“Yeah, I did.” Before I closed the door, I leaned in. “Want to go to Mama’s for dinner tomorrow night?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Madison
I got out of the pickup and tugged at my shirt. I was used to my scrub top not being tucked in, and for some bizarre reason, I had put shorts on. They were jean shorts, so I only felt like I’d forgotten half my clothing.
It’d been worth it to see the spark of heat in Teller’s eyes.
Now I was walking toward Mae’s house, clutching a coconut cake to my chest. Teller had gotten up early to get in a good day’s worth of work, but I had woken even earlier to make a cake. My second time at Mae’s and my nerves were worse. The last time, her son hadn’t seen me naked yet.
It wasn’t like Mae knew what Teller and I were getting up to. What if she suspected? What if she thought I was cheap or that I wasn’t good enough for her son?
I was a divorced college dropout having a meal with a woman who had grown bourbon and beef empires. Not just one successful venture but two. She’d also raised seven kids who’d turned into stellar adults and had helped shape countless foster kids.
I had baked a cake.
“Relax,” Teller murmured as he put a hand on the small of my back and steered me through the screen door at the back of the house. “She doesn’t bite. Only I do.”
The dropped timbre of his voice sent shivers skittering over my skin.
I shot him a disgruntled look and he returned it with an unrepentant one.
“Come on in.” Mae’s smile widened when she saw what I had in my arms. “Oh my gosh. I was just thinking about how it was too soon for me to start craving that cake.”
I handed it over. “I’ll bake you one anytime.”
“You might have to.” She set the tray on the counter and admired it for a moment. “When Lane and Cruz see this tomorrow, there won’t even be crumbs left. They’re staying with Myles and Wynter tonight. Elsa’s running them ragged so Mom and Dad can have a date night.” Mae waved me in. “I hope you like roast beef and veggies.”
“I like anything you cook.”
Teller and I helped her carry the trays of food to the table. The roast was giant, browned to perfection, and surrounded by juices that soaked into the mass of seasoned and chopped potatoes, carrots, and parsnips. That thing could feed ten people.
“Mama always makes a lot extra.” Teller pulled a chair out for me to sit.
“Lots of hungry mouths looking for food around this place.” Mae sat at the end of the table, so it wasn’t her across from us like a one-woman firing range. She seemed to sense what made others around her the most comfortable.
My nerves stacked on top of each other as we handed platters back and forth and I filled my plate. I couldn’t get lost in a crowd like at the previous gathering.
I took a bite of the most perfect hot-pink slice of beef and a moan slipped out. Teller made a small choking sound, and the corner of Mae’s mouth curled up. She didn’t look upset that I sounded like I hadn’t eaten for a week, but I couldn’t help my shame. Not after I’d been teased in school for digging into my tater tot hot dish like a dog.
“What do you season this with?” I asked to cover my embarrassment.
For the rest of the meal, we chatted about preferred spices, seasoning methods, even brining. Then we started on baking. I rarely had a chance to make a meal for more than one. Even when I’d been married, I had used restraint, feeding the two of us to minimize cost and waste. Damien had been discouraging when it had come to my sweet tooth, so I hadn’t baked unless there was a reason. A coworker’s birthday or a work potluck.
Mae had spent her life in the kitchen, making more meals than a Michelin-star chef. “Do you get tired of it?” I asked. “Cooking so much.”
She thought for a moment. I hadn’t expected her to brush off my question—that wasn’t Mae. The fact that I could even ask without thinking twice said a lot about her. “Some days, truthfully. I love it, and I love food. It keeps me busy, which is getting more important these days now that the kids have taken over so many of the chores. But being in the kitchen is still my favorite. Every meal is like a work of art. An artist can make a million bowls, but they still want the next one to be something they’re proud of. Food is my art, only I get to sit down after a long session and eat it.” She patted the table twice. “You two stay here.”
She went to the kitchen and Teller snagged another piece of roast. “I can cook,” he said. “But not like this.”
“It’s the seasoning salt with a pinch of nutmeg,” I said. “Add too much and you risk your meat tasting like a pumpkin pie.”
He shuddered. “I like my pumpkin pie, but not on my beef.”
I was laughing as Mae returned with three rocks glasses. “I think the Gold will go just as well with the coconut as the Original.” She reached into a credenza behind her and pulled out a half-full bottle of Copper Summit.Goldwas emblazoned across the label in bold print.
Something about this line tickled my memory. Scott had bitched about Copper Summit... Yes! He’d complained about how much they sold their top-shelf bourbon for.Real gold isn’t even worth that much per ounce.
