Chapter One
Cora Lockwood was twelve the first time she set a kitchen on fire. She’d been making what she’d thought was the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. The butter had sizzled, the bread had crisped, and for one glorious moment she’d believed she had everything under control. Then, in the time it took to glance at theOne Tree Hillre-run playing on the TV, it all went up in flames. Literally. Goodbye, gooey goodness. Hello, inferno.
Her grandmother hadn’t even batted an eye as the firefighters had packed up their gear. “Some folks are made to cook,” Grandma Lolly had said, wiping flour-dusted hands on her apron. “Others are born to keep the fire department in business.”
Years later, as Cora teetered on a wobbly kitchen chair, frantically waving a dish towel at her screeching smoke detector, the truth was undeniable. She had been born to have the local fire station on speed dial. “Don’t panic, don’t panic,” she chanted, but it did nothing to steady her racing pulse.
She yanked out the battery, and for five blissful minutes, silence reigned. Then, right on cue, the familiar thunder of heavy boots echoed up the stairs.
Some things never changed. While her friends weremastering homemade sourdough, she’d become an expert at getting the Thai place down the street to deliver crunchy spring rolls in less than an hour.
Her grandmother always said she’d end up in the kitchen. And technically, she had—just not as the one holding the spatula. Mostly, she played taste-tester for other people’s cooking.
Because Cora couldn’t cook to save her life, but she loved food. So instead of creating recipes, she built a career predicting what everyone else would be eating next. She could size up a restaurant just by the menu’s font. She was the first food trend expert to predict that cricket flour would go mainstream and orange wine would push rosé off its garden-party porch swing. But ask her to toast bread, and she’d somehow end up hosting a reunion of New York’s Bravest in her fourth-floor apartment. Again.
She swallowed her pride and opened the door, releasing a cloud of smoke into the hallway. Without a word, three firefighters shouldered past her and headed straight for the kitchen. They could probably navigate her apartment blindfolded by now.
“Morning, fellas,” she called after them, her fake cheeriness clashing with the rasp in her smoke-roughened voice. “I’ve whipped up a lovely bruschetta for your enjoyment.”
Jim, the firefighter who had unofficially become her favorite, was the last to step through. He glanced at the charred remains on the stove and lifted his chin. “Cora, this makes three times this year. Maybe you need to pick a new hobby.”
She blew a stray hair out of her face, the taste of ash still lingering on her lips. “I’m from the South, Jim. We don’t show up to a big event empty-handed, and this morning I’ve got an important meeting.” As she fanned her arms to clear the remaining smoke, a laugh bubbled up. In three hours, she’d be pitching the next big food craze toMorselMagazine’s editorial board, all while angling for the Lead Forecaster title. But right now, she was perfecting the art of making charcoal toast.
Jim’s mustache twitched, his eyes crinkling with a familiar mix of amusement and concern. “Didn’t Robertson give you that takeout list the last time we were here?”
Cora winced, remembering the rookie’s awkward “intervention” around her cooking. “It’s taped to the fridge,” she admitted. “Right next to the burn unit’s direct line.”
Ordering takeout had become her survival plan, a way to avoid canned tuna and microwave dinners every night. It was embarrassing, especially for someone who worked at the top food industry magazine in the country. Her foodie coworkers had lost it when they found out she once needed stitches after peeling an orange, and that she had to crash in a hotel for a week after learning—too late—that even salad has a smoke point.
Suddenly, her last relationship’s abrupt ending made a lot more sense. Nobody wanted a woman who talked about cooking all the time but didn’t actually cook.
Her cheeks flushed. “Sorry you had to come out here again, Jim. One day, I swear I’ll figure it out.”
“Don’t sweat it,” he said with a wink. “You’re our favorite repeat customer.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “But seriously, has nobody ever taught you to cook? I thought Southerners were born knowing how to make bread or something.”
A familiar pang hit her, sharper than the smoky air. She’d only been ten when the accident turned everything upside down. One minute she had a mother, and the next she had a legal guardian who smelled like biscuits and wore combat boots to PTA meetings.
But Grandma Lolly had never complained. She’d simply opened her home to the scared little girl, tied an apron on her, and gotten to work. For years, Cora had hovered in the kitchen of her grandmother’s waterfront café, hoping to soakup some of Lolly’s culinary magic by osmosis. And while she did learn how to shuck an oyster straight out of the local waters and that watermelon tasted better with salt, Lolly’s famous kitchen wizardry had never quite rubbed off.
That magic was all Lolly. Her cooking had charmed the toughest crowds. She’d even had a few marriage proposals thanks to her chicken and dumplings. Cora, on the other hand, had once given a guy food poisoning with a ham sandwich. Apparently, the Lockwood cooking gene had taken one look at her and said,Bless her heart, I’ll sit this one out.
It had only been six months since Lolly died, but the grief still clung to Cora like the smoke on her skin.
“I’ll stick to cereal from now on.” She laughed, but her voice came out a little shaky.
“Jokes aside, kiddo, grease fires are no laughing matter. Got your extinguishers ready for next time?”
Cora pointed around the kitchen. “The one on the counter lives under the sink.” She gestured toward the cabinet of mismatched dishes. “There’s another one up there.”
Jim nodded, satisfied she was at least semi-prepared for the next kitchen disaster.
But Cora wasn’t done. “There’s also an industrial-strength one in the pantry and a travel-sized beauty under the sofa.”
He covered his laugh with a cough as she shrugged.
“I nicknamed the one in the pantry Big Bertha. She’s my favorite.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Big Bertha?”
