CHAPTER 13
That Saturday, Willa had earbuds in and was watching Sexy Chef Sam on her phone at her kitchen table. Part of it was because she was trying desperately to connect to the material and get some kind of framework for the cookbook, but part of it, she had to admit, was to avoid Hudson, her handyman/contractor/jack-of-all-trades.
He’d come out on Thursday and given her a quote to fix all the sundry damage that Uncle Harold’s adventures in Airbnb-ing had wreaked on the house. All in all, the punch list had included repainting the rooms, tearing out the burned carpet in the second bedroom, patching the wall in the dining room, fixing the curtain rods in the living room, and replacing the built-in cabinets and missing piece of chair rail. Also fixing the banister, which seemed to be missing a few spindles. He had quoted her a reasonable price—honestly, it’d seemed too reasonable, but he assured her that pricing was different “here on the island” compared to California, or even Seattle.
“What kind of time frame did you want, though?” he asked, looking concerned. “Because it’s kind of a big job, made up of a bunch of small jobs. Basically, I’m the only handyman on the island, and we’ve got some elderly people, as well as the local businesses and the schools. So if something goes out that needs an immediate fix ...”
“Oh! No, I’m not really in any rush,” she said quickly, then bit her lip as she thought about selling the house being plan B. “Well, not really a rush. Would end of, um ...” She thought of her deadline. “September be okay?”
His laugh was rich and warm. Seriously, that bass rumble was downright dangerous. “Unless everyone’s plumbing and electrical goes out at once, I’m sure I can get you all wrapped up long before then.”
She’d almost swooned . And promptly agreed, signing the contract.
Now, after buying some supplies yesterday, he was over at her house that afternoon. She’d just decided to stay out of his way as much as possible—both to make sure she wasn’t hindering what he had to do and for her own peace of mind, since she still wasn’t quite sure what was going on there. She’d figured out she wasn’t scared of him. It wasn’t a red flag situation. It was just a weird awareness , like she was hyperalert and cataloged everything about him ... like, when he’d walked in that day, she tracked that he was wearing a navy Mariners T-shirt that fit well enough to show off muscles without being obnoxious about it, and a similarly snug pair of jeans, as well as work boots that he’d meticulously wiped before covering them with booties despite her protests. “Don’t want to track mud in,” he’d reassured her in that fog-deep voice. As he’d walked past with his toolbox and a bucket full of supplies, heading for the living room, she’d taken an inadvertent deep breath in. He smelled like the hardware store, plywood, and paint, plus an overlay of sunshine and maybe hay, something vegetal.
It was like he was in 4K, she realized, and the rest of the world was at low resolution. He stood out, swamped her senses. It was unsettling. It was hard to process.
She decided the best thing was to just ignore it. She had enough on her plate without trying to puzzle out the disorienting response she was having to him.
The kitchen’s pine table was the perfect place to work and avoid Hudson. It was too early to experiment with food ... at least, it was for her. She knew some chefs liked to get food and just start messing with it. Marceline had been constantly on her case, saying that you couldn’t think a dish, you had to make your way to a dish—but Willa was more scientist than artist. She needed a road map, something to work with, especially if she had to make a whole cookbook out of nothing.
Not to mention the fact that it was about being sexy , for God’s sake. She hadn’t lied when she’d talked with Nat, about what little she felt she could comfortably discuss. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually felt turned on, and here she was, trying to create an entire catalog of performative sexiness for a guy whose claim to fame was creating dishes without training and, if she was honest, without a server safety card (especially if that time he made crème br?lée in boxer briefs was any indication).
She tried to ignore the sounds of Hudson in the other room. She was having enough problems focusing, and he did nothing to help with that. He was classically sexy—it was practically an empirical fact. She imagined she could post a photo— not that she would —and get thousands of people agreeing. Especially with that gleam in his eyes, that flirty smirk ...
She shook her head, like Noodle flapping his ears. It was one thing to be attracted to a celebrity or singer or athlete or something, someone who was essentially a fictional construct and someone she’d never interact with on a personal level.
