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“I missed you, too. Even if you did just technically threaten to throw me out of my own kitchen.” Carly’s eyes glinted, brown and knowing, as she met his gaze over the stockpot in front of her. She gave the fragrant contents one last stir before eyeballing them with a stern look, as if willing them to behave while she broke rank to place an affectionate kiss on each of his cheeks.
“Sorry.” Adrian hid his sheepish expression over her shoulder as he returned her embrace, his heartbeat finally rediscovering neutral ground. “And you just spent twelve days in Italy on a honeymoon you postponed for three months due to your work schedule. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I hope you didn’t miss me. In fact, I hope you didn’t eventhinkof me.”
He might’ve been her sous-chef for five years, and friends with her for nearly as many before that, but airtime in Carly’s love life had always been a polite but firm no-thank-you in Adrian’s book. Despite the fact that most chefs had no trouble blurring the boundaries, as far as he was concerned, mixing work with pleasure hadbad thingsscribbled all over it. Being Carly’s sous-chef—and staying as busy as humanly possible in the kitchen—trumped all that personal shit by leaps and bounds.
After all, hisnonnahad always said idle hands were the devil’s workshop. And testing the theory wasn’t on Adrian’s agenda.
Been there, done that. Complete with the battle scars and rap sheet to prove it.
“Okay, okay.” Carly laughed, yanking his attention back to the kitchen. Her knife skimmed over the tomato in front of her with an insistenttat-tat-tat,and damn, it was good to get back to business as usual. “But we flew back yesterday like we planned, and Jackson got called in on some work emergency. I figured it wouldn’t hurt for me to come in a few days early to get back in the swing of things and work off the jet lag. I’m totally rusty.”
“Please,” Adrian cracked, easing into a grin. “You’ve got to stop moving to get rusty.” Carly might not have thought abouthimwhile she was gone, but no way had she ditched thoughts of food. She’d once tried to chop a butternut squash with one hand while getting stitches in the other, for Chrissake.
Never one to pass up an opportunity for some good ribbing, Adrian continued. “I’m sure the chef at the villa where you stayed was just thrilled to share his space with you. How long did it take before you caved and had to cook something? A day? Two?”
But Carly just shook her head, wiping her hands on her low-slung apron before returning her attention to the stockpot. “Actually, I didn’t cook at all.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m Babe Ruth. Seriously, how many recipes did you come up with while you were gone?” Fifty bucks said the number was well into the double digits, and Adrian’s mouth watered at the thought.
“I’m dead serious, Ade. I ate a lot and jotted down some suggested wine pairings, but I didn’t do any hands-on cooking the whole time Jackson and I were in Italy.”
He opened his mouth to go for round two of giving her a hard time, but her serene, honest-to-God smile sent a pop to his gut like a back alley brawler.
She really hadn’t given the kitchen—or anything in it—a second thought while she was gone.
“Oh.” He shifted his weight, fingers suddenly itching for something to chop, stir, or whisk together. “Well, I didn’t think you’d be back until Monday, so we prepped for specials through the weekend. I can get the pantry set for the produce delivery if you want to get re-acclimated with the food.”
Between managing the produce delivery that was due in about twenty minutes, whatever tweaks Carly wanted to put to things now that she was back, and the typical busy Friday dinner shift on tap for later, he’d be good and exhausted by the time today ticked into tomorrow.
Outstanding.
“Adrian.” The single word slashed his movements to a halt, and she turned to fasten him with a no-nonsense stare. “Normally, you come in here smiling and humming old Sinatra tunes. Today you barged in like a one-man commando unit. Why don’t you take the weekend off and relax?”
“Work relaxes me.”
Her hand went to her hip like a harbinger ofnot so fast. “You’ve been here for the past twelve days with no sous-chef.”
“I’m the sous-chef,gnocchella.” Oh, hell. Now Carly had that look on her face, the one that reminded him of a pit bull, only more tenacious. “Seriously. We’re booked solid this weekend. Plus, I’m fine.”
She took a step away from the bubbling stockpot, as if she didn’t want to contaminate the food with the sharpness of her frown. “I don’t think so. There’s more to life than just the kitchen, you know?”
Frustration curled in his chest like steam fingering out of a teapot, but he tamped it down. They’d gone through this Zenmaster, bigger-picture, this-is-your-life song and dance a couple of times now over the last few months, and his standard answer springboarded from his mouth.
“For you, that’s true, and I’m glad. But I’m good with just the kitchen.”
For a second, he was certain she’d plow forward with the next line in their now-scripted argument, to the point where he preloaded his next response about how he reallywashappy. He should’ve known she’d come back from her honeymoon all brimming with uncut bliss, and if anyone deserved it, Carly did.
But guys like him? Not going the hearts and flowers route in a million years. Plus two. Stuff like that only spelled trouble in the long run, and no way was he splitting his attention between the kitchen and…well, anything. He belonged here.
Period.
After a lingering glance, Carly simply nodded, and Adrian’s breath eased out at the unexpected gimme.
“Okay, you win. But I’ve got the produce delivery. At least go home and get a little sleep before the dinner shift. I don’t want to see you back here before two.”
“Come on,” he said, only halfway joking, but she shook her head with zero wiggle room.
“I’m saying this with love,gnoccone,but you look like shit. Get some rest.” Carly’s sugar-sweet smile belied the seriousness of her words, but she didn’t back down.
