Anything for You (Blue Heron #5)(14)

There was a whole lot of history in that statement, and Connor was wise enough not to answer right away.

“If it makes you feel any better,” he said, “you were always Jessica Doesn’t where I was concerned.”

She laughed, surprised, and looked at him. He smiled.

She shifted her gaze back to the river. “Do you remember the time you said I could punch you? After Chico bit you?”

He blinked. “Yes.”

“That...” She straightened up and looked at him. “That meant a lot to me.”

Hell’s bells. The wind howled down the river, gusting into the bridge.

She looked away. “I’m freezing.”

“Let me walk you back to the hotel,” he said. Nice going, he told himself. She gave you an opening and you stood there like a tree.

They didn’t hold hands on the way back, and though the wind was bitter and the smell of creosote from the railroad tracks was sharp, Connor was awfully sorry when they got to the lobby.

“I hope you have a good time tonight,” he said as she took off his coat and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” she said. She just looked at him for a long minute, her clear green eyes as mysterious as the dark side of the moon. For a second, he thought she might just turn and walk away.

But then she said, “Yes, by the way.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, I’d love to have dinner with you.”

God was smiling on him, that was for sure. He grinned and let her lead the way to the dining room.

“Connor O’Rourke,” said Francine, the restaurant hostess, a fiftysomething-year-old woman who had flirted with him all last summer, “what are you doing back here?”

“Francine, this is my friend Jessica. She’s a guest at the hotel.”

“Very nice to meet you, Jessica. I hope everything is to your liking.”

“Everything is wonderful,” she said.

“Table for two?” she asked.

And here was the thing about being a good-looking, amiable guy who always had time to flirt with the restaurant hostess. It got you the best table in the house, in front of the fireplace. And being a hard-working sous-chef who’d tolerated the rages and hissy fits of his stereotypical French boss got them a visit from the self-same diva, who came out to their table to greet them and sent over a bottle of wine and a lobster-and-avocado appetizer that wasn’t on the menu.

“Mademoiselle, a pleasure to have you dine at my humble establishment,” Raoul said, bending over her hand, and Jess smiled at him then raised an eyebrow at Connor.

“You always get treated like this?” she asked him. Raoul still held on to her hand.

“I think you’re the one who’s getting treated like this. Watch out for Raoul,” he said, separating the chef’s hand from hers. “He loves beautiful women.”

“Ah, it’s true, it’s true,” Raoul said, completely charming. “My wife, she suffers, but what can she do? She throws things and screams, then I cook for her, she is helpless in the face of my great talent, and everything is happy again. Mademoiselle—Jessica, if I may? Jessica, I would love to cook for you, just the two of us—”

“The kitchen needs you, Raoul.” Connor smiled at his old boss. “Go. I smell a filet being cooked well-done.”

“Mon Dieu,” Raoul said. He bowed again to Jess, then winked at Connor, and then they were alone again.

Jess gave him a small smile then took a tiny sip of wine.

“You don’t drink much,” Connor said.

“I have two alcoholic parents,” she answered mildly. “I’d be stupid to start.”

He nodded.

“So what kind of classes do you take?” she asked, and he told her about the CIA, and what he was good at and where he wasn’t so hot.

“What’s your dream job?” she asked as their dinners were served.

He hesitated. “I’d like to own my own place,” he said.

“Something fancy, like this?”

“No, no. Something small and humble but with great food. Really thoughtful food, you know? Not just burgers and nachos, but with the best burger you’ve ever eaten, nachos with three kinds of cheddar and fresh tomatoes and jalapeños. A place with a really good wine list, and specials based on what was in season and what looked good at the market that day. Nothing frozen or premade, nothing that came shipped in a plastic bag and was offloaded from a trailer, you know?”

Shit. Hugo’s had food that came off a trailer.

But she didn’t take offense. “It sounds good. Where would you do it? Manningsport?”

“Maybe.” He hadn’t really thought about it too much; if he followed the course of most CIA chefs, he’d sous-chef somewhere terribly impressive and uptight for a couple of years, probably in Manhattan or Europe. He was one of the best students in the class. He could go to Paris or Milan or Sydney, easily.

“What about you, Jess? What’s your dream job?”

She took a deep breath. “Oh, I don’t know. Not a waitress. Something where I could make enough to take care of Davey.”

His Catholic guilt shot up into the red zone. “Will he ever be able to...uh...live on his own?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “He’ll always be with me.” She didn’t seem bothered by that in the least.