For crying out loud, what was she thinking? How had she let this man—a perfect stranger, one who wasn’t from around here—talk her into letting him have carte blanche in her restaurant? Louisiana Kitchen was hers now, whether she had wanted it or not, and no northern boy with a crooked grin, twinkling blue eyes, and far, far too many bulging muscles was going to bully his way into her kitchen.
Wait—that was exactly what he’d done.
Okay, maybe he hadn’t bullied, precisely. He’d simply smiled. She thought she did a reasonable job of hiding it, but that wicked half grin had sent her mind straight to the gutter—rather, the bedroom. It had the same effect on Mrs. Henry, too. Neither woman had been thinking about Cajun food, at least not for a few minutes anyway. If Emily Kate had been thinking of food at all, it would have been melted chocolate, the kind that could be licked off what she knew without a single doubt were six-pack abs. Did he have that sexy v-shaped muscle on his hips, the one leading into the waistband of his jeans, directing the admirer toward a certain other muscle that ...?
He was exactly the sort of man her brother had been warning her away from for practically her entire life. “Never trust a guy with a charming smile,” Jack told her so many times she lost count before she was eighteen. And eighteen had been quite a while ago. “I’m one of those type of guys,” he had explained as he stabbed his thumb at his chest. “And I know what they want. And I’ll kick any guy’s ass who takes advantage of you like that.”
Emily Kate had taken her brother’s advice to heart, and as was the story of her life, she’d done exactly as she was supposed to. On the rare occasion she dated at all, the men were always good boys, always bland and boring and nothing at all like either Jack or Connor.
Her life had been boring and bland for twenty-seven years. The worst part was, when she’d finally tried to break out of her straight-and-narrow mold and attempted to chase her dreams, tried to make a living on her artwork, her grandfather had up and died, leaving the restaurant and his house to her. Just her. He had myriad other grandchildren, and he’d left it all to her alone.
“Why me?” she’d asked when her father had shown her a copy of the will.
“Who knows what that crazy old coot was thinking?” her father had said at the time. “But you have to admit, the timing’s perfect.”
In his eyes, perhaps. No one in her family had approved of her decision to leave corporate America to focus on her artwork. None of them understood her need to be creative, to paint, to pour out her emotions using color on canvas. Being an accountant at a food processing plant was anything but creative, and Emily Kate had felt freer than ever before in her life when she’d given her notice and walked out of that place for the last time, over a year ago. She’d barely been out of the work force three months when she found herself thrust into the role of restaurant owner, a position that required far more time than her accounting job ever did. She felt a pang when she realized she hadn’t lifted a paintbrush in over two weeks.
Pierre had been a great chef, but that’s all he’d done—cook food. She placed all the orders, took inventory, hired staff, and managed the rest of the restaurant. She knew from talking to other restaurant owners and managers that Pierre should have shared those responsibilities, but he’d never exhibited any interest, and she’d been too afraid to ask, for fear he would do exactly what he’d done tonight.
Even as she’d struggled to reign in the chaos as the restaurant fell to pieces earlier this evening, in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help but think, What if I let it?
What if she let her grandfather’s fifty-year reputation as an excellent restaurateur go straight down the toilet? What if she lost so much business, she’d be forced to close the doors? What if she let everyone believe they’d been wrong about her, that she really couldn’t handle it?
Would they finally let her paint? Would they finally leave her alone, let her find her own way in life?
She would never know, now. Connor Rikeland had shown up, charmed his way into her kitchen, impressed the hell out of her guests, and quite literally saved the day. She should be thrilled. She supposed she was relieved, because truly, disappointing her family—and, frankly, her customers—was one thing Emily Kate hated even more than her inability to find enough time to paint. But a small part of her was disappointed, too.
Because, damn it, she wanted to paint. She wanted to lose herself in the fantasy world she created on the canvas, to let the stresses of life seep away with each stroke of the brush. Painting was soothing, calming, comforting. It was her escape. And she hadn’t had much escapism lately.
