The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal

Chapter Six

It was difficult, Cady discovered, to avoid thinking about someone when the person you were trying to avoid thinking about was always around. It was even worse when they popped up in your dreams. She could try all she wanted to forget; she could tell herself she wanted no part of him.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss.

She’d always told herself she was different, worn it like a badge of honor, but when she remembered the feel of his mouth on hers, her legs got weak. And that was no way to be feeling with the leg weakener nearby.

She knelt at one of the flower beds on the back side of the inn, setting out marigolds as quickly as she could. Behind her, closer than she liked, lay the restaurant. And Damon. She’d put off planting this particular bed as long as she could. Now, she flipped a pony pack over in her hand, hurrying to finish. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into him, with that low, persuasive voice and that killer smile.

The worst part of it was that she couldn’t really blame the kiss on his smile. She could have stopped him if she’d really wanted to. She hadn’t. He’d been right that day in the greenhouse; they’d both been wondering about it. And if she’d been awash in nerves when he’d approached, she’d been awash in anticipation, too.

Making a noise of frustration, Cady picked up another pony pack. The problem was that her workdays were largely physical. Normally, that suited her to a T because she was largely physical, too. Now, though, it merely provided her with way too much time to think.

About Damon. About the kiss. And about all of the other things she was missing.

Her hands slowed. What would it be like to have him touch her, really touch her? What would it be like to have those strong, nimble hands on her skin? She’d had so little experience—kisses with a few men, a pair of memorably disappointing encounters in bed. How would it be with a man who knew about pleasure? And if he could take her so far with a kiss, what else could he do?

The back of her neck prickled and she reached back to rub it absently. Bad question to ask. It was pointless—dangerous, more like—to think about sex or anything else with Damon Hurst. Like a deer trying to have a relationship with a hunter, and she wasn’t the one wearing the camouflage vest. He was here and gone, and she needed to remember that.

Cady rubbed her neck again and shifted uneasily. The prickling hadn’t gone away. Even though it was a cloudy day, even though she was working under the shade of the tall pines that grew between inn and restaurant, the back of her neck felt hot.

Just her imagination, Cady told herself. But she couldn’t keep from glancing over her shoulder.

Only to see Damon in his apron, leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.

It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.

The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.

The thought made her stomach tighten.

Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—

A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.

She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?"

She didn’t wait for the answer but jogged over anyway. By the time she got there, he was standing again and waving her away. “Everything’s fine, hon. I was just catching my breath. This fool cold I’ve had just won’t go away.” He wiped his forehead.

She caught hold of the bottom of the chair and began carrying it up with him. “Don’t you have someone who can do this?” She shook her head before the words were even out.

“Okay, dumb question, never mind. But seriously, maybe you ought to give it a rest. You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m fine,” he puffed. “I just need to kick this bug.”

“You just need to stop running yourself into the ground,” she countered. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that last week?"

“The doctor’s office is probably where I got the cold. I was fine until I went to see him."

“You probably had it already, you just didn’t have symptoms.”

“That’s what your mother says.”

“And if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll never get over it,” Cady scolded.

“Your mother says that, too.”

“Lucky you, surrounded by adoring women.”

“Or women who think they’re always right.”

“That’s because we are right,” she said as they topped the stairs. “And one thing I’m right about is that you need to take a break."

“I’d better not. I’ve got to get these chairs out. Tomorrow’s Friday and we’re full up. First time all year.” He sank down on the Adirondack with a sigh. “I just need to sit down for a minute, that’s all."

“What you need is to take some ibuprofen and go to bed.” She bent over him worriedly, studying his pasty face. “I’m going to call Tucker. He and I can put the chairs out."

“Don’t bother him,” Ian protested. “He’s got the marina to worry about."

“I’ll help him push his boats around next week.” Straightening, she pulled out her cell phone.

Ring tones sounded in her ear and then there was a click. “Whadda you want?” Tucker demanded, but she could hear the grin in his voice.

“Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?” Cady asked.

“The one who never calls me unless she wants to ask a favor? That cousin?"

“You mean the cousin who comes to every one of your gigs, no matter how many Dave Matthews songs you insist on playing?” Tucker played bass on weekends in a local bar band that featured more enthusiasm than talent.

He gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. What is it this time?"

“I need your help moving some deck furniture. Dad’s not feeling so good."

“I’m feeling fine,” Ian muttered bad-temperedly.

“He’s not feeling so good,” she repeated. “There isn’t that much to move. We could probably do it in half an hour if you’ve got the time."

“Be there in five,” Tucker responded without hesitation, hanging up. Over on the docks, she could see him leaving the marina kiosk in his work shirt and jeans.

