Dear Life(37)

A sarcastic laugh pops out of me. “Yeah. I’ve had a beer or two.”

“Beer seems like it tastes gross. Matt drinks beer and I’ve smelled it a couple of times, it really smells like butt.”

Like butt. I laugh out loud. Of course she wouldn’t say it smells like ass.

“I can assure you, beer doesn’t taste like . . . butt. It’s an acquired taste though.” Taking in the kitchen, I see she has everything set up, things already measured out, and the double oven preheated. Shit, I need to confess to her or else this is going to be more awkward than is has to be.

“Are you ready to get started? I have aprons for us.”

Holding up two frilly white aprons, she smiles at me. Not in a smart-ass way, but in a way that says she’s genuinely serious about wearing the 1950s aprons in her hands, like we are Betty Croker and Julia Child.

Christ.

Grabbing the back of my neck, I say, “Uh, yeah. I kind of have something to tell you.”

“Oh?” She sets my apron on the counter and starts tying hers around her waist. When she cinches it, I catch a glimpse at just how small her waist is. I knew she was petite under those drab clothes.

“I should have told you earlier, but I’m a chef.”

Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with the apron straps over her stomach. “You’re a chef?” The way she asks the question—complete disappointment in her voice—makes me feel like shit. It’s rare I feel like shit, but I do right now.

“Yeah.”

“Like a professional chef?”

Would I call myself a professional? I don’t know. Stirring a pot and dumping noodles in boiling water doesn’t make me feel like a professional. It makes me feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone who specializes in making “cheesy dogs.” Aka, hot dogs with a split down the center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy.

“Well, I went to school for it.”

“So you’re trained?” Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the lowest piece of shit ever. I’ve never cared about disappointing people, but hell, Daisy doesn’t hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to see and experience. “Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to make meatloaf. I’m sure you can make a meatloaf way better than mine.”

“Maybe,” I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice.

“Yeah, probably.” Sighing, she looks around the kitchen.

Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn’t care less, but Daisy is different. She’s like a grown-up child, someone you never want to disappoint.

“Um, I guess you can go home if you want.”

“Do you want me to go home?”

She’s avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity.

“I don’t know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you already know how to do.” I’m about to agree with her when she says, “Is there something you don’t know how to cook?”

Not so much. I’ve studied cooking for so long that I’m pretty sure if you asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver.

“Not really.” I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. “Honestly, I don’t know much about baking. Do you?”

Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure joy. “Carter, I am so good at baking,” she practically cheers. She really is sweet . . .

“Is that right?” Her enthusiasm is infectious.

“It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?” Without even pausing to talk about it, she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. “Darn, no butterscotch or chocolate chips.” Some more moving of cans on the shelf. “There’s canned pumpkin but that’s out of season. Hmm . . . oh I’ve got it.” Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, “Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?”

“Love them but can’t bake worth shit.”

“Then it’s settled. I’ll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin cookies.” Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. “This is going to be fun, Carter.” Fun.

Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is going to be interesting.





DAISY


“Hell, these are good,” Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. “They’re so chewy.”

“It’s the flour and Karo syrup.” I wink and wipe up the counter. “My grams taught me all the secrets.”

“Your grams is a smart woman.” He takes another bite, closes his eyes and really tastes the cookie. It’s something I noticed right away when baking with Carter. He likes to smell and taste everything. It’s fascinating. He told me his best tools in his chef toolbox are his taste buds and nose, so he constantly tastes and smells things, which is funny to me, because they are simple baking ingredients. “Do you bake a lot, Snowflake?”