Chapter Eleven
When Jack had owned his restaurant, he’d faced down health inspectors who had wielded clipboards like weapons and handled kitchen meltdowns that made volcanoes look tame. But nothing had prepared him for the challenge of teaching Cora Lockwood how to cook.
As they stepped into the café’s kitchen, he was hit with the lingering scent of burnt peanut butter and something reminiscent of melted plastic. The space looked less like the pristine workspaces they were graded on in culinary school and more like the aftermath of some sort of home invasion.
“All right, Chef Chaos,” he said, clapping his hands.
He tried to ignore a stray curl that had slipped loose from Cora’s messy bun, brushing her cheek in a way that made him want to tuck it back.
Focus, Harlow. You’re here to teach, not to ogle.
“Let’s see what we’re working with. Why don’t you open that fridge and give me a rundown? ”
Cora shot him a look so sharp it could have wilted lettuce. “Chef Chaos? Really? I’ll have you know I once predicted the rise of pickled watermelon rinds as a garnish.”
“Impressive,” he said, fighting back both a grin and the urge to remind her that Lolly had served pickled watermelon rinds long before they were trendy. But that tongue of hers, sticking out at him in defiance, was both maddening and, oddly, cute.
She yanked open the refrigerator with enough force to rattle the condiments. A blast of cool air hit them, carrying the faint smells of sharp citrus and earthy vegetables.
“Okay, we’ve got . . . Oh, boy.” Cora’s voice took on a tone of dread usually reserved for opening credit card bills. “Uh, some lettuce, a carton of eggs, a few lemons, some buttermilk, and . . . is chicken supposed to be that color?”
Jack leaned over her shoulder to peer into the fridge, trying to ignore the way she smelled like honey and smoke, a combination that made his chef’s brain short-circuit. Get it together, man. You’re a professional. “That’s just the packaging. The chicken’s fine. I bought it yesterday.”
“Ha ha,” she grumbled, but there was a slight quirk of her lips that made him want to trace it with his thumb.
He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling like he’d swallowed sand.
“So, what’s the verdict? Can we make a meal out of this, or should we admit defeat and order pizza?”
He grinned, reaching past her to grab the chicken and buttermilk. His arm brushed hers, and her eyes widened a fraction at the brief contact, sending a rush through him. “Oh, ye of little faith. We’re making fried chicken.”
“Buttermilk fried chicken,” she said. “The buttermilk tenderizes the meat, right?”
“Right. And it helps the breading stick.” He pointed to the spice cabinet. “What do we need from in there?”
She bit her bottom lip as she studied its contents, a sight so distracting he almost missed her tentative, “Salt?”
“Gold star for the lady,” he said, forcing his gaze away from her mouth. “What else?”
“Lolly used to use paprika,” Cora said, grabbing the bottle from the shelf and holding it up in triumph. “Something about smoky meat being good meat.”
“Look at you,” he teased, arranging the ingredients on the counter. The chicken glistened under the kitchen lights, and the buttermilk sloshed in its carton. “Dropping culinary knowledge like a pro. If your hands are half as good as your memory, we might just survive the night.”
She blew a strand of hair from her face, sending another wave of that honey-smoke scent his way. Before he knew it, he was leaning in, drawing closer without even realizing it.
“My hands are very skilled, thank you,” she said. “Perfectly capable of calling for takeout. Or killing a man.”
He blinked. “Noted.”
“Depends on my mood.”
He swallowed hard, pretty sure his voice was at least an octave higher when he said, “Is that so? Well, let’s put those magic hands to the test. You’re on dredging duty.”
As he handed her a bowl of seasoned flour, Cora’s eyes met his.
For a moment everything else—chicken, restaurant, reality—faded into the background.
All that mattered was how she looked at him.
Jack wasn’t entirely sure if they were still flirting or if they’d officially crossed into kill a man territory.
Honestly, with Cora, it might have been both.
He guided her through the steps, hyperaware of every point of contact between them as he showed her how to coat the chicken. The seasoned flour clung to their fingers.
