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Spotting her, Jean froze immediately. His hands were a
floury mess. It appeared that he’d been making some sort of
bread, given the state of the countertops. There was flour all
over the place. On the cupboards and the floor. Butter smeared
on half the surfaces. Grated cheese and herbs sitting out in
dishes, but one had tipped over and painted the white kitchen
tiles.
Behind Jean, Haley flushed a feverish red, her eyes flying to
Claire’s face. She didn’t wince or back down from Claire’s
unkind, unrelenting stare.
“It’s my fault,” Haley said, angling herself in front of Jean,
who was a good foot taller than Haley’s five-six or five-seven
frame. As wiry and thin as Jean was, Haley was so much
smaller than him. Her curves weren’t the voluptuous kind.
They were the gentle ones that drove a person into madness.
Stop. Madness? Really? The only madness is that thought.
“I asked him for pointers,” Haley continued. “I want to
learn how to cook. I thought if I’m here, it would be a good
time to learn, seeing as I have lots of free time now.” She was
annoyingly cheerful.
Claire gaped at her, unable to keep the surprise from
showing on her face. “You’re the daughter of a chef. What do
you mean pointers?”
The color in Haley’s cheeks deepened to a dark pink. She
was mortified, as she should be. The very idea of having a
father like hers and not knowing how to make a damn thing
should be embarrassing. “Well…Dad never taught me how to
cook anything. I learned the basics from my grandpa and
grandma, but Dad would rather do the cooking than explain
what he’s doing. I’m not talking about making mac and cheese
