Chapter Twenty-Four
Ben
“You’re leaving?” I repeated, staring down Iris in surprise. I wasn’t surprised she was leaving, of course. She’d always been a bit of a wanderer. I was surprised she was doing it so soon.
“I want to travel,” she told me, a dreamy look in her eyes and a hopeful grin on her face. “I want to see the world before I settle down, and I’m not getting younger.”
“You’re twenty-three, Iris,” I laughed. “Not ninety-nine.”
“It’s true no matter the number.” It was the most serious I’d ever seen her in the five years we’d known each other. “I’ve been saving since I started here, and I have enough to cover at least a year of traveling before I have to think about landing somewhere. That should give me plenty of time to think about my next move.”
“Well I’ll miss having a work buddy,” I told her, and I meant it. She kept things interesting around here.
The rest of that morning passed in the usual fashion. I had a showing at another house with a new client, who grinned and asked if I was that kid who’d lost the homecoming game all those years ago—my favorite way to start my day. I had some paperwork to send out following a recent closing, and needed to come up with some comps for another house I was listing.
Just before lunch, I got an email from someone inquiring about the Van Kamp home. I’d had a little interest in it other than Ava, but no one had asked for a tour until this email. A young couple moving here from out of town wanted to take a look at it. I set it up, but that was only the beginning.
I’d given Mom a couple days to recover from her fall, but now I needed to get her signature and tell her that the sale was really moving forward. Normally I’d never dream of waiting this long on it, but since I was the seller in everything but name and we didn’t have offers coming in left and right, we had a little wiggle room.
I texted Ava a quick heads-up that someone else was interested, since I’d sworn to keep her updated on it. I also debated visiting her in person after lunch.
While I contemplated it, I took a break and started scrolling cooking videos. I might be throwing my mom a couple of curveballs between the house selling so quickly and me planning to leave, but I wasn’t going to let her down with this cookout. I was in the middle of watching Martha Stewart make mashed potatoes when Iris appeared beside me with alarming stealth.
“Learning to cook, are we?” she asked, suddenly deeply interested in my computer screen.
“My mom needs someone to cook for her dinner party now that she can’t.” I’d already filled Iris in on Mom’s big adventure in changing lightbulbs with vertigo.
“Just throw some meat and veggies on the grill and buy some pre-made potato salad. Bam! Dinner.”
I laughed at her easy answer. Clearly, she’d never met my mother. “Mom’s been having a rough summer, and she already had a menu put together. I’m going to do my best to stick to it.”
“And you can’t cook at all?”
“I’ve never had a reason to learn.”
“If it were me in your place, I’d find someone to help me. The fastest way to learn it is to do it, and having someone to show you would make it easier to pick up quickly.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “but who would—” I came to a full stop, answering my own question. I didn’t want to bother Mom, but I did know someone who could cook.
“Isn’t that buyer for your grandma’s place a chef?” She asked, clearly following my own train of thought. “Maybe she could help you.”
“I don’t know,” I hesitated. “She’s pretty busy already.”
Iris shrugged her shoulders. “Can’t hurt to ask.” Then she rolled back to her desk and left me with that delightful conundrum.
I could ask Ava for help. She was more than capable of teaching me to cook well enough for one party. But after last night, I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. I enjoyed her company a little too much, and it was bringing up feelings I thought I’d long since dealt with. By the end of lunch, I’d talked myself into using YouTube and practicing some of the dishes at home. If I had any real trouble, I could always break down and ask Mom for a tip here or there without bothering her too much. Some things—like the overwhelming desire to kiss Ava—were best left in the past.
After I finished up for the day, I swung by the fancier of the two grocery stores in town to splurge on some quality ingredients for my first night of cooking.
I was just going to try the first two parts of the meal: roasted chicken breast and mashed potatoes. The rice and roasted asparagus seemed a bit easier, or at least simpler, after having read through all the recipes I could find during my breaks. Mom gave me her recipes to use, but I found it helpful to watch people make the same type of dish so I could wrap my head around the process.
I prepped the chicken exactly like Mom’s recipe said, then stuck it in the oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit and set a timer for an hour. Then I started in on the potatoes.
Peel. No problem, but definitely took a minute to figure out the technique so it didn’t take the whole hour.
Quarter. Easy peasy.
Boil. At this point, I decided I’d made the right call in trying it out myself. The chicken smelled incredible already and the potatoes were bubbling away in a giant pot.
Things took a turn when I poked a potato and found it was cooked. I drained the pot and put all the potatoes into a giant bowl, along with all the other ingredients Mom listed for mashed potatoes. Then I took a masher to it, and it got all…lumpy. I kept going, trusting the process, but even after several minutes of pounding I couldn’t get all the lumps out. I’d eaten enough of Mom’s potatoes to know that wasn’t right.