“See? It’s all in the wrist,” he murmured, his hands over hers, marveling at how small and soft they were.
“The wrist, right,” she echoed, her voice a little breathy.
Was it his imagination, or did she lean back into him just a little? The warmth of her body pressed against his was more intoxicating than any wine he’d ever tasted.
They worked in tandem, and when she wasn’t actively trying to burn down the place or threatening him with bodily harm, Cora was a surprisingly decent sous chef.
Her knife skills were questionable, but her palate was spot-on.
More than once, he found himself distracted by the way she wrinkled her brow in concentration and the way her eyes lit up when she pulled a crisp piece of chicken from the oil.
“So,” he said, watching her sprinkle paprika with surprising precision, “how’d you get so knowledgeable about flavors if you’re such a disaster in the kitchen?”
Cora grinned, clearly not offended by his question. “Easy. I love to eat. Tasting is my superpower. It’s the actual cooking part that trips me up.”
He couldn’t help but chuckle. “Good thing I like cooking for you.”
A faint blush colored her cheeks, and he was captivated by the way the kitchen lights played across her face. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the air between them crackled with something that had nothing to do with the frying pan.
“Why is that?” she asked softly.
“Because you’re nicer to me when you’re not hungry.”
She tossed a kitchen towel at him, but it did little to ease the tension building between them.
The chicken sizzled away, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering smell that made his stomach growl. He glanced over, then asked the question that had been nagging at him. “Did Lolly not teach you how to cook?”
Cora sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. The motion drew his eyes to her fingers, and he wondered how they’d feel intertwined with his.
“She tried. I guess I get distracted easily. There’s so much going on, you know? The timers, the temperatures, remembering not to let things explode . . .”
“Ah yes, the age-old battle against food explosions.” He nodded, trying to lighten the mood even as his heart rate picked up. “Are you distracted now?” He stepped closer, supposedly to check on the chicken, but really to get into her space. He was close enough to feel the warmth coming off her.
Cora’s breath hitched, a flush creeping up her neck, mirroring the heat rising in his cheeks.
“N-no,” she stammered, then quickly rallied. “I mean, how could I be? I’m in the presence of culinary greatness, right? Your ego is kind of hard to ignore.”
Jack didn’t know why he kept pressing her. Maybe it was stupid, but there was something about seeing her lose a little of that polished control she clung to. And if he could just make her forget, even for a minute, what she came back to Sunrise to do . . . maybe he could convince her not to do it.
They stood there for a moment, the air between them thick with electricity. He leaned in, pulled by a force as inevitable as gravity.
Then the kitchen door flew open with a bang.
“Yoo-hoo! Something smells delicious in here.”
Aggie’s voice shattered the moment like a dropped wineglass. Cora and Jack jumped apart, as if they’d just gotten caught making out behind the bleachers. Which, honestly, wasn’t too far from the truth.
“Oh, my,” Bea whispered, eyes wide as she clutched her pearls. “Are we interrupting something?”
“Not at all,” Cora said quickly, her face turning the exact shade of the ripe tomatoes on the windowsill. She fidgeted with her apron, smoothing it over and over as if she was trying to iron out the awkwardness. “We were . . . um . . .”
“Checking the temperature of the chicken,” he finished, the excuse as flimsy as the composure he was barely holding on to, especially since there wasn’t a thermometer in sight. He focused on the pattern of Lolly’s dish towels. Anything to avoid Aggie’s suspicious gaze.
Winston adjusted his glasses, his expression knowing. “I see. And what was it?”
He cleared his throat and turned the burner off. “It was hot.”
Bea shot Aggie a quick glance, her lips pressed into a tight, disapproving line. The steady tap of Aggie’s fingers against the doorframe said it all. They trusted him to help take down Worthington, sure, but when it came to their precious Cora? That was a different story.
He thought they might be off the hook until Aggie’s eyes narrowed again, a slow grin spreading across her face as if she were a cat toying with a cornered mouse.
“Well then,” she said, voice smooth as honey and just as sticky. “Why don’t you two join us in the dining room? We’ve got plenty to discuss.”