Chapter 8 #2
Well. That was a face. That was a very pretty face.
In addition to the dreamy eyes, she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, a beautiful slope of cheekbones, right down to one of those upside-down heart-shaped chins he always liked.
Atlas hit another octave as if to remind Jonah that this was no time for even the most cursory glance at a woman.
“Oh,” she said, setting down her book. “That’s a loud baby.”
“That’s an understatement.” He stepped inside, bouncing Atlas, who’d either taken a life-saving breath or had entered Phase Three—the hitching, hiccupping aftermath of a serious disaster. “Sorry. Chef Broussard sent me here to—”
“Settle the baby. I know.” She smiled, and it did something annoying to his pulse. “I’m guessing you’re the one who disrupted the knife skills lecture?”
“Word travels fast.”
“He texted me a warning.” She swung her feet off the drawer and pushed up. “Let me see this noisy little thing. Boy, I guess, from the blue T-shirt.”
Jonah hesitated for exactly one second—the second it took to calculate that this stranger couldn’t possibly do a worse job than he currently was—before unclipping the harness and lifting Atlas free.
“This is Atlas,” he said as he did the hand-off. “He evidently didn’t appreciate the noise of the knife.”
“I’ve always hated that sound, too, sweet baby,” she crooned softly, taking Atlas easily and settling him against her shoulder with one hand on his back. “It’s so scary, that big, loud knife, isn’t it?”
She started this slow, swaying rock, patting his back, murmuring about noisy knives.
Almost immediately, Atlas hiccupped twice. Then once more. Then stopped.
Jonah stared. “How did you do that?”
“I have no idea. Babies like me. Dogs, too. Cats are hit or miss.” She rubbed Atlas gently.
“I think it’s a vibe thing. You were tense.
He felt it. Now he feels me and I’m extremely relaxed because I’ve been sitting here reading for an hour because all the work is done.
The department paperwork—a ridiculous waste of time and money, if you ask me—is filed, and I’m hanging out waiting for the old guy to finish terrorizing his students. ”
Jonah’s jaw dropped. Not only did he not know Broussard had an admin, he wondered if the chef knew she called him “the old guy” who terrorized students.
She wasn’t wrong, but still.
“Well, the only terrorist in the classroom today weighs sixteen pounds and sings like he’s auditioning for the opera.”
She chuckled as Atlas let out a contented sigh and buried his face in her neck. Not that he could actually blame his son for going right there. It was a…nice neck.
“So, you work here?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I guess you could call it work. He does most of it himself, but there are some things he needs me for. The boring stuff he can’t be bothered with. But mostly I just hang out and”—she tipped her head toward the novel—“get my fill of romantasy.”
He had no idea what that was, but it sounded appealing. Or maybe that was just her voice, which had a little rasp to it that was super—
Whoa, there, Jonah. No flirting with the chick who works for the big guy. Or the old guy, as she put it.
“Unbelievable,” Jonah said, shifting his attention back to the baby. “I’ve been bouncing him for twenty minutes and you just…nailed it.”
She smiled at him, revealing beautiful teeth—shocker—and a spark in her eyes.
“Like I said. Vibe.” She looked down at the baby, who was doing the slow blink that meant sleep was seconds away. “Great name, by the way. Very strong.”
“Like his lungs.”
She laughed, which really did a few stupid things to his chest.
“I’m Jonah,” he said, dropping the diaper bag on the floor and sinking into the other chair.
“Pepper,” she said.
“Pepper?” He let the name sit for a second. “Is that a nickname?”
“It’s the curse of Southern parents who love spicy food and have a sense of humor. And you brought a baby to Chef Broussard’s lecture. That’s either very brave or very desperate.”
“Solidly the second one. I’m a single father.” There. He had to let her know. Maybe it was dumb, but why not? He didn’t say available single father who had no time, even less money, and lived in the moral equivalent of his dad’s basement.
She was probably off limits anyway, since she worked for Broussard.
“You don’t see many single dads on a college campus,” she said, eyeing him as though considering him in a different light. Maybe, hopefully, an oh, good, he’s single light.