Undaunted, I got out my beaters. If the masher wasn’t doing the trick, it was time to bring out the big guns.
Finally, the potatoes started to come together into something resembling what I was used to, but I still had to add in the last few spices. By the time I got those good and mixed, the potatoes looked a little…off. A quick taste test left them sticking to my mouth with an unpleasant, gummy feeling. It was so distracting that I couldn’t even consider whether the flavor was right.
Looking up, I realized the timer went off while I was messing with the potatoes. I must not have heard it over the whirring beaters. That was okay, though. There was a huge time range for the chicken, so it was probably fine.
I pulled it out and it smelled amazing, the savory herbs and pungent garlic filling my kitchen and making my stomach growl. Slicing it, I took a moment to let the scent waft up on the hot steam before plating it up next to a few frozen veggies I’d popped into the microwave. Then I sat down and took the first bite.
And realized that I was most definitely in over my head here.
It was dry, not juicy. And a little tough. It wasn’t so bad I wouldn’t eat it, but I also wouldn’t serve it to guests.
It was only my first attempt, and I had every confidence that with practice I could make the same mouth-watering meals as Mom. But I was a bit short on time for practice, and I’d be cooking way bigger portions, which brought its own challenges. By the time I finished my chewy chicken and lackluster veggies, I realized that maybe asking Ava for a cooking lesson or two wasn’t the worst idea.
The next morning, I got up a little earlier than usual to make a stop at a certain bakery on the way into work, pointedly ignoring the way my stomach flipped when I spotted Ava behind the counter. Or the way her expression tightened when she saw me.
“Did he make an offer?” she asked with a frown.
It took me a minute to follow her question. When it was clear she wasn’t upset that I invaded her space, I hurried to quell her concern.
“No, no,” I assured her, walking over to the counter.
It was early—just before seven—and I’d hoped to catch her before the morning rush. Looking around, I was shocked by how many people milled about, holding steaming cups of coffee and pastel pink to-go boxes.
“I just dropped by for some coffee.”
She arched a brow at me. “You never come in for coffee. Are you sure something isn’t wrong with the house?”
I smiled at her, shaking my head in defeat. “You caught me,” I admitted. “I do have an ulterior motive, but it has nothing to do with the house.”
Somehow, she looked even more unsettled. She stood a little straighter, her shoulders tensing. “Then what does it have to do with?”
“I need your help,” I explained, leaning forward on the counter and lowering my voice. “I need to learn how to cook. Fast. And it turns out I’m not great at it.”
“Oh.” She swallowed, keeping her distance from me and shooting a quick glance across the cafe. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
I didn’t really know what to make of that answer. Did she not want to spend any more time with me than necessary? Was it because she didn’t want to upset Jules? Instead of pushing her on her reasoning, I decided to try the pity route.
“My mom has been having a tough summer, and she decided that throwing this giant party would help her feel better, somehow. I don’t get it exactly, but it’s really important to her. Anyway, she fell this week and broke her arm and her ankle, so now she can’t cook the dinner like she’d planned.”
“So you’re cooking it for her?” Ava guessed.
I nodded, rolling my lips. “Except I wouldn’t exactly call what I’ve made so far ‘food.’ I can pay you, like a cooking class?”
Ava sighed. “I’m not going to make you pay me to help cook your invalid mom a nice dinner.”
I could tell by the note of defeat in her words that she was already caving. “I have a list of what I need to make, and the recipes to go with it. I just need someone to stop me from turning mashed potatoes into goo and overcooking a chicken breast.”
“You messed up the mashed potatoes?”
I raised my hands to my shoulders, palms up. “Hey now, not all of us went to culinary school. Some of us peasants just buy all our meals.”
She pursed her full lips. “I went to culinary school, but I’m a baker, not a chef. And don’t you think peasants would be more likely to be cooking their meals?”
Normally, I’d have an equally smart-ass response to that. But I could not take my eyes off her mouth. I’d come so close to kissing her two nights ago. And, call me crazy, but it seemed like she was at least interested.
“Ben.” She waited until I locked eyes with her to continue. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea.”
That was when I understood her hesitation: the almost-kiss had upset her.
“No funny business,” I promised. “Just cooking.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “When do you want to meet?”
Relief washed over me, accompanied by a small amount of trepidation. Ava was going to help me, which meant that the food would be spectacular for Mom. I had no doubt about her skills in the kitchen.
But it also meant that I’d be spending another whole night alone with Ava, beating back the crush that refused to die and pretending like I didn’t want to do way more than cook.