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He sat. He watched her pull out soup and then whip the foil off the plate with a flourish.
“We have cream of mushroom soup, followed by mustard dill chicken, with a side of chive mashed potatoes alongside tender asparagus with lemon and pecorino.” She beamed, tucking a napkin into the neck of his garage coveralls. Her fingers grazed his skin, but it felt like a trail of tiny shocks where she touched him, and he wondered if she felt the same as she hastily pulled away, shoving a set of silverware across the table. Her cheeks were slightly flushed as she gestured to the cutlery. “Go on. Dig in!”
He gazed down at a dish that looked like something from one of those foodie magazines in the grocery checkout. The soup steamed, the scent of something creamy and decadent tickling his nose. On the plate, her mashed potatoes were whipped in a swirl, like the frosting on his mom’s cupcakes, with the green chives scattered on top like sprinkles. He didn’t know what pecorino was, but he figured it was the little white flakes draped over the asparagus sprigs, and the chicken was seasoned, seared, and covered in some mustard concoction that must’ve come straight from the angels, it smelled so divine.
Holy shit. This was fancy.
And he…he was the opposite of fancy.
He gazed down at his mechanic’s coverall. It’d started out clean, and now it pretty much told the story of his day. There were dirt smudges along the arms from changing the flat tire this morning for Mrs. Foltz, Imani Lewis’s grandmother, and a ketchup stain from his lunchtime hot dog. Plus, he wore a big streak of grease across his front from helping Drake’s neighbor Mr. Penny get ready for a hot date by giving the old man’s vintage Chevy Bel Air a much needed tune-up.
Striving to look more presentable, Ryker unzipped and slipped his arms out until the work covering lay like the peel of a banana in his lap, revealing his black short-sleeved undershirt. He removed his baseball cap, running a hand through his hair to eliminate as much of the hat-head look as possible. Then, as he re-tucked the paper napkin into his collar, he caught her staring at him.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing. I wondered how much you were going to take off there, for a second.” Her lips were curved in a smile, and her chin rested in her hands on the opposite side of the tall bistro table next to the VW. “You done?”
He gaped at her. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she was flirting with him.
But it couldn’t be. She was just…friendly.
To save himself from speaking, he speared four of the asparagus and was about to shove them into his mouth when he recalled she was a fancy chef. And she was used to men with table manners—not some dude who ate like a Neanderthal. He picked up the knife, carving the asparagus into bite-sized pieces then piling on some potatoes and finally a chunk of the tender chicken into the perfect bite.
As soon as the fork left his mouth, all thoughts of her flirting and all thoughts in general flew from his mind. It was as if all his senses but taste had taken a knee.
The food was outstanding.
Flavors of dill and chicken and velvety potatoes along with the caramelized goodness of asparagus exploded in his mouth, rich and complex, yet comforting all at the same time. His jaws chewed automatically, and just as soon as he’d swallowed it down, his fork and knife had magically carved another slice of heaven. He shoveled it into his mouth, forcing himself to chew slower and savor it.
He groaned, closing his eyes. God, it was incredible!
Bryce chuckled, the throaty sound making his mind detour from flavor to the woman across from him. When he opened his eyes, he found her gazing at his mouth.
“Best. Compliment. Ever,” she breathed. “I’ve missed watching people lose themselves in my cooking. It’s like food porn. I’m going to watch you eat every single bite.”
Wait. Had she said…food porn?
He swallowed before he choked. Her dilated pupils, lips open in breathless expectation—almost like she was into him. The expression reminded him of the other night when he’d hauled her up after she’d tripped, and she’d gazed at him with what had looked like wonder and something that felt like…desire? No. He didn’t trust his instinct—rusty as it was—that he’d done something to turn her on. She just missed cooking for someone who appreciated her skills. He needed to get his mind out of the gutter and enjoy the fact that she was here. In his garage. And not staring at the grease lodged in the creases of his knuckles. Or the side of the prosthetic peeking out from the gap between his coverall and work boot.
“It’s a blue-ribbon winner.” He took a mouthful of soup, then wiped his lips with the paper napkin. “Outstanding.”
Bryce looked pleased.
“It was one of my most requested dishes at Chez Pierre.”
“You miss it? Your old job?” he asked, carving off another hunk of the chicken and popping it into his mouth. He could eat this every day for a year and not be tired of it.
She shrugged. “Being a saucier, or sauté chef, I didn’t always get to make the dishes I wanted, but what Pierre’s patrons wanted. That’s one of the biggest perks about working at PattyCakes. Patty lets me create my own menus, which has been liberating. Plus, she’s teaching me the business side of the restaurant, and while I’m not a massive fan of baking, your mom’s showing me all her pastry chef tricks.”
“You hate baking?” he managed, between bites. God, this food was good. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d shoveled every morsel into his mouth because it tasted amazing, and not due to the urge to satisfy his body’s hunger with the least amount of time and effort.
“Baking is a science. Cooking is an art.” Bryce’s words sounded like something repeated often. “Having to learn the baking side of PattyCakes is like…having to take science class before I can go back to my stove for recess. I’m super grateful for Patty and this experience, but working at Chez Pierre felt like finally achieving all that I wanted…and now I’m sort of flailing. You know what I mean?”
He nodded, scooping up another spoonful of soup. “Absolutely.”
She waited for an expectant beat, then rolled her eyes. “Carrying on a conversation requires you to string together more than a couple words. C’mon. Make me feel better. Tell me when you felt like you were flailing once, so I can envision my life looking normal someday.”
Her tone was lightly mocking, and he winced. He’d thought he was holding his conversational own with her. Clearly, he needed more social interaction. Maybe his brothers and his mom had a point: never leaving the garage for weeks on end did have its drawbacks. Steeling himself, he wiped his mouth and rummaged in his brain for his truth.