Being drawn to a real-life person? That was something else entirely.
Lusting after someone who was maybe twenty feet away? That felt ...
Well, she wasn’t sure how she felt. But it didn’t seem like a good idea.
In her big blank sketchbook, she created four columns: REPUTATION , PREPARATION , EATING , and COURSE . Then she tried to think about what the sexiest things for each could be, even stooping low enough to Google it.
Unfortunately, she was coming up blank.
“What are you working on?”
She yelped, her pen leaving a haphazard slash on the paper as she spun to look over her shoulder.
Hudson grinned, looking sheepish. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No. No, that’s fine,” she said.
“Like a menu?” He up-nodded at the notebook. “Couldn’t help but notice.”
“Oh.” Was she blushing? Good God, she might be. Her cheeks felt hot, and she was glad she hadn’t written down “sexy,” or she’d probably catch fire. “It’s, um, a project. I’m working on.”
She couldn’t tell anyone about it specifically, but he’d be around, so she didn’t want to lie either.
“Food, huh?” He sounded amused, but not in a dismissive way. The way he smiled was encouraging, and his gaze was warm. He winked. “You seem like a good cook. Sounds like fun.”
She groaned. “You’d think,” she muttered, then cleared her throat and said more clearly, “I’m having a little, erm, writer’s block. It’s been a while since I wrote a cookbook.”
“That’s what you’re doing?” Now he sounded impressed.
She wasn’t sure she was supposed to divulge that much. But he might notice, and she doubted it would matter. “Anyway, um, yeah. Just brainstorming, you know.”
He glanced at her (very short) list. “Raw oysters?” he asked. His expression didn’t change—much—but the clear twinkle in his eyes suggested he was thinking of the usual dirty connotations with the food.
“I can hear a chuckle in there,” she pointed out, and his smile grew. “And yeah. They’re an aphrodisiac.”
She then wanted to crawl into a hole. She’d just thought she was glad she hadn’t written down even the word “sexy.” So why was she volunteering that particular detail?
“I happen to like oysters,” he said, continuing the conversation. “You?”
She was nodding before she knew that she was, then cleared her throat again. “But it’s an appetizer,” she said. “I figure desserts are going to be easy, and I can always create some nibbles, but the mains, the proteins, are going to be the hard part ...”
Now I’m rambling. Why in the world would he be interested in any of this?
“Sorry,” she immediately interrupted herself. “I kind of got lost in planning there. And, um, I want to do stuff that’s in season, if at all possible. And come up with unique combinations, not just the usual stuff. This is always the hard part. Figuring stuff out.”
“I’ve been like that on projects,” he agreed, leaning against the table ... in a very distracting, albeit probably unconsciously so, way. His waist was right there , for pity’s sake.
And what was lower than his waist ...
NOT THINKING ABOUT THAT.
She shifted her focus to the paper like she’d turn to stone if she looked away. “Did you need something? I’ve been going on and on.”
“Don’t worry. I like listening ... I mean, it was interesting.” He then stood up quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “And no, I don’t need anything. I just wanted to grab a glass of water, if that’s okay?”
“Oh! Oh.” She almost knocked the chair over in her haste. Why hadn’t she thought of that? He’d been working for a couple of hours at this point. She looked at the clock. It was nearly three! “I’m so sorry!”
“Why’re you sorry?” Again, that bemused expression, like he wasn’t sure how to take her but he liked trying. “It’s just a glass of water, Willa. You’re fine.” He gestured to the cupboards. “Do you mind if I ...?”
Her cheeks felt like they were on fire at this point. She popped up, opening one door, then another, before getting him a tall glass. When he went to fill it from the tap, she shook her head. “I’ve got a pitcher. It’s nice and cold. And it’s got some lemon slices and a bit of mint.”
After he nodded, she got the glass rather than the pitcher, which was, in retrospect, foolish. Her fingertips brushed his as she took the glass from him, and she almost dropped it. She turned to the fridge and put the door between them, taking advantage of the cool air and the physical barrier to get some kind of a grip.
