Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(26)

Not enough to stick around for.

Schooling his features into a casual expression, Jasper nodded toward the entrance. “Granddad joining us today?”

It was one of the rare times Rosemary stopped moving—whenever Jasper asked about his grandfather, who never bothered to leave the living room when Jasper paid a visit, while they kept to the kitchen and dining area. Occasionally on his birthday or Christmas, the old man gave him a scowl, but even that was a feat in itself. Weekday lunch would be pushing it.

Jasper didn’t blame his grandfather for having a difficult time looking at his only grandson, a man who’d sunk hard-earned money into a shit heap. No, he didn’t blame his grandfather for the hostility, but he wanted like hell to change it. Maybe not to approval—that would be a lot to ask for after twelve years—but something akin to forgiveness would be worth the time he’d put into the eatery.

As soon as they were inside the house Rosemary was off like a shot, parading back and forth between the kitchen and dining room with covered plates and condiments. Rita made the mistake of stepping into her path and the older woman nearly bulldozed her. “Um,” Rita started, her back pressed against the wall. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“As it turns out, yes. There is a turkey warming in the oven, needs carving.”

His grandmother paused long enough to address Rita. “I find these days that women don’t know a teacup from a turnip. You know what you’re doing in the kitchen?”

“I-I hope so,” Rita seemed to force out. “Otherwise culinary school was a big waste of money.”

Jasper stopped short of heading into the kitchen himself. “Culinary school.” He pictured Rita in an apron and a hat, but couldn’t make it fit. Not at first. Not until he thought of her hand holding a spoon, lifting the spoon to her mouth. Smiling to herself over what she tasted. Okay, yeah. He could see that. Liked it, too. “When you said you worked at a restaurant…”

“You thought I meant as a waitress?” She was pressed so far back against the wall that Jasper wondered if she were trying to fit through the wood grains. “You’ve known me one day and you can barely say that with a straight face.”

“I’m smiling because I’m thinking of you tasting soup.”

Her lips flinched. “Why would you smile about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Well, now.” Rosemary’s interested gaze darted between them, as if they were engaging in table tennis. “Is that a yes to the turkey carving?”

“Yes,” Rita blurted, as if she’d also kind of forgotten they weren’t alone. “Of course.”

She bypassed Jasper on her way into the kitchen, and he followed. If a movie director had shouted, “Act smitten! Go completely over the top!” that was probably how he looked trailing after Rita, noting how at home she looked entering a kitchen. He stood by the door and watched as she took stock of the place in one booted-heel turn. Opening a drawer, she even found the carving knife on the first try. Was it crazy that he had the urge to see her move around his kitchen like that?

Deciding he’d better make himself useful, Jasper grabbed a pot holder and removed the turkey from the oven, nudging the door shut with his foot and setting the bird down on the counter. “Don’t forget to take out the wishbone.”

“I’m not a monster.” Rita plugged the electric carving knife into the nearest outlet. “Does your grandmother usually cook Thanksgiving dinner for a casual lunch?”

“She’s the reason for my gym membership.”

Rita’s answering chuckle was sliced in half by the whirring blade. Jasper watched in fascination as she held it over the turkey, the way a television surgeon holds a scalpel. Focused. Confident.

And then it all went away. The easy flow of a woman doing what she loved just dropped like a water balloon on the floor. With the juggering knife buzzing in her hand, she stared down at the turkey, but Jasper could tell she wasn’t really seeing it. “Rita?”

Her answer was a great, gulping sob, and he felt it, dead center in his chest. Jasper reached out and grabbed the knife a split second before she dropped it.





Chapter Thirteen



Her hand was vibrating with the familiar buzz of the carving knife. And then it wasn’t. But the gentle prying of the instrument from Rita’s hand did nothing to cease the tectonic plates shifting underneath her skin. Half of her consciousness was still in the kitchen with Jasper—who was speaking too softly to be heard over her internal earthquake—but the other half was back at Wayfare. Not the night of the fire. Way before that. To a night when Miriam had stayed late in the hopes of perfecting Rita’s soufflé technique.

*



“Wait for the ingredients to blend…let the eggs marry with the milk.” Miriam winked at Rita. “They just met. You can’t expect them to hop right into the sack without a little coaxing.”

Rita rubbed bleary eyes, seeing double when she opened them again. “Is it okay to just admit you’ll maybe never be good at one thing?” Her tone was as flat and characterless as her last five attempts at a soufflé. “I hear it all the time. Out…there. Outside the kitchen. People say, I can’t walk in heels. Or, I can’t draw for shit. But they’re fine with it. Maybe I can just be fine with sucking at this one thing.”