to do with napkins.
Then he looked at Jonah.
The mentor was gone. In his place was something older and harder and infinitely more personal.
“One more thing, Lawson.” His voice was calm and measured, but the temperature in it had dropped. “My daughter moved here because she’s been hurt. Badly. She came to Destin, at my urging, to start over. Not to complicate her life.”
Jonah held his gaze. “Chef, I wasn’t?—”
“Yes, you were.” Broussard’s gaze held steady and grew colder. “You do want that internship, don’t you?”
Wait a second. Was he implying…
“Don’t you?” he pressed.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Then be smart. Stay focused. And do exactly what I say.”
Jonah was pretty sure he didn’t mean the coconut rice. But was he making the internship contingent on staying away from Pepper?
“Heard, Chef,” Jonah said, his voice tense.
“Good.” Broussard straightened his whites. “See you in class.”
He walked out, and Jonah sat alone at the table in The Grind with his cold coffee and the ghost of Pepper’s laugh and a warning he understood completely.
The problem was, Jonah Lawson had never been great at doing what he was told. And Pepper Broussard, with her ballet slippers and her freckles and her five-year heartbreak and thatlaugh that still echoed long after she was gone—was not a woman a man could easily walk away from.
He turned to the window and caught sight of the two little birds doing their choreography.
Was she worth the risk?
Jonah knew the answer. He didn’t like it, but he knew it.
The riverboat glided through a corridor of cypress trees so ancient and still that Eli couldn’t think it was anything but holy. Truly one of the most beautiful places in Florida, the state park was somehow both primeval and exquisite. The park sprawled for acres, with trails and wildlife everywhere.
At the heart was one of the country’s largest and deepest freshwater springs—at least according to their knowledgeable tour guide—chock full of manatees, fish, and yes, the occasional gator.
