The Christmas Wedding Swap. Allyson Charles

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СКАЧАТЬ stood at the entrance. “I know it’s good. I make it.”

      Luke hefted a crate to his hip. “But it could be better.”

      Allison narrowed her eyes and gaped at Luke.

      His gaze flickered down to her chest before popping back up. Turning his head to the side, Luke ruffled the back of his hair.

      Allison knew the cold air from the walk-in had gotten her headlights going again, but she didn’t care. No one criticized her recipes.

      Luke stepped past her, and she dogged his heels. “What are you talking about?” she asked. “It’s crispy and juicy and light. Everyone loves it.”

      “You use buttermilk and flour, right? Like ninety-nine percent of America.” Luke dropped the crate on a counter, and pulled a whole bird from it. He handed a cleaver to Allison. “Cut this up, will you?”

      Allison took the blade. “I also use a bit of cornstarch and my own special spices. What of it?”

      Fingers wide, he spread his hands through the air. “Panko bread crumbs.”

      Allison whacked a chicken leg off. “Bananas.”

      Luke’s eyebrows drew down. “What?”

      “Oh, we’re not blurting out random food items?”

      Rolling his eyes, Luke piled some staples onto the counter before him. “I don’t think even you could pull off banana-fried chicken.”

      Allison paused, considering.

      “If you use a panko crumb and parmesan mix instead of flour, you get a crispier and less greasy bird.” Luke pulled out a large bowl and began tossing in ingredients. “You can even bake—”

      “No.” Allison pulled another bird from the crate and ruthlessly hacked the chicken into eight pieces.

      “You didn’t even hear me out.” Luke cocked a hip against the counter and crossed his arms.

      His fingers dug into his opposite biceps, and Allison swallowed down her drool. His arms were more ripped than any cook’s that Allison had seen.

      She sighed. “I don’t need to hear past the word bake. It’s called fried chicken for a reason.”

      “Okay. What about the panko and parmesan?”

      Pushing a hank of hair back from her forehead with the back of her wrist, Allison faced Luke. “You don’t seem to understand how slim my margins are here. Your changes would require a hike in prices that my customers wouldn’t appreciate. Besides, my menu is popular as it is. And people don’t come to The Pantry for panko-breaded chicken. They come here for good old-fashioned comfort food.”

      Luke set his jaw. “They could learn to like better food.”

      Allison slowly turned, the cleaver at chest height. “What was that now?”

      Raising his hands, Luke took a step back. “Not better as in your cooking doesn’t taste good, but higher-quality ingredients. Healthier cuisine. It really wouldn’t kill this town to embrace something more sophisticated than diner food.” He wrinkled his nose on the last words.

      Allison sucked in a breath and counted to ten. Luke sounded like her mother, all snotty condescension and high-class pretension. And where did he, a fry cook, get off insulting a diner? Was he used to cooking for a king?

      “Is this restaurant a step down for you?” Allison asked sweetly. She twirled the tip of the cleaver in a circle. “Is my kitchen not up to your usual standards?”

      Luke appeared to have more balls than brains. He stood firm. “A kitchen can always be improved. Yours is no exception.”

      He was giving her an ulcer. Allison’s stomach grumbled in complaint, and she knew just how it felt. There were some things that just weren’t done, and criticizing your boss’s kitchen was one of them. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to piss off a woman holding an eight-inch blade?”

      “That’s a solid piece of advice,” Delilah agreed.

      Luke threw his hands in the air. “Fine. I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your restaurant.”

      “I’m glad you remember that,” Allison said.

      Luke’s lips twitched, and he rocked back onto his heels. “I’d heard your nickname was the Tyrant, but I couldn’t see it till now.”

      Allison spluttered.

      “I mean it as a compliment,” Luke said. “You don’t let anyone push you around. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with that.”

      Luke traced a finger along the slick metal surface of the counter, his eyes hot, and Allison felt it as though his finger danced along her spine. She could see in his expression that he meant it. He did find her take-charge attitude a turn-on. And damn if that didn’t make her go a little weak in the knees. Still, she couldn’t let that claim go unchallenged.

      “My name is n—”

      “No?” Delilah jumped in.

      Luke chuckled.

      Allison’s jaw grew stiff. If she could incinerate people with the heat of her glare, her restaurant would be down two cooks. They’d be nothing but little piles of dust. “Not no. And not Tyrant. My employees love me.”

      Peals of laughter rang through the kitchen.

      Allison wagged the knife in the air. “Delilah, that advice about being nice to the woman holding a knife? It goes for you, too.” Spinning, she hammered the cleaver into her cutting board, the blade plunging a quarter inch into the wood. She stepped back, and the cleaver stood upright, quivering in its new slot. With a pointed look at her cooks, she stormed to her office.

      The hoots of amusement behind her back rather diminished the effect of her exit.

      Flexing her fingers, Allison tried to remember all the reasons why she needed to keep Luke. She was down a cook, but Allison didn’t mind working overtime. It was Sadie’s wedding that was the roadblock. No way could she cater it and keep her kitchen going while down a man.

      So, she’d deal with the nuisance until after the wedding. Luke was like poison ivy, an irritating rash that kept spreading the more she handled him. But she’d survived the itchiness and inflammation before. She was tough. She could take it.

      What was harder to take was the sick feeling that she was slowly losing control of her kitchen.

      Chapter Four

      Balancing a three-quart casserole and a jug of orange juice, Allison climbed the steps to her parents’ front porch. She tucked the OJ into her chest, pushed the door open, and stepped into a chaos only two little girls could create.

      Her mother looked up from her position on the main staircase, her lips pinched. “Allison, thank God you’re here. I need help.”

      A cherub with black curls raced up СКАЧАТЬ