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“I’m a menace,” he said, voice muffled by the cotton. “I turned my back on the stupid caramel for literally seconds—”
“Seconds?”
Casey’s shoulders drooped. “Well, I intended it to be seconds, but the yolks in half my eggs refused to be parted from their whites, so I had to get more eggs, but then”—he flung out a hand at the Tomato counter which was littered with the shells of at least two dozen eggs under the fire extinguisher residue—“they had separation anxiety, too.”
Although a laugh threatened to climb up his throat, Dev pushed it down, because he didn’t want to make it seem like he was belittling Casey’s obvious distress. His own heart had resumed its usual spot, but since residual adrenaline was still making his muscles twitch, Casey had to be experiencing something similar.
“Don’t worry about the eggs.”
“Are you kidding?” Casey’s voice squeaked on the last word. “I’ll probably be targeted by vigilante hens out for vengeance.”
“I’m pretty sure we don’t have any of those in Home,” Dev said, his voice strangled.
“Not only that, but I’ve destroyed this pan and wrecked the summer kitchen.” He nudged the extinguisher canister with his toe. “And now the fire extinguisher has to be replaced, too.”
“Hey.” Dev sidestepped the canister and gripped Casey’s shoulders. “Extinguishers are intended to be used and replaced. That’s what they’re for. The fire damage looks like it’s restricted to the pan. Tomato’s countertop isn’t even singed, and since it’s at the end of the room, all the stations past Avocado are totally clear.”
Casey glanced to the side. “You really think so?”
“Absolutely. A little cleanup, and even Tomato and Avocado will be good as new.” Dev made himself release Casey, although he wanted more than anything to pull him in for a hug. “Better to replace the pan and the fire extinguisher than the whole building or, you know, you.”
Casey’s smile was wan. “Thanks.” His gaze traveled from the blackened pan to Tomato’s cluttered bench, all of it coated in residue. “I’m never going to manage this. Not in three months. Not in three years. Not in three freaking decades.”
Dev took Casey’s arm. “Come on. Let’s head outside and let the smoke dissipate a little more.” Casey nodded and let Dev lead him outdoors. Once they were on the lawn by the lilac bushes, Dev turned Casey to face him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what exactly do you expect to accomplish in three months?”
Casey gave him a surly glare, which, on his open, freckled face, was fucking adorable. “Clearly nothing. Unless you count untold egg death and fire extinguisher destruction.”
“I’m serious. Why are you here? Sylvia said she’s offering a curriculum tailored to your needs, but what are they?”
“I told you before. I’m supposed to be able to step into my father’s shoes. Headline the restaurant. Recreate Chez Donatien for a new generation.”
“Do you want to do that?” When Casey pressed his lips together and turned away, Dev gently rested his palms on Casey’s shoulders again. “Casey. Come on. Tell me. Do you want to do that?”
He heaved a sigh that lifted Dev’s hands. “I want to make my uncle happy.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“Maybe not. But it’s the only answer I’ve got. The gala opening is set for September twentieth, the anniversary of the day my father opened it, and I’m expected to be in the kitchen, turning out Dad’s signature dishes.” He gestured to the summer kitchen’s open door. “At this rate, the only thing that’ll turn out is Hook & Ladder Company 8.”
Dev bit the inside of his cheek to bury his smile. “What were you making this morning?”
“I was trying to make Marjolaine Donatien, one of his desserts that people used to come all the way from Philadelphia for. Since it’s complicated, I figured I’d need extra practice, so best start on it early.”
“Don’t you think it would make more sense to work up to it gradually?”
“I don’t have time for gradual. It’s the middle of June, Dev, and I haven’t managed to make anything that wasn’t singed, raw, bitter, or consumed in actual flame.”
“Why do you suppose that is? Is it because the recipes are too complex?”
“That doesn’t help. But mostly I don’t see the point.” Casey’s arms flopped at his sides. “I mean why spend hours concocting some showstopper that people will spend at most ten minutes demolishing, or maybe leave most of it on the plate because they’ve spent the last thirty minutes scarfing down half a dozen other dishes that also took hours to make. The ROI between cooking and eating has just never made sense to me.”
Dev chuckled at Casey’s bewildered tone. “Haven’t you ever enjoyed a leisurely meal with family? Spent a fun afternoon making holiday cookies with friends? Relaxed over drinks and appetizers after a hectic day?”
Casey’s glare could have peeled onions. “There was no such thing as enjoyment at any of my family meals, and they were sure as hell never relaxing. And as for fun in the kitchen?” He scoffed. “My father treated our kitchen at home the same as one of his restaurants. He barely let me do more than make a sandwich and even then, it was never fun.”
If Donald Friel hadn’t already been dead, Dev would have been tempted to punch his lights out. The man had obviously been a bully who should never have been trusted with a child. If the only reinforcement Casey had ever had with regard to cooking and food was negative, no wonder he was having trouble.
“Tell me, Case. Is it that important for you to make Marjolaine Donatien today?”
