“Deal,” he said, holding out his hand.
She took it, trying to ignore the spark that shot up her arm at his touch.
“Though I have to warn you, I’m a great teacher. You might surprise yourself.”
“The only surprise will be if we get through this without the fire department,” she muttered.
As they headed toward the kitchen, she caught sight of Aggie, Bea, and Winston huddled together, watching them like a trio of Cheshire Cats. Aggie gave her a thumbs-up, Bea mimed fanning herself, and Winston raised an eyebrow so high it disappeared under his fedora.
Jack’s hand stayed in hers, warm and reassuring, as they walked. She stole a glance at his strong profile.
“You know,” she said softly, “for someone so smart, you’re making a pretty risky choice here. I might burn down the whole block.”
He turned to her, his smile softer now, but no less knee-weakening. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you.”
Oh.Oh.
She was in trouble. Deep, delicious, black T-shirt-covered trouble.
Chapter Eleven
When Jack had owned his restaurant, he’d faced down health inspectors who had wielded clipboards like weapons and handled kitchen meltdowns that made volcanoes look tame. But nothing had prepared him for the challenge of teaching Cora Lockwood how to cook.
As they stepped into the café’s kitchen, he was hit with the lingering scent of burnt peanut butter and something reminiscent of melted plastic. The space looked less like the pristine workspaces they were graded on in culinary school and more like the aftermath of some sort of home invasion.
“All right, Chef Chaos,” he said, clapping his hands. He tried to ignore a stray curl that had slipped loose from Cora’s messy bun, brushing her cheek in a way that made him want to tuck it back.Focus, Harlow. You’re here to teach, not to ogle. “Let’s see what we’re working with. Why don’t you open that fridge and give me a rundown?”
Cora shot him a look so sharp it could have wilted lettuce. “Chef Chaos? Really? I’ll have you know I once predicted the rise of pickled watermelon rinds as a garnish.”
“Impressive,” he said, fighting back both a grin and the urge to remind her that Lolly had served pickled watermelon rinds long before they were trendy. But that tongue of hers,sticking out at him in defiance, was both maddening and, oddly, cute.
She yanked open the refrigerator with enough force to rattle the condiments. A blast of cool air hit them, carrying the faint smells of sharp citrus and earthy vegetables.
“Okay, we’ve got...Oh, boy.” Cora’s voice took on a tone of dread usually reserved for opening credit card bills. “Uh, some lettuce, a carton of eggs, a few lemons, some buttermilk, and...is chicken supposed to be that color?”
Jack leaned over her shoulder to peer into the fridge, trying to ignore the way she smelled like honey and smoke, a combination that made his chef’s brain short-circuit.Get it together, man. You’re a professional.“That’s just the packaging. The chicken’s fine. I bought it yesterday.”
“Ha ha,” she grumbled, but there was a slight quirk of her lips that made him want to trace it with his thumb.
He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like he’d swallowed sand.
“So, what’s the verdict? Can we make a meal out of this, or should we admit defeat and order pizza?”
He grinned, reaching past her to grab the chicken and buttermilk. His arm brushed hers, and her eyes widened a fraction at the brief contact, sending a rush through him. “Oh, ye of little faith. We’re making fried chicken.”
“Buttermilk fried chicken,” she said. “The buttermilk tenderizes the meat, right?”
“Right. And it helps the breading stick.” He pointed to the spice cabinet. “What do we need from in there?”
She bit her bottom lip as she studied its contents, a sight so distracting he almost missed her tentative, “Salt?”
“Gold star for the lady,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her mouth. “What else?”
“Lolly used to use paprika,” Cora said, grabbing the bottle from the shelf and holding it up in triumph. “Something about smoky meat being good meat.”
“Look at you,” he teased, arranging the ingredients on the counter. The chicken glistened under the kitchen lights, and the buttermilk sloshed in its carton. “Dropping culinary knowledge like a pro. If your hands are half as good as your memory, we might just survive the night.”
She blew a strand of hair from her face, sending another wave of that honey-smoke scent his way. Before he knew it, he was leaning in, drawing closer without even realizing it.
