The Chef's Choice (7 page)

“I wasn't the one who started it,” she retorted.

“But you were part of it. And you kissed me back, you can't pretend you didn't.”

Cady could feel her cheeks heat. “So you're a good kisser, big deal. You ought to be, after all the practice you've had.”

Her jab didn't make him angry, as she'd hoped. His slow smile was far more dangerous. “Practice has made me good at a lot of things. Want me to show you?”

“No.” It was too quick and a little too nervous sounding. It took all she had not to move away as he stopped before her and leaned in by her ear.

“It happened,” he murmured. “You can't make it go away. Maybe it's not smart but you and I both know we're going to be thinking about it until the next time.”

And turning, he left her there, shaking.

I
t 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.