“I definitely got a lot of weird looks today, but I thought I’d give it a try.”
“Where’s his mother?” she asked.
He swallowed, hating the question, mostly because it always made people sad. “Uh, she actually passed away when he was three weeks old. Car accident.”
Pepper’s expression softened but didn’t collapse into pity or even tears, which he sometimes got.
“I’m so sorry,” she said quietly and it sounded so genuine. “That’s a lot.”
“It’s…yeah. But he’s a great kid.” He nodded at Atlas, now fully asleep against her shoulder, one tiny fist curled against her collarbone. “Even when he destroys my culinary career in real time.”
“Your career will survive. The chef respects grit. Trust me.”
Trust her? She couldn’t have been at the job that long or Jonah would have met her. And he sure as heck wouldn’t have forgotten her.
“So, when did you start?” he asked. “I didn’t realize anyone else was even using this office.”
“I blew into town a few weeks ago and I think he took pity on poor little unemployed me.” A smile played at the corner of her mouth, like a private joke he wasn’t in on.
“Did you need pity?” he asked, intrigued.
“I needed…something.” The wistful note caught in her throat. “Let’s just call it a fresh start.”
“From?”
“New Orleans.” She said it with the authentic Cajun accent—Nawlins—that was utterly exquisite in her sandpaper voice.
Maybe he could ask her for coffee. Would that be against some arcane department rule? Students couldn’t date professors’ assistants?
“So, Pepper—”
The sound of deliberate footsteps in the hallway stopped him just as the door opened and Broussard stepped in, knife roll tucked under his arm in case he needed a few sharp weapons.
He looked at Jonah. He looked at Pepper. He looked at Atlas, peacefully unconscious on her shoulder.
“I see you’ve met my daughter,” he said simply.
His…what? The floor did not, unfortunately, open up and swallow Jonah whole, despite his fervent wish.
Daughter. The freckles and the laugh and the raspy voice that gave him goosebumps was Broussard’s daughter?
“Pepper, this is Jonah Lawson.” Broussard crossed to his desk and set down the knife roll.
“Oh!” Pepper’s face lit up. “You didn’t say your last name. Dad has talked a lot about you.”
He had? And what would happen to that internship if Jonah ventured into the dating pool with Chef Broussard’s beautiful, vibey daughter?
He shuddered to think.
“Don’t get all puffed up, Lawson,” the chef said as he took the chair that Pepper had been in. “You have to nail the interview, wow Isobel’s staff, and, uh…” He glanced at the baby. “Get your mise en place in order.”
He was pretty sure that was a dig at his life.
The chef narrowed his gaze and pinned it on Jonah, then Pepper, then back to Jonah. Not hostile, not exactly, but radiating a message that could be heard loud and clear: I see you, Lawson. I see exactly what just happened in this room. And I am filing it.
“Class notes are posted online,” Broussard said, opening his laptop. “Go home. Review the knife skills module. And figure out your childcare issues before the interview with Isobel, because I promise you, she will not find a screaming baby as charming as some people do.”
Some people. He didn’t look at Pepper when he said it. He didn’t have to.
Jonah took Atlas from Pepper with exaggerated care so as not to wake him and strapped the baby back into the harness. Atlas didn’t stir. Whatever Pepper had done, it had unlocked the deep-sleep mode that Jonah hadn’t known existed.
“It was nice meeting you, Pepper,” he said, and meant it with a sincerity that he hoped sounded casual and suspected didn’t.
“You, too, Jonah.” She picked up her book and settled into the guest chair. “Atlas is a dream.”
So are you, Pepper Broussard.
Swallowing that last thought, he thanked the chef, who nodded without looking up from his laptop, and walked out of the office, down the hall, and into the parking lot, where the heat hit him like a wall and the Honda sat baking.
Atlas didn’t even wake up when he was strapped into the car seat, which was a minor miracle.
Jonah drove home thinking about two things.
First, that he absolutely, urgently, critically needed to find childcare.
Second, that his most important professor’s daughter had freckles and smelled like flowers and had a spicy personality that fit her name.
Oh, and she was completely, unequivocally off limits.