Love On The Line (7 page)

“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” Violet broke contact with his arm to scramble back, and even in her haste, her movements were still graceful. “I’ll just…yeah, I’ll just go. See you tomorrow.”   

Between the lag time of his overloaded circuitry and the sore-as-hell response from his body, Noah had little prayer of catching her before she was a ghost. “Violet, wait,” he tried. “You didn’t—” But the firm snick of the front door in its sturdy frame told him all he needed to know.

Noah stood dumbly in the heart of his apartment, unable to shake the feeling that the memory was real, that it had actually happened and it was the first piece in the elusive puzzle of the events of the other day.

And as weird as it was, Violet Morgan had triggered his brain into remembering.

#

By the time Violet knocked on his door a day later, Noah had analyzed every excruciating detail of yesterday’s new memory, only to come up with the same grainy images from the first pass. But today was going to be different.

Today, he had a foolproof plan, and he wasn’t giving up without more.

“Hi.” Violet shifted from side to side, giving her black suede boots one hell of a workout. As far as nervous tells went, fidgeting was pretty standard.

But shit, did it have to be so…cute?

“Hey.” Noah blanked the less-than-appropriate thought, although the heated twinge that went with it was a little harder to lose. He stepped forward, bending to scoop up one of the grocery bags from the threshold at the same time she did.

  “Sorry,” they said simultaneously, prompting her into a nervous laugh.

Violet picked up both bags, but to his surprise, she passed one over. “You look like you’re feeling better today.”

Could be she was referring to the fact that he’d finally found the wherewithal to shave, or that he’d actually skinned into something other than sweatpants for the first time since getting shot. But nope, she was looking right into his eyes, which he knew from the mirror had a whole lot less dark-and-nasty under them than yesterday.

“Yeah. I got some sleep last night. Listen…” Noah broke off for a second, but man, this needed to be said. Best to just come out with it. “About yesterday. You didn’t hurt me when you were messing with my sling.”

“I didn’t?” She fumbled, mid-step in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen.

“No. The towel actually helps. So thanks.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad. You know, that it helps. And that I didn’t hurt you.” Relief streaked across her face, making the words that much more genuine, and Noah realized Violet would probably make the worst liar on the planet if she ever tried to give it a go.

“I’d hope it would take a little more than that to knock me out of the game.” He meant it as a joke, but Violet just nodded, her honey-colored hair tumbling over the shoulders of her red sweater. “Anyway, uh, what are we making today?”

“You want to help me again?” Lord, this woman was an open book with that wide blue stare and lips parted in surprise.

But a plan was a plan, and
something
she’d done had triggered his memory, so Noah said, “Sure. Like you said yesterday, it’s not like I have anything more pressing to do.”

A smile slanted over her mouth, and she started walking to the kitchen. “I was kind of trying to goad you into it when I said that.”

Okay, so it was his turn to be surprised. “Yeah? How come?”

“Purely selfish reasons, actually. Being in the kitchen always makes me feel better. I thought it might work on you.”

Jesus, her honesty was off the chain. “You wanted to make me feel better?”

“What, you thought you were fun to be around when you were all cranky and moping?” Violet laughed, tipping her head at the bags on the counter in a wordless translation of
do you have this?

Noah fell into rhythm next to her, unloading the bags while she pushed up her sleeves and washed her hands. “You answered my question with a question. That could be construed as evasive.”

“You’re such a cop,” she said, unlatching her jingly bracelet and putting it on the ledge over the sink. “And you just did it yourself.”

“Thank you, and being evasive is part of my job. You wear that all the time, huh?” He nodded down at the bracelet, noting all the tiny charms pooled among the sturdy gold links.

Her eyes lit with fondness as she pulled the only stock pot from his poorly-appointed cupboard. “It was my mom’s. My father gave it to her when Jason and I were born, and they added charms for each of our milestones. She died when we were seven.”

Alarm bells sounded a shrill warning in Noah’s mind, but he didn’t dare hitch his movements. Jason had mentioned it was just him and Violet when he’d told Noah about their father having been a cop, but he’d never said anything about their mother. “I’m sorry.”

“I am too. But to answer your question directly, yes.” She delivered a catlike smile that hit him right in the solar plexus. “I always wear it.”

Whether it was the way she moved so seamlessly through the kitchen, or the smooth openness of her words and how willing she was to just throw them out there, Noah couldn’t be sure. But somehow, a memory formed in his head, one he hadn’t allowed out in years, let alone spoken to anyone, and the words stumbled past his lips before he could leash them.

“My mom had a locket, with baby pictures of me and my brothers inside.” He remembered it, sharp as if it had been twenty minutes ago instead of twenty years, and the memory re-crystallized in his head.

“That’s sweet,” Violet said, her smile softening. “I bet she still wears it, doesn’t she?”

Noah’s gut went into lockdown, but his mouth made up for it in spades.

“No. She died when I was twelve.”

CHAPTER SIX

Although she stood perfectly still on the creaky linoleum in Noah’s kitchen, Violet’s heartbeat ratcheted to warp speed in her chest.

“I’m sorry. Jason never told me,” she managed, but he cut off the thought with a quick shake of his head.

“He wouldn’t have.” Noah took the last of the ingredients out of the bag he was working on, folding it precisely before dipping methodically into the other. “He doesn’t know.”

“You never told him?” Violet forced herself to put the empty pot over a burner and reach for the canola oil she’d left in the cabinet, lest she gape like the kitchen idiot. But come on, this was ten times more personal than anything she’d ever heard from Noah before, and that included when he’d kissed her silly in Jason’s closet.

