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5
Carly couldn’t tell what was more surreal—the fact that a jackhammer was going full-bore six feet from her kitchen or that the guy behind it had just kissed her senseless over an impromptu language lesson.
That’s what she got for telling him how much she loved the way he was looking at her and that he made her feel beautiful.
Carly scowled at the dishes in the sink, giving them an extra swipe with the sponge for good measure. Okay, yes, technically shehadsaid that, but it wasn’t as if Jackson had understood her. There was just something so sexy about the way he’d asked her to speak a language she’d known for most of her life that the words she never would’ve dared to say in English had simply poured out without her permission. The way his eyes had glittered, then darkened to navy blue, had only been gasoline to the flame of her words, and kissing him had been a foregone conclusion.
And, oh God, that kiss. Far from being one of those awkward, first-kiss-out-of-the-gate deals, this one had been on its own level entirely. The intensity, even in hindsight, was enough to send a flush of warmth all the way to her earlobes.
Or maybe that was just sheer embarrassment over Jackson apologizing—not once, but twice—at having kissed her in the first place. As in, whoops, my mistake, it won’t happen again, have a nice day. Carly brushed her fingers gently over lips that still tingled in the aftermath of Jackson’s sexy little wake-up call. Just beyond the sun-filled windows, the jackhammer’s insistentrat-tat-tat-tat-tatmade the floorboards vibrate beneath her bare feet, rattling her nerves in a steady pulse.
Forget this. She needed her kitchen. She needed to breathe.
Carly made quick work of showering and packing her chef’s whites neatly into her bag, averting her eyes from the goings-on in the backyard as she hustled out the door. The stress of Travis’s ridiculous threat coupled with her grueling workdays and her lingering homesickness must have gotten the best of her, and she’d given in to a silly impulse. Between being caught singing in her bathrobe and the forgive-and-forget kiss, Carly had fulfilled her embarrassment quota for the foreseeable future, and what’s done was done. All she needed now was to get to her kitchen, channel her energy into the food, and her mind would be good and straight.
The rest of her would follow suit. Memory of that kiss be damned.
* * *
“Uh-oh.You’ve been here for a while.” Adrian’s voice had more gravel to it than usual, and he eyed Carly with suspicion as he walked into La Dolce Vita’s kitchen. “What gives?”
“I had a meeting with Gavin at noon to do the weekly rundown,” she replied, not looking up from the stockpot on the burner in front of her. The hearty aroma of tomatoes and garlic wafted up from the mouth of the pot like a breath being slowly exhaled in satisfaction.
“That soup smells like ten-thirty to me. Eleven at the latest,” Adrian flipped back, arching the dark brow sans piercing. “You want to try again?”
Damn it. She should’ve figured Adrian would know better. “Nope. You want to taste this?”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right? Fork it over.” He waved his huge hand, palm up, at her in ac’meremotion. “Your peasant soup is like nectar of the Gods, baby.”
The laugh that unwound from her chest was just what the doctor ordered, and the remaining stress from Carly’s morning—hell, from her whole week—began to jog loose. “Glad you think so, because it’s the specialty soup this week. I thought we’d play with some of the summer vegetables now that the season’s in full swing. They came from the farmer’s market in Riverside. The tomatoes are practically a work of art.”
Her mind caught on the triangle-shaped slivers of zucchini, skin as bright as emeralds as they bobbed through the stockpot on a sea of light, tomato-tinged broth. The tiny, perfect circles of ditalini played off the wedges of zucchini in both color and shape, and both danced in the fresh broth to form a soup that was neither too strong nor too heavy for a summertime menu. When the cooler months came, she’d experiment with different vegetables to make it heartier, but to Carly, the soup always signaled warmth regardless.
Adrian didn’t waste any time putting the spoon Carly passed over to good use, ladling it deep into the belly of the pot. “Yeah, well they taste like one, too. Way better than the crap we get through the distributor.” He paused to make a face, then took another bite of the soup to erase his stubbled grimace. “Simplicity through ingredients, complexity through taste. Man, that’s good.”
“Yeah, I’d love to figure out a way to use some of the locally grown produce on more of a regular basis. The closer our source, the fresher the food, you know? Plus, it doesn’t hurt the local economy.” She stirred the soup one more time, swirling the satiny broth.
“Sounds like a win-win. Maybe you should bring it up with management.” Adrian leaned back against the stainless steel counter.
“Yeah, they might go for that. Riverside is close enough to spin a locally grown campaign. I’d love to have fresher produce, and management would probably eat up the PR.” She shrugged, not moving her eyes from the pot.
Adrian’s eyes may have been with hers on the red-gold broth in the stockpot, but his focus was entirely on her. “Hey, are you okay? You usually make this as comfort food.”
“Not always.” Her protest was casual, barely there, but Adrian seemed to register it all the same. He tilted his platinum head at her, and she could practically hear the gears of his brain grinding away at full-tilt. Oh, to hell with it. Carly had never been any good at lying, mostly because she never saw the point. “I just miss New York a little, that’s all. It’ll pass.”
Adrian nodded once, his thick shoulders pulling tight as he reached for a stockpot of his own and took it to the sink to fill it with water. “Maybe you should go back to the neighborhood for a couple of days. See yourmamaand your brothers.”
Hearing Adrian’s hard New York accent curl around the Italian pronunciation ofmamasent a pang through Carly’s gut, for more reasons than one. She hadn’t forgotten her mother’s message on her machine, or the reasons behind it, either.
“No.” The word was clipped enough to snap at her ears as she spoke it, but she didn’t back down. “I’m not leaving my kitchen just because of a little wistful yearning, Ade. It’s stupid. I’ll be fine.” God, how had she managed to skip breakfast and still wind up with heartburn? Carly rubbed the heel of her hand between the twin rows of buttons spanning the length of her jacket.
“She’s not going to stay mad at you forever, Carly. She’s yourmama, you know?” Adrian slipped a handful of potatoes into his stockpot and cranked the burner beneath it to life.
As much as she loved her, having to deal with her mother’s disdain for her only daughter’s failed marriage and subsequent divorce was about the only thing Carly didn’t miss about being in the city. Plus, there was always the danger of running into Travis in their neighborhood, and considering his recent threat, nothing good would come of a chance encounter.
“You’re clearly underestimating the power of the di Matisse resolve,” she said. “Mymamawill probably give me grief over this until I’m eighty.”
Adrian laughed in a gruff rumble. “Uh, I work with you every day. Believe me when I tell you, I’m well-versed in the di Matisse resolve.” He jutted his chin at her, dark stubble gracing his sturdy jawline. “All I’m saying is that if you need a dose of home to get you good and straight, then maybe you should go.”
