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He eyed her as she walked to the elevator. “No.”
“Yep.” She punched the button. “Let’s go see what we can make for her.”
Fuck. He hung his head, knowing he was in a no-win situation. He would not bail on Amelia, and he’d promised dinner. Once again, he found himself outmaneuvered by the woman holding the elevator doors for him. “I can’t,” he lied, pointing to his knee. “Afraid my ass is stuck here for a while.”
“Afraid is right. They’ll be calling you Chickenshit, rather than Wiz. I’ll get your wheelchair.” She sounded entirely too happy about it. “You have to get up eventually.”
He practically knocked his travel mug over coming to his feet. “No.” He was never going back to that blasted thing. “Just give me a damn minute, all right? I’m coming, but don’t think that I don’t know what you’re doing.”
She grinned like the Cheshire Cat again. “As long as you’re up and walking, I don’t give a damn.”
Downstairs in the kitchen, they hunted through cabinets and the giant commercial refrigerator, coming up with a variety of ingredients, but no inspiration about what to make. Rory leaned on the counter, ignoring his throbbing knee. “I should just cancel.”
Vivi shot him a dismayed look. “You will not, Chicken.”
“Give it up, doc. You’re not going to goad me into this.”
At that moment, he was saved from her blistering argument when their head cook, Kimico, hustled in. Less than five feet, her dark hair short and graying, she narrowed her eyes at them before she spoke in broken English. “What you two doing in my kitchen?”
Vivi smiled at the petite Japanese woman, but Rory thought she should take a step back since Kim was carrying a large meat cleaver. “Dr. Thorpe is staying with us for a few days, maybe longer. She’s been living on hospital food, so we came to fix dinner for her.”
Kim wiggled the knife. “I make her something.”
Rory rounded up some courage. “Can I help? I owe her a meal.”
The cook ran her gaze over him and must’ve found him worthy of her space. Setting down the knife, she grabbed a loaf of Texas toast and tossed it to him. “She like grilled cheese. Add tomato, lots of mayonnaise.”
“I can handle that.”
Kim put the cleaver away. “On your own?”
“Yes,” he ground out, forcing a smile.
“Don’t leave mess in kitchen.” Then she left.
Rory breathed a sigh of relief. “Ironic.”
“What?” Vivi asked.
“My grandmother always had a garden and did her best to get me to eat vegetables. My favorite food when I was seven was grilled cheese, and she would sneak tomato and cucumber into them.” He chuckled. “Even as an adult, I don’t particularly like vegetables.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” She went to work gathering the butter and cheese. “Let’s rehearse your questions.”
“Don’t need to,” he lied.
She handed him a fry pan, spatula, then rooted around until she found a stack of plates, pulling out two. “The script is the key. Isn’t that what you always say?”
It was a technique he’d learned when he was in the SEALs. Every mission, he would create a flow chart, mapping out the different things thatcouldhappen and what response his team would take if they did. He’d also used it frequently during undercover operations. “What about it?”
“It’s clear you’re still nervous about having dinner with her. So let’s review the questions we came up with in our last session and script it out in this new environment.”
He dropped a chunk of butter in the pan. “I’m scrapping those questions and starting with something else.”
Vivi grabbed a cutting board and pulled a tomato from the fridge. “Okay.” The tone in her voice told him she thought that was a bad idea, but she would play along. “Hit me with it.”
“I need to put her at ease—this potential relationship is fragile, especially now.” How was that for psychoanalyzing someone. “I’m going to start by asking about her parents. She seems close to them. That should break the ice.”
Vivi tried to hide her grin, but he saw it. “I think that’s perfect.”