Focus, dummy
.

“No,” he said, without looking up from the counter. “So you never did say what we’re making today.”

A thousand questions burned through her like a mouthful of Habanero peppers, but she tamped them down. He was so straight-to-it, of course he didn’t want to trade stories about anything so private. He’d probably just told her because she’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. No wonder he’d changed the subject so abruptly.

And she shouldn’t be getting personal with him, anyway.

Violet shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. “How do chicken and dumplings sound?” She reached in to grab her knife roll, the motions of being in the kitchen taking her down a notch.

“Like I’m going to be spoiled when I go back to real food in a couple weeks.”

This time, she caught the unmistakable hint of his lips quirking up, and whoa. Even at half-mast, Noah’s smile shot right to her belly.

She scooped in a breath and scrambled for her
om
. Jeez, this was so much easier in yoga class! “Hate to break it to you, but this is real food. And anyway, cooking isn’t as hard as most people make it out to be. I can teach you the basics, if you want. I mean, it’s what I do for a living.”

“You cook with all your clients like this?” Although his expression was stoic as usual, a stab of interest flicked over his face.

“Yup.” Violet turned back to the counter, chopping vegetables as she talked. “Some of them prefer to be more hands-on than others, but that’s the deal. I don’t believe in cranking out bunches of meals just to drop them off at clients’ houses. I’d rather cook with them, so they get the full experience of the meal from start to finish.”

“Sort of like that adage about teaching a guy to fish rather than just giving him one, right?” Noah’s gray eyes missed nothing, and she angled herself to make sure he had the best possible view of the cutting board.

“Exactly. If my clients take part in preparing their food, it heightens their appreciation. Plus, so many people don’t slow down and really appreciate their meals anymore. But if they make it, they have a stake in it. The food becomes more personal.”

Noah’s forehead creased, the warmth from his body sifting over her as he leaned in closer to watch her hands. “Is that why you don’t work in a restaurant?”

“It’s the main reason, yes.” She canted her head toward the stock pot, taking a few minutes to show Noah how to warm the oil in the bottom before adding the mushrooms and onions in a slow slide. When he got the hang of it and started to stir, she continued. “You know Coco’s, on Eighth Street?”

The twitch of Noah’s lips suggested another shot of dark-edged humor. “I’m a cop, Morgan.”

Her cheeks flushed at belated realization of how stupid the question was. Of course he knew downtown like he knew his own apartment. Any cop worth his salt would.

“Right.” She let out a small chuckle. “I was the sous chef there for two years.”

Noah stepped back from the burner just as she arrived with more ingredients. “But you didn’t like it.”

“Not really. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. It’s just that working in a kitchen is so fast-paced, and everything’s about the bottom line. I get that it’s a business, I do.” She sprinkled flour over the heat-softened veggies in the pot, moving back so Noah could resume stirring. “But the food should be the most important thing, and when you rush it just to turn tables, the beauty falls to the wayside. And after working my way up to sous chef just to keep plowing through every step…”

“You wanted to do things your own way.” Noah finished her sentence with his dark brows raised, but it really wasn’t a question, nor was he off the mark.

“Exactly. So now that I’m a personal chef, I can make things more...well, personal.” She held up a container of chicken stock. “Ready to deglaze?”

“It looks more fun with beer,” he deadpanned, and God, who knew he had such a quirky sense of humor?

Violet laughed, and the gesture warmed her. “I’m all for mixing offbeat flavors, but that’s around the bend in this dish, even for me.” She poured the stock into the pot while Noah stirred, and they fell into a steady pattern of putting the meal together. Even one-handed, he was a quick study, albeit a little stiff with his movements.

Finally, when the chicken had gone into the pot to simmer and there was a decent coating of flour on the countertop where Noah had ambitiously tried his hand at mixing dumpling dough, Violet reached into her collapsible cooler to unearth a bag of frozen peas.

“Hold on just a second. What are those?” Noah pointed the spoon at the offending bag with a wary jab.

Violet stifled a laugh. “They’re peas, Noah. I promise they won’t hurt you.”

“But you already put one green thing in the pot.” He jerked his chin downward toward the burner, and dammit, it was impossible to tell if he was kidding.

“Oregano’s an herb. It doesn’t count,” she said, but Noah shook his head, and oh my God, he was serious.

“Yes it does. It’s green. And you used a lot.”

Violet’s head snapped up, indignant. “I didn’t use a
lot
. And the peas add a fresh layer of flavor to this dish.”

“Nope. I’m not buying it. Nothing tastes better with peas in it.” He turned back to the stock pot, stirring the contents like nothing doing, and Violet’s composure evaporated right along with the fragrant puff of steam lifting up from the stove.

She jammed both hands to her hips, grinding her boots to the linoleum. “You are so rigid, it’s
infuriating
!” 

             
Noah’s ear-to-ear smile froze the breath right to her lungs. “I know, but you’re really cute when you’re irritated, and it’s kind of worth pissing you off.”

             
Violet nearly lost her death grip on the peas. “You think I’m cute?”

             
Noah jerked the spoon to a stop halfway over the pot, but didn’t backpedal or recant. “I don’t suppose I would’ve kissed you a couple of New Year’s Eves ago if I didn’t.”

Shock soaked its way through her chest, flooding her completely. “You remember that?”

“Of course I remember it.” He slid the mixing bowl full of pillowy, cream-colored dumpling dough from the counter and passed it to her. “This is next, right?”

Her nod was automatic. “Right. So wait. How come you never said anything?” Good Lord, the bowl felt good in her grasp, and she cradled it to her side, still clutching the peas in one hand.