“I should have told you earlier, but I’m a chef.”
Pausing, her hands come to a standstill, no longer tying a double knot with the apron straps over her stomach. “You’re a chef?” The way she asks the question—complete disappointment in her voice—makes me feel like shit. It’s rare I feel like shit, but I do right now.
“Yeah.”
“Like a professional chef?”
Would I call myself a professional? I don’t know. Stirring a pot and dumping noodles in boiling water doesn’t make me feel like a professional. It makes me feel like a man who barely knows how to hold his own in the kitchen, someone who specializes in making “cheesy dogs.” Aka, hot dogs with a split down the center and a slice of cheddar stuffed inside. Classy.
“Well, I went to school for it.”
“So you’re trained?” Her expression falls some more. Christ, I feel like the lowest piece of shit ever. I’ve never cared about disappointing people, but hell, Daisy doesn’t hide her emotions at all. They are like a Technicolor picture shown on a brilliantly large IMAX movie screen, there for everyone to see and experience. “Then it seems pretty silly for me to teach you how to make meatloaf. I’m sure you can make a meatloaf way better than mine.”
“Maybe,” I say like a dick, because I have no practice in being nice.
“Yeah, probably.” Sighing, she looks around the kitchen.
Shit, how do I fix this? Normally I couldn’t care less, but Daisy is different. She’s like a grown-up child, someone you never want to disappoint.
“Um, I guess you can go home if you want.”
“Do you want me to go home?”
She’s avoiding all eye contact with me, trying not to lay out her cards, but with my question, she glances at me briefly, giving me a straight shot into those crystal-blue eyes of hers, slaying me right in half with her purity.
“I don’t know. Seems silly for me to teach you how to make something you already know how to do.” I’m about to agree with her when she says, “Is there something you don’t know how to cook?”
Not so much. I’ve studied cooking for so long that I’m pretty sure if you asked me to make anything, I would be able to deliver.
“Not really.” I wrack my brain for something and then it hits me. “Honestly, I don’t know much about baking. Do you?”
Eyes meet mine, and her smile stretches across her face, shining with pure joy. “Carter, I am so good at baking,” she practically cheers. She really is sweet . . .
“Is that right?” Her enthusiasm is infectious.
“It is! Oh gosh, what should we make?” Without even pausing to talk about it, she goes to the pantry and starts shuffling through ingredients. “Darn, no butterscotch or chocolate chips.” Some more moving of cans on the shelf. “There’s canned pumpkin but that’s out of season. Hmm . . . oh I’ve got it.” Whipping around with a box of raisins, she asks, “Do you like oatmeal raisin cookies?”
“Love them but can’t bake worth shit.”
“Then it’s settled. I’ll teach you how to make my special oatmeal raisin cookies.” Clapping her hands together, she jumps in excitement, and then starts pulling ingredients off the shelf. “This is going to be fun, Carter.” Fun.
Fun might not be the right word. Interesting is more like it. Yeah, this is going to be interesting.
DAISY
“Hell, these are good,” Carter says with a mouthful of cookie. I watch him closely examine the cookie before he takes another bite. “They’re so chewy.”
“It’s the flour and Karo syrup.” I wink and wipe up the counter. “My grams taught me all the secrets.”
“Your grams is a smart woman.” He takes another bite, closes his eyes and really tastes the cookie. It’s something I noticed right away when baking with Carter. He likes to smell and taste everything. It’s fascinating. He told me his best tools in his chef toolbox are his taste buds and nose, so he constantly tastes and smells things, which is funny to me, because they are simple baking ingredients. “Do you bake a lot, Snowflake?”
“I do. I love baking. When I was living with Grams, we would spend the whole day baking and then take baskets around to the different firehouses in the area to thank them for their hard work.”
Carter has his arms folded across his chest, his hip leaning against the counter, and an inquisitive look on his face, those deep brown eyes intensely observing me from under his jet-black hair. I’ve enjoyed his company, but I’ve also felt very exposed the entire time, not from his questioning or his posture, but by the way his eyes thoughtfully study my every movement.
What’s he thinking? Not that I’m very good at reading people, but I would like to at least see some kind of tell from him. Does he think I’m funny? Dorky? Insecure? Could he see me shake when I dumped ingredients in the bowl? Could he hear the waver in my voice when I spoke about the recipe and how to not overmix the batter? Can he sense how nervous I am around him?
I invited Carter over to grow my support system, to make friends. I really put myself out there, broke past some fears of mine to have him over and yet, all I can think about is how incredibly handsome he is, but not in the typical sense. He’s different, dark, very mysterious, and the complete and total opposite of my personality.
I’ve tried to keep myself from staring at him, from leaning in to smell his intoxicating cologne, and getting too close, breaking his personal space, but it’s been hard. I’ve felt very awkward around him. I hate that. I hate that I can’t be one of those confident girls when talking to a man.
But I shouldn’t be worried about that. He’s supposed to be my friend and nothing else. I’m not in this program to try to fall for the first guy I meet, I’m supposed to be discovering a new me. My priorities aren’t straight. Today was supposed to be about growth for myself but instead, I’m acting like a teenage girl around a cute boy. Or at least what I think that is like. He’s so worldly wise, he can probably tell how nervous I am.
“Snowflake, you’ve been scrubbing that bowl in the same spot for a minute. Pretty sure it’s clean.”
Startled from my thoughts, I jump in place, the bowl clattering around in the stainless steel sink.
“Everything okay over there?”
“Um, yup,” I say, startled. “Just thinking about the program.”
“Yeah, not really looking forward to the meeting this Thursday.”
“Why not?” I ask, rinsing the bowl now. “I like going to the meetings. Marleen has such inspiring things to say.”
“Inspired is not what I’m looking for,” he answers, looking out toward the window in the dining area.
“What are you looking for then?”
“An out.” His voice is grim and before I can respond, Amanda pops through the back door, purse in hand, coffee mug from the morning in the other.
“Hey Daisy, how—oh, I didn’t know you had company.”
With a polite smile, she takes in Carter. My cheeks heat up immediately, as if I’m being caught doing something bad.