Page 27 of Challenged By You
“That’s huge, Trina. What did she say?”
Wary, I ask, “Are we on or off the record?”
Gleaming brown eyes narrow. “You tell me.” A tick begins as he clenches his jaw.
“Jonas, I don’t know you. Not really,” I state warily. And something inside me relaxes as his jaw softens.
“You’re starting to.”
“Perhaps.” I shrug, not giving credence to the way my heart’s hammering inside my chest.
“Jonas Rice. Thirty-five. Fraternal twin. Grew up in New York. Food critic. Developing an affection for a borough I didn’t know much about and for dessert.” He holds out his hand.
I take it. Despite having cooked for this man—once in my own apartment, for Christ’s sake—there’s a bolt of lightning that shoots through me. “Trina Paxton. Thirty. Grew up in New York. Executive pastry chef for Seduction New York.”
“And you’re the mother of twins,” he tacks on.
I jerk my hand back before answering, “Yes. Although I’d prefer if their names aren’t mentioned in print.”
Hurt descends on his handsome face. “Do you think I send my reviews to just anyone, Trina?”
Heart hammering, I stammer, “Well, no.”
“Then trust me the way I’m beginning to trust you.” Before I can reply, Jonas flips open the notebook. “Let’s begin. If you could sit down with one chef—living or dead—who would it be?”
Taken aback, because I expected him to ask me about how I became a chef, I blurt out, “Charles Joughin.”
Jonas demands, “Who the hell’s that?”
“He was the chief baker on theTitanic. He survived the ship sinking. I’d love to sit down with him and find out what his expertise was. They talk about him serving on all these ships—especially theTitanic—but never what his specialty was. I’d love to know and then to be tutored in the old ways of baking. As chefs today, we’re spoiled by convenience.”
“I notice you don’t mention speaking with him about his time on theTitanic,” Jonas notes, as he scribbles on his pad.
“All of us live with pain of one kind or another from our past. Why pry it out of someone? If they’re willing to tell you, they will,” I state simply.
Our eyes clash over the aqua tablecloth. We’re not the critic and the chef; we’re just a man and a woman. “Can I come over for dinner on your next day off?” he asks.
“Is that an official interview question?”
“Not in any way imaginable. I want the chance to get to know you. Not the list of questions I have here”—he taps the pad again—“but the woman who slices pancakes in triangles.”
“Because it’s more fun than squares,” I answer automatically.
A devastating smile crosses Jonas’s face. “How about it, Chef? I’ll even order García’s.”
“That’s not fair,” I groan.
He scoots forward until our arms are brushing. Even through my chef’s jacket, through his blazer, I can still feel the warmth exuding from his body. “I like you,” he tells me bluntly. “There’s something about you that makes me want to get to know you better.”
“It’s not just me who’d be there,” I remind him.
Much to my surprise, he asks, “Is there a specific time to get there so I don’t interrupt any nighttime routine you have with Chris and Annie?”
“Dated a woman with children before?”
“Remember, Chelsea has three kids, and she’s meticulous about things like bath and bedtime. When Julian and I come to visit, we wreak havoc on that,” he announces proudly.
“She must be ready to stab you,” I deadpan.
