Page 43 of The Nanny Goal

That seems to avoid the imminent crisis to both of their satisfaction. After considering the raspberries, the now very familiar blueberries, and a package of blackberries, she goes with the trusted blueberries after all.

Alexei takes a few enthusiastic bites of his own food, then puts his fork down. “Tell me about Switzerland.”

I move the mixing bowls to the sink and grab a cloth. “It’s a country in Europe. Lots of mountains.”

“Emery.”

I shrug. “It’s not Minneapolis.”

“You moved home after college?” He asks it like a question, but I think he knows the answer.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He did work with my brother for a year after our hook-up, and Forrest is a talker.

“I missed it,” I hear myself admitting. “Boston was great, but it never felt like home, so I didn’t really want to stay there. And my closest friends on the team and in my program all scattered on the wind.”

“And you went to culinary school.”

“Yep.”

“And now…”

I laugh as he leads me right back to Switzerland, in between bites of pancakes. “And now I want to do more culinary school. The first program was really about the basics. Learning to work on a line, get the foundational knowledge. Skills, techniques, etc.”

“What will you learn in Switzerland?” He pushes his plate away and leans forward.

I go to grab the dish and he waves me off, standing.

“I mean, I’ll learn a lot—plating, recipe development, refinement of skills—but going to Europe is more about the access to a different level of on-the-job training, too.”

He brings his plate around to the dishwasher, then leans his hip against the counter right next to me.

A subtle, warm note of coconut and something else tropical meets my nose, and a memory of unbuttoning his shirt washes over me. How eager I was to get at his bare skin, how out-of-this-world hot he was that night.

Still is, even in basic athletic wear.

“On the job training?”

I jerk my head up.

He’s looking at me, really intently. His hair has mostly dried now, just a few strands still damp. Less obsidian and more like a warm, deep ebony. Very, very touchable.

“Pardon?”

“What kind of on-the-job training can you get there that you can’t get here?”

“It’s…” I swallow hard. “Staging,” I manage to say.

“Stah-zhing?” he repeats, stretching out the unfamiliar word.

“It’s French for like, apprenticing. Short internships or observationships in high-end restaurants. Harder to get as an American without some European training.”

“That’s a new word for me.” Inessa bangs on her tray and he glances over his shoulder, holding up his finger to her.One minute. “Is that what you want to do, work in high-end restaurants?”

“Not forever.” Not exactly, but I’ve never said exactly what I want out loud to anyone. First steps first.

“But it’s the next step.”

I nod.

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