Too Hot to Handle (Romancing the Clarksons #1)(49)

They cracked the egg together, releasing the yolk into a bowl as Jasper breathed against the top of her head. In, out. Rita finally found the courage to speak after the second egg was cracked into the bowl. “Would you mind bringing out some nutmeg and sugar from the kitchen?” she asked Jasper, craving some breathing room before addressing the ladies. “We’ll get the mixture done out here, then I’ll bring you to the kitchen in groups to lay your french toast on the griddle.”

That was all it took to get her audience chattering, their spoons tapping along the insides of metal bowls, eggs cracking along with jokes between friends. On his way into the kitchen, Jasper turned and glanced back at Rita, but she quickly averted her gaze.

After the time they’d spent together, how could he not have realized being propelled back into the fire would only cause the opposite of progress? And who said she wanted to make any progress at all where cooking was concerned? She’d been prepared to move on, happy never to pick up a kitchen utensil again, until being blindsided by this presumptuous surprise party. Jasper’s doing.

God, the smells, the sounds of food being prepared were throwing her back to the Wayfare kitchen, flames ripping up the walls, eating up any evidence of her pathetic career. Her live-television flameout. Miriam’s quietly patient voice echoing past. Was that smoke filling her nose—or just a hallucination? Deep breaths. She would get through this. She would.

Hurt was an ugly thing, though, and it wouldn’t stop rearing its ugly head, looking for something to swallow. Someone to bring down with it. Perhaps Rita had kept the pain at bay too long and it had grown too much to control. There was a voice telling her to calm down before making any rash decisions, but it was drowned out by the ceaseless acknowledgment of bitter disappointment. All her willpower was going into staying put, going through the motions without breaking down, so she didn’t listen to the voice.





Chapter Twenty-Three



You done fucked up now.

Leaving Rita this morning, Jasper had known he needed to do something big. He’d never been a party to the kind of beauty Rita had thrown at him on that mesa. Setting aside her own insecurities to patch up someone else’s. His. Going a long way in doing it, too, if the new confidence he was experiencing told the tale. Maybe Jasper could fit in a thimble what he knew about a woman’s mind, but a man stepped up to the goddamn plate and made an impression when necessary. Of that he was certain.

And Rita was synonymous with the word necessary.

Unfortunately—as they entered hour two of Rita refusing to look at him—he’d stepped up to the plate and hit a foul ball. Even worse? A million times worse? She looked shaky as hell. Horses-trotting-over-a-rope-bridge shaky. In a way that made Jasper think he might have done serious harm trying to push cooking on Rita. His aim had been to remind her why she loved working in the kitchen. He’d wanted his kitchen to make the difference. His presence beside her. She’d made him feel worth a damn, and he’d been compelled to use that gift she’d bestowed.

Yeah, there was even a part of Jasper that had let him believe the impossible. That he could make Rita think twice about getting back on the road. But the distance in her eyes told Jasper he’d been a fool. It also made him want to carry her home, climb into his bathtub with her, and just rock.

If she could just see herself through his eyes in that moment. She moved between groups, giving helpful instructions and smiling patiently, even though it took obvious effort for her to be positive and upbeat. She was good. Really damn good. Her hands were so nimble, the movements of her wrist as she whisked so natural. If he didn’t think it would earn him a black eye, he would have told her. Beautiful, I could watch you move in this kitchen for around a hundred years and never get bored.

And hell if he wouldn’t mean it.

When all was said and done, the demonstration, plus the subsequent cooking and eating of the french toast, took around two and half hours, sending early evening rolling in, about an hour from the staff’s arrival. Animated conversations flared between each bite, probably making it last twice as long as necessary, but Rita didn’t rush, saying thank you when the women remained behind to help clean, hang utensils and pans back in their rightful spots.

Jasper worried that Rita might make an immediate break for the door once the last senior lady left, but he forced himself not to accost her, knowing it might be too late for patience but trying anyway by waiting in his office. Pacing the floor like a man awaiting sentencing. But when Rita walked into the doorway of his office, locking seductive eyes with him for the first time in hours, Jasper’s sentence became clear. And despite the denial his brain shaped on cue, his pulse began to thrum with answering male hunger.

“Rita, please sit down so we can talk.”

She sauntered into his office, releasing the bun she’d fashioned before entering the kitchen earlier. It sent glossy black hair spilling over her shoulders, curling at the ends. Curls that would catch around his fingertips, snag in his thigh hair. Jasper expected her to sit in the chair opposite his desk, but she kept coming, strutting right into the space between his outstretched legs, propping both hands on his tense shoulders and leaning down to speak a breath away from his mouth. “I’m done talking.”

Jasper knew exactly what Rita was doing. Seduction as a form of revenge. He’d stripped her of a protective layer this afternoon and, hell, he deserved this. Deserved to have his own weakness amplified. But Rita wasn’t shaking anymore. At least not in the terrified way. Her poise was back, and he hated the very idea of taking it away from her.