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But then he let go, clearing his throat and taking a giant step to the side so she had more than enough room to get by. “So, ah, what do you do?”
Carly paused for a moment too long, trying to make heads or tails of the want-fried circuitry that had replaced her brain. “Oh! What do I do, right. I’m a chef at La Dolce Vita, the restaurant at the resort.” The refrigerator door squeaked on its hinges as if startled by her cursory jerk of the handle. “Ginger peach or lemon blueberry for the scones?”
“You pick.” Jackson propped a sun-bronzed arm on the counter and looked at her. “My buddy’s girlfriend works as a line cook over at La Dolce Vita. She’s got some crazy skills. Makes the best apple pie you ever had. Even better than the new bakery down on Main Street, and theirs are no joke.”
“Really?” Carly pulled a couple lemon blueberry scones from the jar and replaced the lid, popping them into the microwave for a quick spin just to warm them up. “Who is she?”
“Bellamy Blake. Do you know her?”
Ah. That figured. Adrian had culled Bellamy from a long list of hopefuls looking to move up the ranks, and so far, she’d been one of the brightest spots in La Dolce Vita’s kitchen.
“Mmm hmm. I’ll have to ask her about the pie.”
Jackson made aso goodface before continuing. “Yeah, she’s training under this fancy chef from New York who’s allegedly the best thing since pockets. You probably work for her too, come to think of it.” His forehead creased in thought. “I can’t remember her name to save my life.”
Carly’s laughter tasted incredibly good as it bubbled up from her chest. “Chef di Matisse.”
“Yeah! That’s it,” Jackson nodded, eyes bright. “What’s so funny?”
“Bellamy’s the only one formal enough to call me that. Everyone else just calls me Chef Carly.”
He jerked his coffee cup to a stop halfway to his lips. “You’rethe fancy chef from New York?”
“At your service.”
“Oh, shit. I mean!” Jackson scrambled to apologize. “Sorry about that. I just pictured her—you, I guess—kind of, uh. Differently.” He gulped his coffee, clearly chagrined.
“It’s okay. We fancy chefs from New York are normal people, I promise. Well, most of us anyway,” she amended, leaning against the counter. The buttery smell of the scones tickled her senses as she pulled them out of the microwave, and she took a deep draw of air, savoring the smell.
“I guess it’s not really fair to judge a book by its cover. Or where it comes from, in this case.”
Carly rummaged through a deep-bellied drawer for a sifter. “Things are a lot different out here in Pine Mountain.” God. Was she ever going to stop feeling so homesick? It wasn’t like she was never going back.
“Pine Mountain’s not so bad.” Jackson’s voice was suddenly stiff.
“I didn’t say it was,” Carly replied, shocked at her lack of defensiveness. “But I grew up in the city, and I lived there all my life. It’s hard not to think of it as home. I miss it.”
Whoa! Where had that come from? Not that it wasn’t true or anything, but still. Spilling her guts to a veritable stranger was definitely not her MO.
“Oh.” His response softened with understanding, and he leaned toward her. “Well, every place has its advantages, and Pine Mountain has tons of them. Who knows? Maybe someday you’ll think of this as home.”
Carly shook her head. “To be honest, I’m not planning on being here for the long haul. I got a great opportunity at the resort, but eventually I’m going back to New York.”
Jackson shrugged. “Mmm. Well, I’m happy to point you in the right direction if you want some good places to check out while you’re here. Just a little food for thought.”
The corners of her mouth ticked upward into an involuntary smile, washing away her sudden melancholy. “Nice food reference, slick.” She rolled her eyes and reached for a box of powdered sugar in the pantry.
Jackson waggled his eyebrows, which only kicked her smile up another notch.
“You like that? I can come up with another one if you want. Piece of cake.”
Carly’s groan fought with her laughter, both escaping together. “You’re going to have to do better than that.”
Jackson’s blue eyes sparkled like ocean waves under the midday sun. “What? That one didn’t cut the mustard?”
“Argh, you’re getting worse.” But still, her laughter didn’t let up.
“Come on. You’re not going to make me sing for my supper, are you?”