After the last customers left on the heels of rave compliments for the to-die-for roast duck with crawfish-cornbread stuffing, Emily Kate locked the front door and flipped the switch on the neon sign so the word OPEN stopped glowing. Finally, the hard part was done.
She checked with the wait staff, made sure they were prepping properly for the following day, and then headed back to the kitchen. She wanted to both congratulate her new chef and kick him out and tell him never to come back again. She doubted there would be any painting anytime in the near future. A new chef meant training and learning his nuances, his expectations. What he would and would not do to help in the success of the restaurant on a day-to-day basis.
He glanced up from wiping off the gleaming stainless steel prep counter, and she was once again bowled over by those fantastic blue eyes. Wasn’t there an old actor who was famous for his gorgeous blue eyes? She might have to look him up on Netflix, if she could ever find a couple hours to spare. That probably wasn’t going to happen, though. If she did find a couple hours of downtime, she’d rather spend it with brush in hand, painting those intriguing eyes instead of watching them on television.
“I let Andre go home,” Connor commented. “Hope that was okay. Poor guy looked like he was ready to pass out on his feet.”
“I usually send him home around nine, but tonight ...”
“I understand. The dishwasher was done, so I sent him home. Pedro’s emptying the grease traps, and then I told him he could go, too.”
“Oh. Right. Thanks.”
“So? What do you think?” He gave her an expectant look, as if he honestly cared about her opinion and maybe was a little nervous about what she might say. It was a strange contrast to the confident man who had strode into her restaurant and taken over.
She looked around at the sparkling clean kitchen. “I think ... wow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kitchen this clean. Not even when I was a kid.”
Connor grinned. “Thanks. So the restaurant’s been in your family for a while?”
“Fifty years. The original building had been destroyed by fire, and the owners didn’t want to rebuild. My mamaw and papaw bought the land for a steal and built this place. Not much has changed, except the ownership.”
“Mamaw and papaw?”
Emily Kate smiled. “I believe you northerners refer to them as grandparents.”
“Ah. So when did you take over?”
“About a year ago, when Papaw died.”
“What happened?”
“It was sudden. A heart attack. Mamaw tended to the funeral proceedings, handed the will to my dad, and then moved in with her best girlfriend, down in Natchitoches, who had lost her husband just a few months prior. Now they play bridge and golf and couldn’t be happier.” Why was she telling him these details? She’d dated men for months without telling them this much about her family. She didn’t even know this guy.
“So if jambalaya is the only dish you do well, why did you take over the restaurant?”
Stalling, she stepped closer to the shining prep station and peered at the notepad lying there.
“Oh, I took the liberty of doing inventory and making a shopping list. I’m not sure I got all the spices right, though. Cajun is definitely different from what I’m used to.”
She stared down at the list. The letters were small, precise, and all caps. Strong, solid handwriting.
“You took inventory?” she repeated, her brain apparently unable to process this fact.
“Yeah, well, it was part of my duties at my old restaurant. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“Thanks,” she said, and then she shook herself out of her shocked stupor. Her resentment was not his problem. “I mean it. Thanks. You really did save me tonight. We haven’t discussed pay.”
Connor shrugged. “Whatever you were paying your last chef is fine. It’s better than what I was making six hours ago.” He grimaced.
“I tried almost everything that came out of this kitchen tonight. It was all divine. How is it you didn’t have a job? You should be over at one of the casinos, impressing the high-stakes gamblers.”
The most peculiar look crawled across his face, and the fine hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. What was he not telling her? Had he accidentally poisoned a customer at some point? Did he steal from his last employer? Had she just hired a criminal?
“I’ll tell you if you tell me,” he said.
“Tell you what?”
“Why you’re running this restaurant, presumably alone, when you claim to not be able to cook.”
“Oh.” She sucked in a breath. “Uh ...”