“Everything all right?” a voice called and she glanced down to see Damon at the foot of the stairs.

Any nerves she might have felt were tamped down by concern. “Just calling in reinforcements,” she told him. Behind her, Ian shifted. “Don’t you move or I’ll call Mom,” she threatened, turning to give him a stare.

“Not one of you kids gives me any respect,” Ian complained.

“I know. You’re so maltreated,” she soothed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Now be quiet and rest. Better yet, go back to the house and lie down."

“I can’t do that. One of the waiters called in sick. I’ve got to fill in for him tonight and there’s way too much to get done before then."

“You’re not working anybody’s shift. I’ll take it.”

Ian snorted. “You hate waiting tables more than you hate working the front desk."

“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” She flashed him a grin before turning for the stairs. “Besides, I can use the tips."

Damon was waiting for her when she reached the bottom. “He okay?"

Her smile faded. “Just a cold that’s coming back,” she said. “He tries to do too much sometimes. It happens when your job description includes everything."

Damon glanced over at the array of slatted wooden chairs and snack tables outside the storage shed. “Where are all those going?"

“On the decks of the guesthouses.”

“Lotta stairs,” he observed.

“You’ve noticed that?”

“I guess maybe you could use some help.”

“Speaking of jobs, shouldn’t you be in slinging hash?”

“I get time off for good behavior,” he told her.

“I’ll skip pointing out the obvious because we need to get these chairs out,” she said. “If you’re serious about the offer, we need two chairs on each deck, plus a snack table."

“You outsourcing my job?” Tucker demanded from behind her.

Cady rolled her eyes. “In case you two haven’t met, Damon, this is my cousin Tucker McBain, who runs the marina. Tucker, this is Damon Hurst, the new chef at the restaurant."

Tucker had sun-streaked brown hair and the easy grin of a man who spent his life on the water he loved. He also had the McBain height that only Cady had somehow missed inheriting. It gave him an appearance of lankiness that was deceptive; a person who looked carefully would see the muscle and power Tucker had developed over years of running the marina and working his lines of lobster pots. A person who underestimated him would be both foolish and sorry.

“Now she’s raiding the kitchen for conscript labor.” Tucker shook hands with Damon. “She’s out of control."

“Clearly.”

“So, you in on this gig?”

“Long as we finish it before dinner service starts,” Damon said.

“We’d better finish earlier than that,” Cady told them. “I have to go change."

Tucker raised a brow. “Jeans and a T-shirt not dressy enough for planting flowers?"

She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ve got to fill in for one of the waiters during dinner tonight."

The two men stared. “You?” Damon asked.

“What about me?”

“Well, getting let loose on the unsuspecting general public, for one."

Her brows drew down. “Hey, it’s either me or Dad and he looks to me like he needs the night off."

“Uncle Ian knows about this?” Tucker shook his head. “He must be sick if he’s agreed."

“Can we just move the chairs, please?” Cady muttered.

Tucker grabbed a chair and hoisted it with a grunt. “What the hell are these things made of, iron?"

“Teak,” Cady supplied. “It’s heavy.”

“No kidding.”

“Okay,” she said, “I’ll take the chairs for guesthouse one, you guys can get guesthouse two."

Tucker eyed Damon. “She likes to run things.” “So I’ve noticed.”

Ignoring them, Cady carried a chair toward the stairs of a guesthouse. She stopped at the bottom step, eyeing the treads.

“Overambitious, too,” said Tucker, stepping around her with the chair he carried.

“Yep. And permanently cranky,” Damon added, neatly lifting the Adirondack out of Cady’s hands, ignoring her squawk of protest.

“You’re a good judge of character,” Tucker approved as they began climbing the stairs.

“It doesn’t take a genius and it doesn’t take long,” Damon said.

“You can talk about me like I’m actually here, you know.” Cady’s voice was testy as she carried up the little drinks table. “And I didn’t need you to carry that chair for me."

“You hear something?” Damon asked Tucker.

“Probably the wind in the trees.” Tucker reached the deck and set down his chair with a sigh of relief.

“Wind from somewhere,” Damon added.

“Funny, guys,” Cady said, scowling. “How’d you get to be so funny?"

“Just natural talent,” Tucker said modestly.

Chapter Seven

Hauling furniture wouldn’t have been his choice of a way to spend a couple of hours, Damon thought as he fired entrées for the staff meal, but all things considered, it hadn’t been bad. Not that he was happy to see Ian McBain sick, but schlepping chairs had been a good excuse to be outside. And to spend time with Cady.

