Page 77 of The Christmas Yes List

“At the airport!” he announces with fascination. That is one nice thing about Čedomir. Everything is always fascinating. “Well, are you not a lucky man! What are the odds that, on your first day, you meet one of the most beautiful, eligible—”

“Čedomir,” I begin, starting to blush.

“—and intelligent young women in Maple Hills!” he adds, literally tapping my head as if to show off my brain. “Do you know, Chloe here learned to play chess when she was only three. Three!” he cries, putting up three fingers. “I know because I was the one to teach her!”

I learned to move a pawn correctly.

That was the extent of it.

He tsks while rolling his eyes back. “And oh, what a cook. I would ask her to be my sous-chef right now on the spot if she’d have me.” He waves a dismissive hand at the man I presume is the current sous-chef, who looks rather terrified at his post.

“You like cooking?” James says.

But I’m too busy putting up a hand toward the other guy as if to say No, no, don’t worry, this is not serious, I promise I do not want to take your job.

“Well, yes,” I begin. “I used to like to experiment. But really, it’s hardly any—”

“I would give my left arm to have a cook like her in the kitchen. Her instincts. She has it. Salt. Fat. Heat.” Čedomir snaps his fingers in between each word to punctuate them. “She once added a beurre manié to my award-winning vichyssoise soup behind my back.”

I feel my ears turn pink. “Now, Čedomir . . .”

“She was nine years old.”

“There were a bunch of people at that party.”

“She was the only one in the kitchen,” he insists. He wags a finger at me, opening the old story. “Admit it, Chloe. I’ve thought about it for years.”

“I . . .” I shrug. It’s not something to brag about, really. I was on a high from Dad admiring how well I had made an egg casserole that morning. I was sort of on an I could be a chef kick and had just seen a how-to by Martha Stewart on television. So yes. Technically I hadn’t botched his soup, but still. In my memory, he was livid when he discovered the soup had been changed, and I skirted away in absolute terror.

And who could blame him? People don’t just sneak into kitchens and “fix” other people’s—particularly award-winning chefs’—meals.

The memory still haunts me. It was actually one of my many, many fears that he’d find out.

“It was so long ago,” I say.

“It was you.” There are no remnants of anger in his accusation, but the accusation is absolutely there. “It was you and I know it was you.”

I freeze. There are too many knives around us to possibly confess now.

He squints at me and at last turns to clap a hand on James’s shoulder with a grand smile. “Anyway, this is your date. She can cook. She is beautiful. She is smart. There is nothing more to say.”

He throws up his hands as if what he actually means is See? Now there’s no reason not to tie the knot right here, right now.

I could die.

“You are coming to the farmhouse gathering, I assume, tomorrow? You will see for yourself. She will make a fool of me.”

He announces this like it’s a compliment, and the way he grips my shoulders like he taught me all I know is friendly.

No, no. Let’s not mention Nana’s farmhouse.

I shake my head. “Honestly, Čedomir, I’ve hardly cooked more than an egg in five years. I don’t even think I remember how to cook.”

“Psh,” he says. “Nonsense. A true chef can’t forget how to cook. It’s a part of their blood.” He tosses back his head.

The kitchen has quieted over the past hour, and I can’t see, but given the clock striking 8:30 p.m. on the wall, I’d assume half the tables are finishing up their meals, and C. C. Oakes is not the type of place with a third round of customers in a night.

A twinkle lights up his dark brown eyes as a eureka thought forms. He juts a thumb back. “Come. Show me the beurre manié you made. You will whip up the soup.”