He nodded as if she’d agreed to his terms and then said, “I walked out of my last job. The owner wouldn’t make me executive chef, and the ones he kept hiring were lousy. It was an insult to my abilities. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
Relief flooded her system. No poisoning or other such dangerous reason that might mean she should not offer him gainful employment on a permanent basis. The relief was twofold, actually, because if he took inventory, cleaned the entire kitchen, and managed the staff every day the way he had tonight, Emily Kate might—just might—be able to steal precious time for herself once in a while. She squeezed her hands at her sides, wishing she had a paintbrush at that very second. Connor made an attractive picture, standing behind the sparkling stainless steel counter, palms pressed against the cool surface, chef’s coat still on but unbuttoned, the black chef’s hat perched on his head at a jaunty angle, a row of kitchen utensils hanging on the wall behind him.
The Chef, she wanted to name the imaginary painting she could see as clearly as if she’d already put brush to canvas.
“Well?” His look implied that he really wanted to know why she now owned Louisiana Kitchen.
She hesitated, insecurities bred from her family constantly harassing her to “find a real job” creeping up on her, like they always did. Would Connor be like all the rest and tell her painting wasn’t a real career, that she should be grateful her grandfather had willed the restaurant to her?
She cleared her throat and said, “I, uh, didn’t have a job when Papaw passed on. It was—the timing was perfect, I guess.” No it wasn’t. It had been lousy. If he’d waited until she had established herself as an artist, Emily Kate could have justified selling the restaurant or being a silent partner while she let someone else run it. She hated this feeling—the frustration, followed by guilt—because in truth, she had loved her papaw, and would prefer that he was still here, whether he was running the restaurant or not.
Connor cocked his head and studied her. “You don’t sound like you believe the timing was perfect.”
Damn. She’d known the man for only a handful of hours, and he could see right through her. She needed to work on her acting skills.
“I’m tired. It’s been an exhausting evening. Before you walked in the door, I was cooking and trying to keep the peace while my customers all complained about the lack of choices on the menu.” That, at least, was the God’s honest truth.
He nodded. “I understand, even though I’m the opposite. Believe it or not, cooking is stress relief for me. And immensely satisfying. Especially when people tell me I’m amazing.”
Damn, she liked his crooked smile, despite her building resentment. Not only had the guy saved the evening, but he was living his own dream by doing it. Lucky jerk.
“Well, despite the rather unorthodox way in which you started working here, I suppose it’s a good thing it happened. And I guess I should officially offer you a permanent position. How does executive chef sound?”
He cupped the back of his neck, and she watched another almost pained expression flit across his face.
“That sounds great, actually. Now I just have to find a place to crash.”
“You don’t live around here?” He’d told the Henrys he had trained in New Orleans, but his accent was clearly not southern. And Uncertain, Texas, was small enough that she would have known if an attractive man like Connor had moved to town.
He shook his head. “Nope. I don’t suppose there’s a motel or something where I can crash until I find a more permanent place?”
She chuckled. “Not without a bit of a drive. I guess you didn’t realize how far out in the sticks we are. It’s about thirty minutes to Marshall, but there’s really nothing in between.”
He studied the notepad upon which he’d written a list of items she needed to order. The silence stretched for so long, Emily Kate finally cleared her throat and said, “Is something wrong?”
“I, uh ... I lost my wallet. Actually, it was stolen. Today. Earlier, before I got here.”
“Oh, no. Have you called to cancel your credit cards and notified the police?”
“I guess I should do that. But the more immediate issue is that I have no cash or an ID.” He frowned. “Or even a credit card, which, most hotels in my experience need when you check in.”
She had always assumed her propensity to believe most people were innately good was a positive trait, although opening her mouth and inviting her new chef, a man she’d only known for a few hours, to crash at her place might qualify as a tad over the top.
“You don’t have to do that,” he immediately responded when she offered.
“I know I don’t have to. But I want to. It’s fine. My house has three bedrooms, but I obviously only use one of them. They both have beds, and my previous guests have said they’re pretty comfortable. Seriously. I don’t mind. I—” He cut off her ramblings.
“Why are you so nervous?”
