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“Stop saying bad things about her. I mean it.”
What was it with her and that hunk of metal that could barely be called a car?
“Jo. Come on. Admit it. That last one would make your job easier.”
“Yeah. But I can’t make that payment right now, even with your deep pockets. Sheila will get fixed for the same price as a few payments on something new, and I’ll be on my way.”
She didn’t know how deep my pockets were, but something about her made me want to show her. “Jo, it’ll probably cost more to fix than it’s worth.”
“Not to me.”
8
JO
The west coastweather was so different from Nashville, where I grew up. Temps at home were hovering below freezing these days, while the Pacific Northwest was usually in the forties. But with the damp, I felt the cold in my bones much more here. I’d kept my coat zipped for the walk around the car lot.
Lucas said he lived in Emily’s house. She had good taste. It was clean and airy but still comfortable. I imagined Lucas’s living space would either be steel and cold or a total mess. This was neither. This place looked like a home with a comfortable sofa, warm wood tables, and a fantastic view. The back windows looked across a flagstone patio to the channel below, where a tug was guiding a tanker ship.
The kitchen and large island were another story. Dishes on the counter and in the sink. In a few spots, crumbs and drips remained. It wasn’t trashed, but I would have to clean before I could cook.
Lucas brought in the last of the groceries, and I began running hot water for the dishes, keeping my eyes on my task. “I expect my work area to be clean on the days I’m here.”
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t think about that.” At least he sounded sincere as he looked over the mess.
“You do these dishes, and I’ll unpack the food,” I said.
Lucas paused. Maybe he wasn’t accustomed to taking orders. I couldn’t care less. I was his chef, not his maid.
“A hundred bucks an hour is a lot to pay me to do your dishes, Lucas.”
“Right. The cleaning service comes Monday. I usually pick up the night before. I didn’t think about it this morning. It won’t happen again.”
I faked a smile at what was probably an apology as he shuffled to the sink. He added soap and grabbed a clean cloth from a drawer. At least he knew how to do dishes.
I sorted through the other kitchen drawers, looking for cutting boards and utensils. I brought my own knives. A chef’s knives were personal, and I kept my full-tang steel beauties in a leather pouch. Someday, I’d have the elite Japanese variety, but until then, these were good enough. I pulled out the whetstone and sharpened one of my utility chef’s knives.
“Did you find everything you needed?” Lucas turned from his task, his shirt a little sudsy around his waist.
“Do you have a Microplane?”
“I don’t have any kind of plane.”
I smirked. “Why not, Hot Shot? For what that car costs, it should double as a plane. AMicroplaneis used to zest a lemon or to shred Parmesan cheese at the table.” I made the motions with my hands.
“Oh, right.” He opened several drawers near the Wolf gas range that I would have the great pleasure of using. “Here it is. Emily took her kitchen stuff with her, so I brought what I had at my place. I bought most of it at the suggestion of the foodservice folks so I could do the finishing steps with cheese or whatever. I just put stuff in drawers when I moved in. So, if you want to rearrange, at a hundred dollars an hour, feel free.” He waved his hand like that amount of money was no big deal.
“Thanks. I may do that. Today, I’ll just get you fed.”
“Great. Can I help?”
“Lucas, you pay me to do this.”
“Yeah, but if I help, I’ll learn a few things and be less of a disaster in the kitchen.”
“Can you cook at all?”
He gave me those flirty dimples. “Not really. I can eat though.”