What the heck was going on?
She handed him the water, trying to avoid the sensation of their hands touching, but it was unavoidable. She clamped down on a shiver as he took it, then watched, riveted, as his Adam’s apple bobbed as he took a long, steady drink.
She swallowed hard too. Sympathy thirst, maybe?
Some kinda thirst.
That thought was like someone goosing her. She moved quickly back to the table. “What are you working on today?” she asked. Her voice sounded squeaky and breathless, and she wanted to kick herself.
He put the now empty glass down on the counter. “Just prep, really. I decided to start in the living room. I’ll get the walls cleaned and ready for painting, then rip out the old chair rail and replace it all.”
“All today?”
He looked at her like she was adorable. “Not necessarily. Depends on how long I can stay ...?”
She bit her lip. Part of her wanted to say that he could stay as long as he wanted, just to get the thing done more quickly. But did she really want him here at night?
Wait. Why should that make a difference?
She was so confused.
It’s sleep deprivation. “Whenever. But of course, I don’t want you burning out or anything,” she tacked on, with emphasis. “I know you’ve got other work, and the family farm, and all.”
“I won’t stay too late,” he said. “I don’t want to interrupt your sleep.”
“I’m kind of an insomniac at this point, and I will be until this project’s finished,” she countered. Then frowned at herself. “But, again, your call.”
He smiled. “I’ll get back to work, then.”
“Oh, right, yeah.” She rubbed her arm nervously, looking back to the paper.
He started to walk away, but stopped by her chair for a long beat, not saying anything. Her breathing shallowed, and her pulse started to pick up. She could feel the heat coming off him, on the left side of her body, close enough to brush against.
“Uh ... this isn’t ... I mean, I’m not a chef or anything. Not even all that much of a cook,” he rumbled, and she found herself turning to look into his blue eyes. His expression was a little sheepish. “But we do this spicy-shrimp-and-watermelon skewer in the summer, usually at barbecues. It’s good. If you’re looking for something with protein?”
Spicy and cool, she thought. In season. Something a sexy chef could skewer ...
Her mind suddenly had a click of realization. That would actually be delicious, she thought, scribbling down some ideas on a blank page. “ Perfect ! Thank you!” She beamed at him, so glad that her recalcitrant brain was contributing something that she could’ve hugged him.
“My pleasure.” He looked at her ... she wasn’t sure how he looked at her. “If I think of anything else, I’ll let you know.”
He walked away.
Now, she was flooded with ideas. Maybe not all workable, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was she wasn’t stuck anymore.
She felt flooded with gratitude as well. She was thrilled, almost drunk with the sensation. Hudson, with his sexy smile and hot body and his ...
Her brain record-scratched.
His what now?
She blinked hard as the thing that had been hovering on the outskirts of her mind finally walked up and slapped her.
The weird feeling. The hyperawareness. The way her mouth went dry as the frickin’ Sahara when all he did was drink some water.
She was attracted to him, more than she’d wanted to acknowledge. Not just that—she was turned on. It just wasn’t quite like anything she’d ever felt before. She’d been attracted to people. She’d been dazzled by Steven, who’d romanced her. She’d had boyfriends, in high school and college. They’d been like drinking champagne: effervescent, giving her a ticklish joy. Fun.
This ... wasn’t like that. This was like starving, and he was something she wanted to devour.
If they’d been in their twenties, this would’ve seemed more understandable. But she was forty-six and a widow. A decade or so of getting worn down had convinced her that sexy fun times probably weren’t in the cards, much less finding an attraction that felt like getting slammed with a ten-G force.
She didn’t have time to deal with an incendiary crush on someone. But she also couldn’t deny the obvious: she needed to write a sexy cookbook, and this guy not only helped loosen up her creativity, he could be the key to making it phenomenal.
This guy is my muse.
That didn’t mean she’d make a move of any sort. She wasn’t ready for that. But she could maybe let herself fantasize a little, and see what happened.