His head lolled back onto his shoulders. “There it is.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?” I asked. “You’re paying me a lot of money. Do you want me to just stand here and pat you on the head and tell you you’re the best and most specialest chef that ever was?”
“I want to learn from you!” he objected. “Sue me for starting early!”
“You don’t have to get defensive. I’m not mad.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” he sighed.
“I just think you’re bad at taking direction.”
I snickered when he snapped to look at me, total shock on his face.
“I don’t know why I thought you would be any different outside of work.”
“I don’t either,” I said. “You’re still you and I’m still me.”
He laughed and shook his head as we arrived in his kitchen, an updated arrangement of dark gray tile and countertops. He had a plate of chopped veggies out with what looked like babaganoush and some kind of drink in a glass. He stepped to a cabinet. “What do you want to drink?”
“Not poison, preferably,” I said, and again, he looked horrified. “Sorry. Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“Raspberry spritzer it is,” he said. I studied him as he reached, without effort, to get a glass from a high shelf, even doing a bartender trick and twirling it in his palm. He flicked his chin toward the veggie plate. “Have some cooking snacks.”
“I feel like you’re showing off, Chef,” I chuckled, stretching to dip a carrot in the babaganoush. The hot zest of garlic filled my mouth. “Gosh. Guess you don’t want me kissing anyone.”
“Kissing?” The question was breathy, the lopsided smirk returning again as he extended the prepared drink my way. “Who said anything about kissing?”
I pinched my lips together. “It’s just a lot of garlic. That’s all.”
“Oh.” He grimaced. “I kinda like it strong.”
“Fair,” I said.
“Besides,” he walked my way slowly, “if whoever you plan to kiss eats it too, you can’t tell.” Harlan leaned into me, reaching past me to drag a carrot through the dip. He made a show of snapping it in his teeth and winked. “Come see my house, Chef.”
EIGHT
HARLAN
FEBRUARY
“And this is my hot tub.”I lifted the lid to reveal a rainbow display of lights flashing through the gently bubbling water.
Emma whistled. “Must be nice.”
“Yeah, well, get beat up for a living, and you might need in-home relief too.”
Emma agreed with a tip of her head, subtly stretching her shoulder blades. She’d started our first lesson with a big dose of attitude, but as I showed her my living space, she’d gotten quieter. She dusted her fingers across the top of the water and gazed at it longingly.
“D’you . . . wanna get in?”
She snapped to attention. “What? No.”
“We can,” I said. “Maybe after we eat?”
She shook her head and stepped back from the tub. “No, no. I just zoned out for a second. I don’t need to get in your hot tub.”
I squinted at her. “It sounds like that’s exactly what you need.”
