Through Fire (Portland, ME #3) (3 page)

“Sit. Now, what did they order?” He looms over me, and for the first time, I look up to his face. Expecting anger, I’m surprised to see only mild irritation. I ramble off the order from memory and he sets about getting it together following the detailed instructions Dino taped up on the wall. But not before he gets a large bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wraps it in a towel and presses it on the inside of my arm.

I don’t cry. Not anymore. But I get close, feeling the burning in my eyes as I watch the big man pull together the order with apparent ease. In no time, he has a tray together and is walking out the door. “Stay right there,” he says over his shoulder before he disappears. I defy his order and shoot up, dropping the frozen peas on the table, to get the mess on the floor cleaned. I feel guilty enough as it is, I’m not about to have someone else clean up after me. I
know
I can clean. I’ve done enough of that.

Tim stays away longer than I thought, and by the time he walks into the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes, I have the pan in the sink and the mess cleared from the floor.

“Didn’t I tell you to sit?” he challenges, as he walks up and takes the rag from my hand.

And that’s what he has me do. For the next hour,  I watch him get order after order together, better and faster than I could have. I don’t speak, unless spoken to, and am trying hard not to think about what happened to the woman with him. Not my business. Occasionally, Matt or Viv would stick their head around the door with a new order but those are slowing down.

By the time the last dinner order is served, it’s closing in on nine o’clock. I’ve been sitting in this chair for near two-and-a-half hours. My ass is getting numb and I need to use the facilities. Before I can get up, Tim plops down in the seat across from me.

“Tell me,” he starts, making me uncomfortable under his penetrating blue eyes. “How is it that you were left in charge of the kitchen?”

I try to shrug off the question, but he just stares me down. “Gunnar is looking after Syd and the baby. Ike had to go out of town for work, and Viv already does the lunch crowd...” I let my words trail off before deciding to cut to the chase. “He was desperate to have a few days off. I thought I could help. These people have been good to me.” My voice is starting to feel rough as I feel the need to justify myself. “I thought I could help...” I repeat, sounding pathetic even to my own ears. I look up to find him looking at me quizzically. I’m not quite sure what to do with that, so I glance back down at my hands, clenched in front of me on the table.

“What time do you start tomorrow?”

My eyes snap up. The question surprises me. “I start at noon. Viv comes in early to do lunch prep. I told her I’d help with serving. I’m supposed to do dinner.”

Tim nods his head. “I’m gonna be here at three. We’ll make sure we’re well prepared for the dinner rush,” he announces.

“You’re coming back?”

His low chuckle is unexpected and I snap my mouth closed. “Don’t sound so surprised. I used to help out here quite a bit, and I’m not half-bad in the kitchen.”

That’s true. I’ve watched him in action all night. He may have to study the notes Dino left up, but his shovel-sized hands are sure and confident. Unlike mine, they were shaking so hard, I almost cut my fingers off a few times.

“I can’t cook,” I blurt out stupidly.

“You don’t say?” I look up to find his blue eyes dancing with amusement.

“I never learned. I always wanted to.” To stop myself from saying anything more, I push up off the table and turn toward the sink. Grabbing the spray bottle of bleach solution and the roll of industrial strength paper towels from the cupboard below, I get ready to clean the stove when he speaks up behind me.

“Why didn’t you?”

I turn, a little taken aback by the straightforward question. There is no judgement in his expression, just curiosity. “I never had the chance,” I confide to him softly but honestly, before turning back to my task. I wait for a more probing question, but it doesn’t come. I spray down the stove and wad up some of the paper towel when I feel a slight squeeze on my shoulder.

“Tomorrow, Ruby,” he says, walking out the door.

“See you,” I manage to get out, but I doubt he hears me; he’s already gone.

T
im

“I’ll be here at three,” I notify Viv, when I walk into the bar.

“What?”

“Got nothing on this weekend, and it looks like your kitchen could use the help again.”

“I was gonna take dinner shift as well tomorrow. Get Ruby up here and maybe call in Frankie to give us a hand.” Viv stands with her feet spread, her hands on her hips almost in a challenge.

“Don’t.” I’m not sure what makes me say that. I walked out of that kitchen with a sense of sadness I’m not sure the origin of. Maybe it was the feeling of urgency behind Ruby’s words when she tried to convey her need to help out. Maybe it was the regret I could hear in her voice when she told me she never had a chance to learn to cook. Something about the woman makes me feel sad.

Viv’s raised eyebrow and keen eyes make me slightly uncomfortable. “Give her a chance,” I add.

“Sure,” she finally concedes after a very pregnant silence.

With a lift of my chin, I head out to my car, shaking off the strange vibe this whole night gives me.

By the time I get home, I think I’ve sorted through the date that spelled disaster from the start. A disgruntled Brenda, who was trying hard to salvage the night, even as I was guiding her out to the taxi I’d called. She’d still been waiting by the door when I brought around that order for table three, expecting me to follow her outside. Call me an ass, but the woman had been on the wrong side of unpleasant, bordering dangerously close to abrasively rude. I’d lost any obligation I might have felt to bring her back home when she started in again on The Skipper and all her perceived downfalls of the place.

I’d even sorted and tidily filed away the events in the pub’s kitchen. The woman I’d barely spared a glance prior, who suddenly was able to invoke such strong feelings of protection in me. Safely tucked under the label,
helping a friend,
something I’ve been known to do with regularity.

