Page 80 of The Christmas Yes List

Let’s get this doomed date over with.

Somewhere as I add in a variety of spices and then stock and close it up to simmer, after the staff has moved off to complete their various tasks during the break in action, I realize James has stopped cooking entirely and is just watching me.

“I think your cousin’s dog walker’s twice-removed sister’s husband is right,” he says, deliberately getting it wrong. “You’re in your element here.”

I shrug as if to dismiss the compliment, but nevertheless, it lingers.

Has he been lying about everything, I wonder, or are the compliments themselves possibly real?

“I like to cook,” I say.

“He offered you a job.”

I laugh. “No, he terrified a sous-chef with his jokes,” I reply. “He wasn’t serious.”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I do know. Why would he hire me? I don’t have anything to offer.”

“You underestimate yourself. You often do.”

I’m silent.

“Would you be interested in something like this if he did?”

I shrug. “I don’t know.” My gaze skirts around the room, taking in everything from the line of stainless steel pots and pans to the dishwasher scrubbing plates in the sink to waiters bustling in and out of the swinging door. “Maybe.”

But my tone is flat.

He notices. “What’s wrong with the place? You did say you’ll be looking for work. Why not here?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t think a line cook salary would be enough to cover my bills.”

“Oh, I don’t know. People make it work.”

“People in big cities make it work. This is Maple Hills. If you haven’t noticed, all the line cooks are teenagers.”

“You could work your way up.”

“Maybe,” I say, but again there’s that flat tone.

“Or maybe,” he says after a moment’s pause, “this just doesn’t hit the spot for you. Maybe you don’t like cooking that much.”

“I love cooking.”

“And you love the type of food here?”

“I do.”

“Then what is it? Something makes you want to go the other direction.”

“I love cooking, I just . . .” I pause, and my words wander off. “I just want to do it in my own home. My own way.”

He looks confused. “I’m not sure I’m following.”

“I just . . .” I hesitate. But what does it matter anyway? I can be honest with a man I’m never going to see after tonight is over. “Sometimes I think that, in a perfect world, I wouldn’t go back to work at all.”

“What would you do?”