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The device is even heavier in my hand.
I have to pick Julia up from the airport in less than an hour. And bring her back to my apartment smelling like the worst dive diner on the planet. Unless I want to admit defeat and disappoint my daughter the second she walks in the door, I have to hope Riley will honor her offer and answer my call.
∞∞∞
RILEY
While sitting on the foot of my bed tying my boots around my ankles—wishing I hadn’t agreed to this stupid night hike—my phone comes alive on the bedside table.
Throwing my body back, I reach over my head and pull the angry thing into my fist. Instantly, my whole face stretches with a smile reading the caller id.
Daniel the Gumbo Guy.
I hadn’t forgotten about my offer but I’d done my best to ignore it for the last twenty-four hours. The chances he’d actually call for help, even if he ended up in desperate need, seemed slim to nonexistent.
Shit must have hit the fan.
I swipe my thumb across the screen. In the most level tone I can manage—considering my heart is pounding so hard he can probably hear it through the tiny speaker—I greet him, “Hey.”
“I’m sorry to bother you—”
“No bother. How’s it going?” Stupid question.He wouldn’t have called if things were going well, Riley.
“Could be better. If only my apartment didn’t smell like a grease fire.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I followed the directions to aTbut the roux went up in flames in a matter of seconds.”
“Okay. First, deep breath.” To my surprise, he blew an audible breath in my ear. What surprises me more is the V between my legs tingling imagining the warmth of that breath on my skin. My chest hitches trying to remember what I was going to say next.
“I’d be happy to take more advice now. Before I hyperventilate,” he says with an uneasy laugh.
“Right. Sorry.” God, I hope I don’t sound as flustered as I feel. If I do, he makes no indication. However, he is tied up in enough of his own drama to worry about mine. “How hot was your flame?” I ask getting back on track.
“Medium-high.”
“Was the oil smoking when you added the flour?”
“Nope. Like I said, I followed the instructions perfectly.”
I remind myself that Daniel is in a state of panic. He didn’t mean to be short with me. It’s a big night and he wants it to be perfect. The more I think about how terrible he probably feels—defeated, incapable, unworthy—the more my heart melts for him. The more I want to reach through the phone to help in whatever way I can. Comfort him… In whatever way I can.
But I can’t. If for no other reason, though there are plenty of other reasons, than my sister is waiting for me. If I’m late two nights in a row, I’ll never hear the end of it. If I’m going to help Daniel, I need to do it quickly and stop my brain—and body—from wandering where it can’t go. “What pan did you use?”
“A skillet.”
“Cast iron?”
“Non-stick.”
“Well, there’s your problem.” I throw my free hand out in front of me.
“There’s a difference?”
“Huge difference. The bottom of your pan was probably too thin. The thicker the bottom the better. More cushion for the pushin’.”
Daniel snorts before full-on laughing. “You should make cooking videos. If any of those cooks I watched had said that, I would have remembered it.”