He’d kept his distance after that afternoon in the greenhouse, in part to give her space, in part to give himself time to get his head together. He was supposed to be walking the straight and narrow now, not turning around to make the same mistakes with the same kinds of people. But Cady wasn’t quite like anybody he could think of, and he wasn’t at all sure that she was a mistake.

He finished up another plate and slid it across the steel counter under the overhead shelf to the pass where waiters picked up plates. The servers were beginning to crowd around

like cats at the sound of a can opener. Even as they were filling the butter dishes for the bread baskets and topping off salt, pepper and cream containers, they could smell the food. They knew the staff meal was near.

Staff meal or family meal was traditionally a haphazard exercise in turning leftovers and scraps not fit for diners into something vaguely edible to keep floor and kitchen staff going through service. Damon had never subscribed to that approach, though. In France, Descour had always served family meal at the table, with plates and napkins and real food. Treat the staff right and they’ll treat the customers right, was his theory. A good one. And Damon had carried it out ever since.

Of course, that didn’t mean that family meal couldn’t double as the waiters’ meeting and tasting. Especially now, when he was shifting the old menu over to the new one by a half-dozen dishes a night. The servers needed to taste the new entrées and appetizers, see how to place them on the table, know the ingredients and presentation so they could answer questions, if necessary.

With a quick flick of the wrist, he drizzled brilliant green chive oil around the last plate and pushed it over to the pass. “Okay, listen up, people. We’re still in the process of changing over the menu. Tonight, we’re launching the new seafood—“

And then Cady walked in and his train of thought didn’t just derail. It went right off the damned trestle.

He’d seen her already that day, watched her in her worn jeans and T-shirt as she’d planted flowers, moved furniture. Watched her and tried not to remember how she’d felt in his arms. But the woman who walked in wearing the uniform of white tuxedo jacket and narrow black skirt bore no resemblance to that Cady at all.

Slender, he’d no idea she was so slender. Perhaps it was the formal clothing, but she looked graceful, taller somehow. The skirt was far from short, almost demure, and yet it seemed almost indecent as it revealed a pair of startlingly lovely legs. She’d drawn her hair back with combs. There was a delicacy to her face, he saw now, one he’d never fully appreciated. Her mouth looked soft and tempting beyond all sense.

She’d kissed him with those lips, kissed him and gasped against him and spun his world right around. And though he could tell himself that he shouldn’t have done it, he wasn’t a damned bit sorry. And, he realized, he had every intention of doing it again.

Regardless of the consequences.

He cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s talk about the new entrées for tonight."

You didn’t grow up around an inn like the Compass Rose without learning every aspect of the business—whether you wanted to or not. Working in the restaurant might have been Cady’s least favorite activity, but she’d bussed and even waited tables from the time she’d been sixteen.

So she put on the white shirt and bow tie and the tuxedo jacket in preparation for her shift. If she added lipstick and actually took a few minutes to fuss with her hair, it had nothing to do with seeing Damon. She was merely being professional, she told herself, nerves roiling her stomach as she walked into the kitchen. But the little buzz of purely female satisfaction she felt when he gave her the double take had nothing to do with professionalism.

It was strictly personal.

Given her choice, Cady would have skipped family meal. Showing up two hours before the start of dinner service ate up precious time and she didn’t trust herself around Damon any more than was absolutely necessary. Her parents had insisted, though. And now, as she stood at the end of the line and stared at the plates, she understood why.

Things had changed—the menu, for one. Gone were many of the dishes that the Sextant had served for decades. Those that remained had been reinterpreted—the baked New England dinner of seafood covered in bread crumbs had morphed into pan-seared scallops with brioche minicroutons and lemon beurre blanc, for example. And to the delight of the servers, Damon was serving the plates for family meal.

Fancy plates, Cady saw, arranged like sculptures, painted with color. Pretty enough, but it was the incredible smell wafting up from them that had her mouth watering. Of course, it had the same effect on the crowd of floor staff currently digging in with forks and knives.

“Alfred, for chrissakes, that was my hand, not the veal,” complained a tall blonde named Sylvia.

“And here I was going to tell Chef that the meat wasn’t tender,” stocky Alfred returned, shoveling a bite of roasted potatoes into his mouth. “Now I understand."

Amused, Cady looked up, only to catch the eye of the chef in question.

“I knew you couldn’t stay away,” Damon singsonged under his breath as he walked past her to the line.

“I’m only here because I’m working,” she shot back.

“Well, if you’re going to be working, you’d better get in there and try the entrées. How else are you going to be able to answer questions?"

“No thanks,” she said, glancing over at the clutch of waiters. “I’d like to keep my fingers just the way they are."

Damon turned to the oven behind him and pulled out a ramekin. He pushed it over to Cady. “Here."

She poked at it suspiciously with a fork. “What is it?”