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“My mom used to say that. It’s just a strange expression that means when you shiver for no reason, someone is walking over the place where you’ll one day be buried.”
“That’s a really creepy way to explain a chill.”
I smiled. “My mom sometimes had a dark sense of humor. But I think she got that one from my granny.”
I dragged a finger along the counter as I took in his wood cabinets that went all the way to the ceiling, the container of kitchen utensils, the knife block, bottles of oils and small bowls of salts sitting on a marble lazy Susan to the side of his cooking space. Whereas the living room and dining spaces looked virtually unused, this kitchen felt different—lived in, personal.
When I turned toward him, I saw that he’d been watching me, a small smile on his face that held some note of what I thought might be nervousness. Was he worried I wouldn’t like his place? No, certainly not. First, it was perfect, and he had to know that, and second, why would he care what some waitress from Mud Gulch thought anyway?
“I suppose I’m not surprised that you like to cook, Mr. Crab Cakes Extraordinaire,” I said. “Your parents must have taught you?”
He shook his head. “No. Actually, I doubt either of my parents can do more than boil water. We had a family chef growing up who’d studied in France. Jean LaCourt. He taught me some of the basics, and then when he saw I had a knack for cooking, he showed me recipes that took greater skill.” He looked contemplative for a moment, perhaps a little nostalgic. “He was amazing.” He turned slightly. “My father was confused about why I wanted to spend so much time in the kitchen. I got the feeling he was displeased so I stopped going to Chef LaCourt for actual lessons, but when I could, I’d sneak in there and watch him work. I had this notebook. I’d take notes in it and then hide it in my sock drawer.”
He gave me another smile, but this one appeared a little brittle. Oh. That struck me as sad. He’d found a passion, even at a young age, and set it aside when his father preferred he turn in a different direction. “Does Chef LaCourt still work for your family?”
Something passed over his expression that looked like fleeting grief. “No. He retired when I was in high school and moved back to France. He passed away a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He lived a good, long life and died with his family around him. Can I, ah, offer you a glass of wine?”
I watched him as he turned toward a drawer and removed a wine opener, his shoulders relaxing. It was clear he wanted to move to a different topic. “I don’t know,” I said. “Last time we shared a bottle of wine…” I raised my brows but then my expression morphed into a cringe. I’d attempted to lighten the mood, but even I wasn’t ready to make light of…us. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
But Gage smiled, even if it appeared a tad pained, and walked over to a wine fridge where he removed a bottle of red. “I think we can manage to control ourselves. Just some friendly dinner and group art appraising.”
Friendly.
I doubted I’d ever think of Gage Buchanan in terms described as friendly, but I could pretend, couldn’t I? Because he might be able to help me in my current endeavor. He might be able to shed some light in places where I couldn’t.
Gage opened the bottle and poured two glasses of wine as I took a seat in one of the backless chrome barstools that was much more comfortable than it appeared. He handed me the wine and then clinked my glass. “To Ernest—”
“Buffalobeam,” I finished with a laugh.
Gage grinned, placing his glass on the counter, then picking up a towel and tossing it over his shoulder. “I hope you’re not averse to carbs.”
“I never met a carb I didn’t love.”
“Okay, good.” I watched him as he collected ingredients from the refrigerator and placed them on the counter, and then opened a large drawer at the base of the cabinets and chose a pan. When he turned his back again, I glanced into the open door at the other side of his condo, the corner of a bed barely visible. That goose trampled back over my grave, causing my nipples to harden. God, what would it be like to have access to Gage Buchanan in a bed for an entire night?
Stop thinking about that, Rory.
But apparently, I didn’t even listen to myself, because a small voice in my head answered, Perfect, that’s what it would be like.
I’m not as perfect as I seem.
If you’re not perfect, what are you?
I don’t know.
The words Gage had said to me in the heat of passion came back to me and I paused as I brought the wine glass to my mouth. What had he meant by that? In the moment, I’d just been responding to his utterances with my own, a free flow of thoughts uninhibited by walls or rationale. Passion had burned all that to the ground.
I’m not as perfect as I seem.
Interesting. But honestly? None of my concern.
“So tell me about Mud Gulch,” he said, setting a cutting board on the counter and reaching over his shoulder to pull out a knife without even looking.
“Mud Gulch. What’s there to say about Mud Gulch?”
