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“Talk?” he repeated, like he’d never heard the word before.
“Yeah, you know,” I said as I took a pan down off the hook and placed it on the stove. “Chat. Gab. Get to know a little bit about each other.”
“Why?” he asked. He was watching me suspiciously. I laughed out loud.
“Why? Isn’t that what humans do? What separates us from the animals?”
Judging by his steadily darkening expression, he wasn’t amused.
“Come on, Thacker. Take a few minutes to think about something other than work.”
“And if I don’t want to?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Do it anyway,” I countered, as sweetly as I could when I wanted to smack him.
Twenty minutes later, he was eating lemon pepper salmon on a bed of greens with bacon bits and homemade balsamic vinaigrette. For the first time all day, his forehead was smooth.
“I could lick the plate,” he said as he finished the last bites of his lunch. I smiled, satisfied. I loved to cook a good, simple meal for someone I cared about. It was the fuzzy feeling I was chasing when I decided to become a chef, motivated by those nights in my family kitchen, watching my dad eat brownies or muffins or beef stew, whatever experiment I’d cooked up. Whether he really liked it or not, he always put on a big show, made yummy noises and told me it was the best he’d ever had. Those were some of my happiest childhood memories.
“I’m glad you liked it. And that you sat down long enough to eat it.”
He cocked an eyebrow and tossed his napkin down onto his empty plate.
“You’ve always got some smart remark, huh?” he asked. I shrugged and nodded.
“Sorry,” I said. “I guess it’s a defense mechanism.”
“Are you feeling defensive?” It was just the two of us in the quiet dining room. His voice was husky, his eyes on me.
“When you’re around?” I said. “Always.” Now he raised both eyebrows and sat back in his chair.
“Really?”
“Really.”
“That’s funny,” he said. “I feel the same about you.”
I let out a loud bark of a laugh and got one of his rare, heart-stopping grins in return.
He picked up the plates and carried them back into the kitchen while I sat there a minute longer, gazing at the spot where he’d just been.
There was something about Thacker Morris that cut to the quick of me. Anger or laughter, he could elicit either at a moment’s notice. He accused me of having a smart mouth, but he was the one who always had a quip on hand.
“Come on, break’s over,” he called from the kitchen as he finished washing our lunch plates. “We’ve got a lot more meat to count.”
I opened my mouth to make a crude joke but then thought better of it and bit my lips together, smiling as I stood up and pushed my chair back into place.
29.
Hope
Another day, another Thacker. He’d been challenging me on my specials all week and now he was forcing me to remake the French onion soup because the batch I prepared yesterday tasted “burnt.” If I’d thought we were connecting on Sunday, I must have been talking to some different Thacker. Because this one obviously still hated me.
Ronnie was scurrying around the kitchen, doing her best to avoid my ire and read my mind so she could help me as much as I’d let her. I had to admire her. She really was a good sous. She wasn’t a mind reader quite yet, but another year or two together and we would be a great team.
If I made it that long.
“Ronnie,” I said as brightly as I could, without looking up from the pot of onions. I heard something clatter behind me and shook my head with a smile.