She blew out a sigh and twined her fingers together. “I’m sorry. I’m just ... it’s just ... Thank you. Seriously. You saved me tonight. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t shown up when you did. Mrs. Henry is one of those types who tells everyone everything. Now, instead of telling everyone that my restaurant sucks, she’s hopefully telling them about my wonderful new chef.” She smiled to try to give the impression she was teasing. In truth, Mrs. Henry was probably telling all her girlfriends how hot Emily Kate’s new chef was.
Hey, maybe she’d see a boost in business tomorrow. She shook her head at her own quick change of heart. How easily she was swayed by the potential to be successful at what everyone else expected of her. Although it was more than that. With Connor managing her kitchen, she had renewed hope the restaurant would no longer consume her. If she had time to balance her artwork with Louisiana Kitchen, maybe she wouldn’t be so resentful of her family’s attempt to help her.
He studied her, those blue eyes intense. “You can quit thanking me now.”
She shook her head. “No, really, I can’t. I mean, I don’t know what I would have done ...”
“It’s okay. Cooking is my passion. It’s what I love to do. And it just so happens I’m good at it. Bonus for me.” He flashed that crooked grin again, and along with the surge of lust, Emily Kate felt a stab of jealousy that he was able to do what he loved and make a living at it.
“Bonus for me, actually,” she heard herself say, and Connor chuckled, a deep, rich laugh that heated that part of her body that warmed every time he smiled. If just his smile and laugh made her hot, she really, really needed to dust off her dating skills and see about making an attempt at not spending every night alone.
The door swung open and Sarah, one of the servers, popped her head into the kitchen. “We’re all set, Emily Kate. Want to do the walk-through so we can get out of here?”
“Of course.” Emily Kate glanced at Connor. “I’ll just—I have to—” She felt her cheeks warm as she realized she was stuttering.
Connor smiled. “I’ll be here when you’re done,” he promised, and she rushed into the dining room.
Ten minutes later, she was alone in the kitchen with Connor, and he did not seem to be in any hurry to leave.
“Do you, uh, want to have a quick drink before we call it a night?” she asked awkwardly. “A toast to your new job?”
Connor took off the black chef’s hat that once belonged to Pierre and hung it on a hook near the back door. Then he slipped off the chef’s coat and hung it next to the hat, running his hands through his hair, sending the dark spikes into sexy disarray.
“I’ll take you up on the offer of a drink, but no toasting,” he said as he walked around the prep station and followed her from the kitchen.
He sat on a stool while she crouched down behind the bar to study the choice of wine bottles lying in the rack underneath it.
“I noticed the wine list,” he commented. “Pretty impressive collection for this kind of place.”
“What kind of place is that?” Emily Kate asked as she pulled open the cooler door and selected a Sauvignon Blanc from Napa Valley.
“Small town. Local. Tucked away. I don’t imagine you get a lot of tourists out here. I’ve never heard of Uncertain, Texas, before.”
She expertly pulled the cork and poured chilled wine into two glasses. “How did you end up here anyway?”
“I got lost. All those canals. Bayous. Whatever. I had no clue where I was going.” He accepted the glass and sipped.
She smiled. “They all have markers. Didn’t you see the little green arrows?”
“I’m a guy. We don’t ask for directions. Even from little green arrows. So feed my ego. What did the guests say about my dishes?”
“Nothing but praise,” she assured him, and she lifted her glass in toast, despite his earlier request. “I’m hoping you’ll write down your recipes. There were a couple of dishes I’d like to run on special on a regular basis.”
He grinned. “Only if you name them something like ‘Connor’s Catfish’ in my honor.”
“It’s a deal,” she assured him as she sipped cool wine. “This restaurant has developed a reputation over the years. Caddo Lake is a huge fishing lake, and there are a fair number of fishing and other watersports events in the area that help boost our sales a couple times a year. Mostly, though, we survive on our reputation. Which is why you truly did save me tonight. Oh, and my papaw always said a good glass of wine could make any dish great. Hence, the solid wine list.”
“I see.” He chuckled then slid his empty glass across the counter. “Why don’t you put that bottle in a chiller and come over here and sit with me?”