My mind was settled when I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, and hit the sack. When I turn off the light, folding an arm behind my head and tucking the other hand to cup my dick, I see chocolate brown eyes staring back at me. Where before Ruby was simply a shadow in the background, somehow tonight she’s become a person. An intriguing one at that. Some of the things she said weigh on me. The sight of those lush globes of her ass seem engraved on my retinas. The hair...her mouth. Heck, even the little pointy chin I’d never noticed before is now forefront in my mind.
Fuck.

I often go to sleep with lingering fantasies of Viv floating through my head but tonight, instead of her long athletic lines, it’s the small, luxuriously rounded body of Ruby that heats me.  I’ll be damned if the memory of the scent of spicy coconut, coming from her dark brown curls, doesn’t make my dick go hard.

R
uby

“How’s the arm?”

My hands still as Tim’s voice rolls through the kitchen, where Viv’s showing me how to slice and dice the vegetables for tonight’s special. She’d noticed my hesitation when she’d come into the bar, where the lunch crowd had dwindled to a only a few tables. With a firm hand on my wrist, she’d pulled me away from the bar, telling Matt he was on his own for a few. After last night’s fiasco, I wasn’t eager to get back into the kitchen. Somehow Viv had picked up on that. To be honest, I can’t figure out why she’d want me in there again to begin with, but she seemed determined. Not one to question, I quietly followed her patient instructions on how to prepare the large pot of Chicken Cacciatore.

The moment our companionable silence is broken by Tim’s appearance, Viv puts down her knife and grabs a towel to wipe her hands.

“Good. You can take over.” She turns around to him. “Recipe is here. Veggies are about done, as soon as Ruby finishes with the carrots, and she knows what to do with them. Right, Ruby?” She turns to me, an eyebrow raised.

“Right,” I respond, with much more confidence than I feel. Despite the fact the instructions are simple, I’m terrified I’ll do something to mess things up.

My hands resume their task of cleaning the carrots. I focus on the long strips, curling on the cutting board, as I peel the outer skin. I haven’t turned to look at him yet. He confuses me. Until last night, I’d been invisible to him, which suited me just fine since he scares me a little. With his attention suddenly focused on me, I was uneasy. Unsettled. His indifference was something I could easily deal with. His consideration, not so much.

“Can I see?” His voice is right behind me now, and I can almost feel the heat coming off his body.

Still without turning, I drop the peeler and hold my arm out to the side, slowly pulling up the sleeve of my sweater. He steps into my field of vision and wraps one of his large hands around my wrist, pulling my arm out further so he can see. It’s nothing. At least nothing compared to some marks I’ve carried. Still, the hiss of his breath over the raised blister on my forearm seems to burn itself into my skin, and I lightly tug at my arm. He releases it instantly.

“Did you put something on it?”

He settles his back against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. It would be rude not to look at him. Although his voice sounds gruff, almost curt, his blue eyes only convey concern.

“I did,” I confirm. “It doesn’t hurt. Much,” I add, not quite sure why I felt the need to.

“Have you taken anything for the pain?”

I shake my head forcefully. “No.” No way in hell will I take any drugs. Not even if my arm was on fire.

I can feel him examine me closely, and I keep my eyes focused on what my hands are doing. “Make sure to keep it clean. When those blisters open, it can easily get infected,” he finally says.

This time I simply nod. He seems satisfied with that, and takes a look at the recipe, while I pick up the peeler again.

For the next half-hour we work in relative silence as we finish cutting the ingredients and toss them in the large pan, which is now ready to go in the oven. Tim’s easily taken charge. It’s obvious he is no slouch in the kitchen. I have to admit I feel more relaxed today than I did yesterday. Or even this morning, when I should’ve been excited about meeting Viv at her apartment—my apartment now—but was worrying about the day ahead instead.

“I can teach you.” Tim’s statement, out of the blue, startles me. “Cooking, I mean. I’m no chef, but I can handle the basics.”

I’m not able to mask the flash of excitement at the prospect. Pam had tried, but with the constant interruptions at the shelter, I’d had a hard time staying on task. I quickly straightened my face, though, the moment I started thinking about the logistics. It would mean being alone with this large man for stretches of time. And where? At the apartment? Here at The Skipper? No. I can’t. I’m smart enough to know that if a man offers you favors, it’s for good reason. Usually favors in return. Otherwise what would he get out of it?

“Why?”

He seems a little taken aback by my question. “Because you want to learn. You said so. Never too late to start. If I’ve learned anything in my years, it’s that regret is the one true failure. Besides,” he says with a shrug of his massive shoulders. “I like cooking. I don’t do it often enough.”

“Okay.” I slap my hand over my mouth, but it’s too late to hold back the inadvertent response.

His eyes twinkle with amusement. “Good.” He nods with a smile, before turning back to the stove.

What have I gotten myself into?
Idiota
.

T
im

Fuck me sideways.

Don’t know what the hell I’m thinking. But those soft-spoken words, in that slight Latin-American accent of hers, “
I never had the chance...
” have been playing through my head all morning. Most of last night, too. Something about the way she said that stuck. A resignation that just doesn’t sit well with me. I mean the woman is a grown-up. She’s got to be at least forty, if not more. Her skin seems soft enough, but life has left its mark in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth; in the creases between her eyebrows. By the looks of it, it hasn’t been an easy one. Not that I expected anything else; she does live in a shelter from what I heard. She’s one of Pam’s charges. Which should be another reason for me to get my head examined for throwing that offer down. Trouble, with capital letters, is what that spells.