Page 15 of Mistletoe Latte

“Did you get good grades in school?”

She smiled and waved the broccoli stem around. “Ah, yes, a bit.”

“And did they help you get into a good college?” he prompted, watching the fury rise on Skylar’s face.

“Well, sort of. The CIA doesn’t worry about a high GPA as much.”

The…what?

Nick stared at the perfectly sliced-up carrots, her knife moving so fast he couldn’t see.Who did he let into his house?

“You’re a spy? Sweet!” Skylar shouted.

“Oh,” Emma’s face burned bright. “No, not that CIA. The Culinary Institute of Arts.”

“You’re a chef.” Nick sighed in relief. No wonder she knew her way around a kitchen. It all made sense.

Skylar however leaned forward. “That’s exactly what a spy would say.” She could only maintain her serious glare for a second before breaking into a fit of giggles. Emma was quick to join in. The rare ring of laughter echoing through the kitchen brought a smile to Nick.

The hour passed faster than he’d feared. Skylar put a dozen questions to Emma about chef school instead of answering the half dozen on her homework. Every time he’d tried to redirect his niece’s attention, she’d think of something new to ask the poor woman. It wasn’t until he plucked dinner out of the oven and stared at the molded tomato and hamburger loaf that it hit him. A real chef was going to eat his food.

She smiled brightly at him and asked, “Plating time?” All he could do was nod, and Emma pulled her reducing balsamic glaze off the burner. “Plates are…?”

“That cupboard,” Nick said, pointing to one above her head. Damn it, did he forget to grease the pan? He tipped the loaf upside down over the cutting board, but gravity failed him. Giving it a shake didn’t work either, so he started to bang a knife against the bottom of the pan. A tiny struggle like the cry of a mouse cut in between his hammering.

Poor Emma had one hand pressed to the counter as she hopped up into the air and reached for the plate. “Almost…” she whispered. Nick slipped in behind her before the whole cabinet came tumbling down. She stilled in her leaping and his hand grazed her retreating one. Her hair brushed down his chest as he picked up a serving platter for her.

“Sorry about that,” he muttered. “Skylar likes to put them way in the back.”

“Since when?” she countered, but her voice faded to a background whine.

Emma turned around and took the white plate in her tiny hands. Clasping it to her chest, she looked up at him through her eyelashes. Her pink lips pursed like a wry strawberry, and she said, “I should bring a stool with me.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he whispered, realizing his hand wrung the edge of the counter right next to her body. “I like helping.” She beamed her big brown eyes up at him and pressed a single white tooth deep into her lip.

The loud scoff of a famished teenager was the only thing to puncture through to him. Nick turned like a ringmaster introducing the clowns, letting Emma escape from where he’d pinned her in. He hadn’t meant to, he was…out of sorts. “Dinner?” he asked, needing an auditory reminder of what he’d been doing.

“Finally!” Skylar shouted. She leaned over and, with both arms, shoved all of her homework and books. “Table’s cleared.”

After pulling down three plates, Nick rolled his eyes. “You know you’ll be picking it back up again.” He stabbed at the meatloaf, managing to cut free three crumbling sections. Good enough. He loaded up his forearms like he was working at a diner and walked to the table.

It was Emma who held up her serving platter with adorable carrots and small broccoli sprigs carefully laid out. Brown and red sauces were expertly dashed across, then formed a ribbon on the white plate. He’d never seen anything so fancy he was supposed to eat in his life.

“I hope this is good enough,” she said as if he wasn’t facing utter humiliation for his weeknight whatever dinner.

Skylar launched up and took the vegetable platter out of her hands. “I don’t care. I’m starving.”

With a wave of his hands, Nick guided Emma to the table. “Bon appétit.”

EMMA LAY HER fork on her plate and settled back in the chair. “That was really good.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Nick insisted, his gaze darting over the rim of an Oktoberfest stein before he tipped it back.

She blushed brighter than her rosé and reached for it for help. “I thought the meatloaf was good.”

Finishing his stout, Nick banged his thumbs on the top as he stared around the table. “It’s fine. Nothing up to the standards of a spy chef though. I mean, you pulled off a miracle. You got a teenager to eat a bunch of veggies that weren’t deep-fried or covered in ranch. That deserves a Nobel prize for cooking.”

“I don’t think they have those,” Emma said, growing hotter at the attention.

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