It sounded like a come on, but she wasn’t certain. For the last year, she’d done almost nothing but eat, sleep, and run the restaurant. She couldn’t even recall the last date she’d been on. Probably because it had been with some boring, safe guy from her job at the food processing plant.
Hell, it had been so long since she’d been in the dating game, for all she knew, Connor was just trying to leech a free bottle of wine off her. Still, he was easy on the eyes, she enjoyed talking to him, and he had saved her tonight. One bottle of wine was the least she could offer. So she refilled both glasses, placed the bottle into a ceramic chiller, and walked around the bar to slide onto a stool next to him.
Connor twisted the chiller, admiring the picture painted onto the ceramic. “Cool pic,” he commented as he sipped more wine. “I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“You say that like you painted it.”
“I did, actually.”
His eyebrows arched in a look of surprise, and she worked hard not to grow defensive. He knew nothing about her outside the fact she ran the restaurant, so why would he not be taken by surprise that she painted, too?
“Looks similar in style to some of the stuff on the walls,” he commented, his gaze traveling around the room.
“That’s because I painted those, too. Most of them, anyway.” She held her breath, anticipating a negative comment.
That’s not a real job, Emily Kate. You have a head for math. You should be an accountant. Paying the bills was important, of course, but so was feeling a sense of pride in one’s work, and she had never felt that a single day she had spent at the food processing facility.
Connor let out a low whistle. “Your jambalaya wasn’t bad at all. But your paintings are pretty damn cool. You definitely have talent.” He sounded sincere. Emily Kate felt her face heat and her insides go all gooey.
“Really?” Suddenly, she was that thirteen-year-old kid again, desperate for her art teacher’s praise, disappointed when, at parent-teacher conferences, her parents had poo-pooed the teacher’s earnest opinion she should be enrolled in a creative arts institute because her talent was real, if raw, at the time.
Connor ran his fingers over the design painted on the ceramic wine holder. “It’s beautiful. They all are. Did you ever think about painting for a living?”
The burst of laughter was out before she could contain it, earning a curious look from her companion. Has she ever thought about it? Only a thousand times a day.
“It’s not a very logical, safe, financially secure way of living.”
“Sounds like someone’s been working to convince you to ignore your dreams.”
She shrugged. Now was not the time to wallow in bitterness. She didn’t want to ruin the mood, the crackle of sexual tension in the air. “What about you? How did you end up in the restaurant business?”
“My parents divorced when I was twelve. Mom stayed in Detroit and retained custody of me and my sister, while Dad took off to sell real estate in Arizona—which means really, he played golf all day with the secretary he left my mom for. My mom’s a teacher, and there never seemed to be enough money for all the stupid shit I wanted when I was a kid. When I was fourteen, I lied about my age to get a job as a dishwasher in a local restaurant. Fell in love with every aspect of it. Never considered doing anything else.”
“That’s like a fairy tale.” She couldn’t keep the jealousy out of her voice.
He gave her a sideways glance. “Not really. I had to work my ass off. And in the end, it still hasn’t paid off. I never got the executive chef job I’ve coveted for eight years now.”
“You have it now.” She lifted her glass in salute before taking a sip.
He did not acknowledge her comment. “So, you manage a restaurant, occasionally even cooking in said restaurant, and you’re an artist. What else? Is there a boyfriend vying for your time in there somewhere?”
Emily Kate laughed. Was Blue Eyes seriously hitting on her? And if he was, what did she intend to do about it? She gave him a small smile.
“I can’t even find time to paint, let alone nurture a relationship. The only thing that’s kept me busy this past year is this restaurant.”
“Sounds lonely.” Connor lifted the wine bottle and topped off their glasses.
“It can be.” She twisted the stem, staring at the golden liquid gently lapping at the bowl of the glass.
“It doesn’t have to be.”
Her gaze snapped up and settled on his face. He watched her steadily, the look in his eye serious. After a moment’s pause, he reached over, trailed his fingers over her arm. She shivered and dropped her lashes over her eyes to watch his hand.
“I think we should continue this party back at your place.”