A Cowboy In The Kitchen. Meg Maxwell

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СКАЧАТЬ six. She’s in first grade and something of a math whiz.”

      “That’s something I’ll never be,” Annabel said. “Although I know my way around a measuring cup and my ounces and quarts and gallons.” She eyed the clock. One minute after six. For a thousand dollars, he was expecting results, not chitchat. “So, I also thought I’d walk you through the ingredients. We’re going to start with scrambled eggs.” She went over to the counter and picked up a stack of papers she’d inserted into a folder. “I made you a folder of recipes,” she said, handing it to him. “Find the one for scrambled eggs and bacon and tell me what we need.”

      He opened the folder and scanned it. “Got it.” He held out a sheet and put the folder back on the counter. “Eggs, milk, butter, bacon.”

      She explained how the bacon would take longer to fry than the eggs needed to cook, so they should start with the bacon. She went over the different kinds of bacon to buy, how folks at Hurley’s liked thick-cut the best, how long to keep it, how to store it, and he jotted down notes on the recipe, listening intently to everything she said. She showed him different kinds of pans, from sauté to cast iron. A few minutes later he had single-file bacon beginning to sizzle in the pan, tongs at the ready.

      “While that’s cooking, let’s get the eggs ready.” She told him how many eggs to use for him and his daughter, how to crack them so the shells wouldn’t land in the bowl, how to beat the eggs and for how long, how some people like to add a little milk and he could try it both ways, with or without, but she liked it with. A little salt and pepper and he was ready to pour the beaten eggs in the fry pan on the next burner.

      The smell of frying bacon made her mouth water and she realized she hadn’t eaten much today. By the time he was slowly stirring the eggs in the pan, she was ravenous. She had him turn the heat off the eggs and drain the bacon on paper towels, then transfer everything to two plates. After instructing him to grab a small handful of cherries from the basket on the counter and add it to the plate, they sat down at the round table by the window.

      “Depending on how hungry you are, you can add toast or biscuits too,” she said. “Well, dig in.”

      He glanced at his plate, then forked a bite of eggs into his mouth. “I made this? It’s pretty good.” He leaned back as though relieved. She wanted to ask again why he was paying a thousand dollars to learn to make a few basics, but as she stole a glance at him while he popped a cherry into his mouth, that mouth she’d fantasized about for at least three years of high school before he’d ever kissed her, she could see the hard set of his jaw, something inscrutable in his eyes. He didn’t want questions, didn’t want to talk. He wanted to learn to cook and was paying good money for it.

      Okay, then.

      She dragged her gaze off him and took a bite of eggs, then tasted a piece of bacon. “It’s better than good. It’s absolutely delicious.” Nerves made her ramble on about how he could get the best tasting eggs from the farm stands in town, rather than from the supermarket. He did a lot of nodding in response and said maybe he’d get some chickens of his own, that his daughter would love that.

      Aware that their knees were awfully close and had brushed together more than once, Annabel couldn’t take it and got up with the excuse that she could use some coffee.

      “Ditto,” he said. “Guess we were both hungry,” he added, glancing at their empty plates. “I imagine you have your hands full, cooking for the restaurant and caring for your grandmother. I appreciate you taking me on.”

      As a student only.

      “Well, we really need the money,” she said pointedly, and he glanced at her. Don’t follow up that comment, don’t qualify, just move on to French toast. He doesn’t need to know your business, that he hurt you so badly you wouldn’t help him if you didn’t have to. Which would be a lie. Of course she’d help him. But he didn’t need to know Gram’s business, how much trouble the restaurant was in. If only Georgia would call back. Talk about a math whiz. Georgia Hurley ran a company in Houston. She’d know how to get Hurley’s back in the black.

      A half hour later, on their second cup of coffee, they sat at the same spot, trying the French toast they’d made, the first bite with a sprinkle of cinnamon.

      “Delicious,” he said. “I wish I wasn’t so full from all that bacon I ate.”

      She laughed. “Me too. But try a piece with cinnamon and a sprinkle of confectioners’ sugar.”

      “Lucy will love this,” he said, swiping a bite in some maple syrup—which she quickly explained was the real thing and worth every penny.

      They moved on to a western omelet, with West slicing and dicing vegetables—mushroom, green and red peppers and onions. He stood beside her at the island, slicing the mushrooms a bit too thick.

      “Thinner,” she said, moving his hand on the knife a bit to the left. “The mushrooms will sauté quicker and won’t be too chunky in the omelet.”

      He glanced at her hand on his, and pulled away slightly. “Got it,” he said.

      Annabel, you fool, she chastised herself, feeling like a total idiot. Hadn’t Gram told her he had women throwing themselves at him since his wife had died? A gorgeous widower with a sweet little girl and a prosperous ranch brought out all kinds, Gram had said. Now he probably thought she was flirting. Grrr. Her cheeks flamed with embarrassment. Seven years in Dallas might have changed Annabel from that scrawny, frizzy-haired girl into a woman who knew her way around a little makeup and a blow dryer, but she was a jeans and T-shirt kind of gal and always would be and wore her long auburn hair in a low ponytail, tool of the trade. West wasn’t really attracted to her seven years ago, and with a glamorous wife like Lorna, who’d worn push-up bras and high heels to the supermarket at ten in the morning, he wouldn’t be attracted to her now. Especially now, when she smelled like bacon grease and cinnamon. Real sexy.

      She just had a “duh” moment. His sudden interest in cooking was likely tied to his wife’s recent passing. For the past year, he’d probably been responsible for feeding his daughter and maybe he’d burned a few breakfasts or bungled some dinners.

      She moved to the other side of the counter. “You can slide those mushrooms and the onions in the pan,” she said, showing him how to gently sauté them with a wooden spoon.

      He nodded and glanced out the window as if all he really wanted to do was get out of here.

      Unnerved and unsure what to do, what to say, Annabel thought about launching into a discussion of how to properly store vegetables, but she could see something was wrong, that she’d crossed a line. For touching him? Maybe she should remind him that he’d crossed a line, that he’d touched her—ran his hands over her bra, kissed a line down her stomach to the waistband of her jeans. And then dumped her without a damned word the next day.

      It doesn’t matter, she reminded herself, a hollow feeling opening in her stomach. It was a long time ago. A lifetime ago for him. You’re his cooking teacher, Annabel. That’s it.

      “The Dunkins were in for dinner last night,” she said to change the subject—the one in her head anyway.

      He stirred the mushrooms, peppers and onions. And didn’t respond. Interesting.

      Raina and Landon Dunkin, Lucy’s maternal grandparents, had left Clementine a huge tip too. Raina, a former Miss Texas contestant, had special ordered a mixed green salad, dressing on the side, with grilled chicken breast and just СКАЧАТЬ