Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(36)

She reached for her menu and flipped it open, seeing nothing, but grateful to have her hands occupied. “I’m sorry, I just don’t know what to talk about after…that. You’re supposed to go to sleep after something like…that, right?”

His amusement flourished. “Has that been your experience?”

“I have different experiences.”

He tipped her menu down, probably so he could actually see her. “It seemed like you were enjoying yourself. Was I wrong about that?”

“You can’t even ask me that with a straight face. That’s how much you know you’re not wrong about that.”

Instead of his seeming satisfied by her answer, a touch of worry crept over his features. “And why is it bothering you now?”

“Can we change the subject?”

A few beats passed. “Yes.” He appeared deep in thought a moment, a line forming between his eyes. “But only because I don’t want to hear about how you usually start a date. Or end a date. Or anything even remotely in that neighborhood.”

Warmth spread in Rita’s belly. “Okay, then.”

“Okay, then.” With a shoulder roll, Jasper picked up his own menu. “I have to tell you, I’m kind of nervous taking a chef out for a meal. Are you obligated to storm the kitchen if you don’t like the food?”

“Yes, it’s part of the oath we take,” she answered with a straight face, but she couldn’t quite hold it. “What is the best thing on the menu? I’m not in a storming mood tonight.”

“Chicken milanese.”

“Done.”

Rita had to admit the restaurant had atmosphere. Slow, pumping mood music. Dim lighting, clusters of candles placed strategically around the seating area. The tables were spaced far apart, unlike in San Diego, where diners were usually crammed in due to high rents and limited space. Turnover had always been key at Wayfare. But not here, apparently. The waitstaff appeared just as relaxed as the customers, some of them even sneaking sips of red wine in the waiter station. Miriam would have appreciated the casual setting, although she never allowed alcohol until the final dish was sent out.

The reminder of her mother and the restaurant she’d loved broke Rita’s smile, but she attempted to shake herself when Jasper reached across the table and ran his thumb down the side of her cheek. “I’d love to know what you’re thinking about.”

She stared to say Nothing, but saying that about her mother felt eminently wrong, so the truth tumbled out instead. “My mother. She ran a very different restaurant. I ran it, too, for a while.” Her hands were itching for something to do again, so she traced the base of her wineglass. “Wayfare.”

Jasper said the name silently to himself. “I like that name. Why aren’t you running it now?”

“It burned down.”

“Shit.” His double take was comical. “I’m real sorry, Rita. When?”

Pressure built in her rib cage, memories of flames dancing and roaring up the walls. “Last week.”

For a few seconds, Jasper showed no reaction to that news. It was clear he was stunned at how recently the incident had occurred, but something chaotic was playing out behind his blue eyes, making the muscle in his cheek tick. Rita wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it was. Or maybe she wanted to know every detail. “Were you working when it happened?” When she nodded slowly, he cursed, falling back in his chair. “I’m feeling ill over that, beautiful.”

Light pinged between the pulse points of her body. “Don’t be. It’s—I’m—fine.”

Jasper looked her over as if deciding whether to believe her, his expression serious. “Is that why you don’t want to cook anymore?”

“Who said I—” Then she remembered the flashback in Rosemary’s kitchen. The way she’d frozen up, unable to perform even the simplest of tasks. Until now, she hadn’t recalled saying those words to Jasper—that she didn’t want to cook anymore. But she knew she’d meant them. Knew she didn’t want to be less than extraordinary anymore. Less than Miriam.

“Hey.” Jasper raked an impatient hand through his hair, appearing irritated with himself. “I didn’t mean to pry like that. I’d just been wondering why someone talented enough to graduate culinary school and run a restaurant…wouldn’t want to do what they love anymore.”

Her throat beginning to feel singed, Rita sipped from her water glass. She wanted to let it all pour out. Talent, ha! Questionable at best. I don’t even know if I ever loved it. But she held back, afraid if she let those secrets go, somehow, somewhere, her mother would hear them and weep. The way she must have been inwardly weeping all those years when Rita couldn’t rise to the occasion. “What about you, Jasper? What do you love?”

The debate between letting her change the subject and pressing for more took place on his handsome face, interspersed with flickering candlelight. But then her question seemed to sink in—and it sank low. “I love people. Family.” He reached for his beer. “But I’m not sure I love any one thing. Nothing lasting like you had.” A beat passed as he scrutinized Rita. “You love Wayfare even though it’s gone. It’s in the way you say it.”

Had she really tried to write this man off as some no-account, revamped McConaughey? She would consider the possibility that he might be reading her thoughts—if her thoughts were clear enough to be legible. “You have to love something. What about the bar?”