Page 35 of Sexy as Sin
“Surprising nobody. And yet you’re sharing with me.” The tea she’d poured earlier was done steeping, and she brought him a mug. “Chai Rooibos, plus some extras. Nettles and willow bark. I put in some honey to make it go down easier. Settles your stomach and strengthens your immune system. If it tastes disgusting, drink it anyway. I left you some in the cabinet. Three times a day would be a good idea.”
“Thank you,” he said, accepting the mug from her. “And you shared with me, too. You shared the hard stuff.”
She stood stock-still, feeling crispy around the edges with embarrassment. “I didn’t think you remembered.”
“It’s come back. Bits and pieces. Your parents died in a plane crash, and you had to move to Australia and live with your aunt and uncle. I don’t think that was a dream. I think you said it. I also think it may have broken your heart in all sorts of ways.”
She had to swallow. “They did. I did.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gentle. “That’s rough.”
Why did this hurt so much? It was so long ago. How could he put his finger right on the tender spot, and take her straight back to that bereft, anxious, endlessly awkward period, where she’d fit in nowhere and with nobody, and she’d been all gawky arms and legs, mad ginger hair, a too-large mouth, and confusion? “Heaps of things are rough. Your dad died as well. I reckon we both know all about that.”
His face went still, and she thought,Too far. She knew what that pain felt like when it was pressed down deep and covered over by those layers. The ache would be vague, but it would still hurt.My father drowned in a river,he’d said.I was there. Thirty years ago.He’d been about the same age she had when her own parents had died, she guessed. Eleven or twelve, maybe. And he hadn’t had a big, warm family to take him in. A grieving mother, surely, because his father would have been like him. A man didn’t turn out like this by accident. Too much pain, too much loneliness, and too much responsibility assumed too young. The kind of thing that left scar tissue and, if you were a certain type of man, a burning determination to climb out of where you were to someplace better.
How did she know? She just did. She went back to the pot of chickpeas, added her vegetables, parsley, cilantro, and crushed tomatoes, dusted it with a liberal sprinkling of salt, and went to work on his overnight French toast while everything cooked. More protein, and more soul satisfaction, she hoped. She wouldn’t be here to caramelize the bananas, which was a pity, but she’d leave him a berry medley and a bit of mascarpone cheese to put on top.
“Tell me more about what you’re making me,” he said. Changing the subject.
“Harira. Moroccan chickpea and vegetable soup. They use it to break the fast during Ramadan, so you see, it has to be easy on the tummy. I’ll put in some angel-hair pasta and fresh spinach at the end along with the lemon and egg. Comfort food of the very best kind, especially when you’ve been in hospital.”
“The taste of your childhood. Thank you. Sounds great. Where did you learn to do all this?”
She kept her hands busy and her voice calm. “The soup? I spent heaps of time in the kitchen as a kid. Older parents, no siblings, servants, moving every couple years. The kitchen’s always the best room in the house, isn’t it? And cooks are some of my favorite people.”
“Depends on the house, I suppose. Mine tends to be on the sterile side, probably. And you had parents who loved each other first.” Her hands stilled at last, and he said, “Good memory, I’m afraid. And then what?”
She shrugged. “I liked cooking best, that’s all. Ask Rafe what kinds of experiments I subjected the family to.”
“And...”
“And. Because it was the way I could... contribute, I suppose.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.” He did see, and she knew how he’d felt earlier, because somehow, they saw each others’ hearts. He knew about always being an outsider, and then coming into a family that wasn’t quite yours, a country that felt so alien. About trying to pitch in, to help however you could, never quite sure if they wanted you or were only doing their duty.
Too long ago. Over and gone. Rainbows and unicorns.“So I kept on with it,” she said. “Lucky to find what I loved to do so young, really, and to have a clear direction. No Uni for me. I went straight from school to the Cordon Bleu.”
“Where? Paris?”
She smiled. “Nah. Brisbane. Two years. I used half of what my parents had left, because it’s pricey. Lived with my aunt and uncle while Jace was off at the wars and Rafe was in Hollywood. Told myself it would be worth it someday. So far, it hasn’t made my fortune, but you never know. I have a Diplome de Cuisineanda Diplome de Patisserie, so you’re suitably impressed, and suitably inclined to pay me a ridiculous amount of money to make your dinner. French cooking with Aussie flair, that’s the idea. You learn how to do posh things eventually, though not at first. The first three months, it feels like half the class drops out. You’ve never been as humbled as you’ll be at culinary school, but you do learn. I learned that I really do love to cook.” The smile came easier now. “Luckily for you.”
“Definitely luckily for me. And after that?”
“I worked in restaurants, as one does, posh ones, moved up, and learned some more. Five years of that. Changed to working for a caterer, then, and liked it better, because I got to use more of my own ideas and to talk to the clients, put together their dream menu instead of sending something out of the kitchen to an anonymous table. Besides, top jobs in restaurants are still pretty blokey in Oz. And now I’m here, and wishing I’d done some Uni after all. Taken some business classes.”
“Business is common sense, mostly,” he said.
“But you still went to school for it.”
“Only for a couple years, I’m afraid. What I’m good at? I follow my nose, and I sell. Selling was my ticket off the mill floor back then, and it still is. The only education that makes you better at those things is learning the art of paying attention.”
“To what?”
“People.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“Well, there’s some math involved,” he acknowledged. “But mostly? It’s seeing what people like, what they respond to, and not being afraid to trust your intuition and jump, because that’s where it’s coming from. It’s listening, and I’m a good listener. You should try me sometime. Right now, you could tell me whether your partner ever answered you about the books.”
