Sexy as Sin (Sinful, Montana Book 3) Page 9

  Also, she might not be better than Julia Roberts—correction, she definitely wasn’t better than Julia Roberts—but Brett was oh-hell-yeah-better than Richard Gere. The slow smile, like you’d made him do it. The humor and intelligence in his gray eyes. The brain. The strength. The height. The shoulders.

  She splashed some cold water on her face and thought, No. Just no. Stop. So far out of your league. He isn’t even an actor. He practically is that bloke. He’s leaving.

  And, yes, she may have chosen Pretty Woman out of pure mischievous intent. But when multimillionaire Richard Gere had set Julia Roberts, surely much too vulnerable to be walking the streets, onto the lid of that grand piano? When he’d smoothed back her ringlets with a gentle hand, and Julia’s eyes had darkened? Willow had shifted in her chair. She hadn’t wanted to look at Brett, and she hadn’t been able to help it.

  He was watching, his face intent, his smoothie undrunk in his hand. On the screen, Julia lay back on the piano. Slowly. Black lingerie, red hair, long legs. And Brett turned his head and looked at her.

  “You’re missing the good stuff,” she told him. A piano key struck, then three more. Discordant. Urgent.

  “No,” he said. “I’m not.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never seen this,” she said, when she had to say something.

  His smile was a faint thing, more eyes than mouth. “Maybe I never had the right person to watch it with.”

  “It’s cute.”

  “Is it? I’m not so sure.” His gaze went back to the screen. The camera had pulled back from the piano, but Richard had been kissing Julia’s stomach, his hands moving down her body, before that. You might not be able to see him anymore, but there was no doubt in your mind what he was doing. Or that he’d be good at it.

  In the film.

  Tiny baked potatoes next, she told herself. Focus.

  It was forecast to be even warmer today than the day before, and she was grateful for the air conditioning, especially because once again, she was heating up. At the memory of a virtual stranger. And a movie.

  Entertainment, that was all. Thoughts to keep you company while working. Better than music. Once she’d thought it, she did grab her Bluetooth headphones and switch on her music. No new, edgy stuff, not today. She was edgy enough already. No Fleetwood Mac, either, and definitely no crooners from generations old or new. No. She put on the music of her childhood. So that was The Little Mermaid. So what? Ariel had been a redhead with a dream and a plan, too. When Willow surfed, when the waves were coming just right, that was how she still felt. Like a mermaid.

  An hour later, she was removing Thai meatballs from three enormous cast-iron frying pans with a slotted spoon and singing along to “Kiss the Girl,” back in her happy place.

  The bride had said, at their menu-choosing meeting, “Charles says I can have anything I like, as long as we have meatballs.” She’d made a face, and the wedding coordinator had said, her tone both soothing and chirpy, as wedding coordinators tended to be, “Maybe some gorgeous lasagna mini-cupcakes instead?”

  Willow had said, “Of course we can do meatballs, and fit them into the menu, too. Maybe not lasagna. You probably don’t want Italian, not with all these fresh Asian fusion flavors, scallops and prawns and all.” Or you could confuse your guests’ tastebuds, she’d thought, and make everything start tasting weird. Please don’t. It won’t make your caterer look good.

  “Are you sure?” The bride had still looked doubtful. “Meatballs aren’t on your list.”

  “Not everybody wants them in summer,” Willow had improvised. “But we can do them exactly right for summer. They’ll be gorgeous, and we’ll nail that Asian fusion. It’s what we do. Trust me.”

  It didn’t matter that she hadn’t known how to do that then. It mattered that she could do it now. It had taken her ages to get the dipping sauce recipe right. The lime juice, coriander, and minced fresh ginger had been easy. The secret was the spoonful of honey, a touch of sweetness that brought all the delicious flavors together. With the chopped lemongrass in the meatballs themselves, the round little tidbits were as light and summer-refreshing as ground pork was ever going to be.

  She was putting the trays into the cooler when her partner walked in.

  “Morning,” Amanda said. “Everything all right now? Thank goodness that’s over.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just pulled her carefully tended blond hair back in an elastic and went to the sink to wash her hands.

  “Yeah,” Willow said to her back, pulling out her earbuds. “Thanks again for covering for me.” Savory tartlets next, which could be labor-intensive, but the pastry was prepared and the ingredients purchased and ready to go. Heaps of time to fix the six dozen individual shells in the hour it would take for the onions to finish their caramelization process. After that, it would be the tiny berry-custard tarts meant to hold the guests over until cake time. They were a last-minute item, so they didn’t get soggy. Place two blueberries and a raspberry atop each one, and she’d be all good, with just enough time to grab a shower and change of clothes before loading up the van.

  Amanda finally finished washing her hands, then tied on her apron and consulted the menu hanging via a magnet on the walk-in cooler, checking on the second wedding of the day, a smaller affair. She brought out a plastic bag of butter lettuce leaves from the cooler, together with a bowl of ground chicken cooked with peanut sauce and scallions, and began to stuff lettuce leaves with chicken mixture, fastening each mini-package with a colored toothpick before setting it on the metal tray. Something in her motions said, “Not happy,” but she didn’t speak for a minute.

  Willow longed to hear Sebastian the Crab sing “Under the Sea,” and thought about dancing around the living room in her slip and a sparkly headband, pretending they were a tutu and tiara, pretending her hair was beautifully smooth like Ariel’s instead of frizzing in the heat, and feeling like maybe, if she wished it hard enough, she could be a mermaid. There may have been some hair-swishing in the bath, too.

  Unfortunately, she wasn’t in her parents’ living room, her hair still wasn’t smooth, and she still didn’t own a tiara. She started to peel onions, waited for what would come next, and tried to conjure up some Brett Hunter cool and calm. Or at least some Willow Sanderson Aussie optimism.

  “I won’t lie,” Amanda finally said. “It wasn’t easy dealing with all that. I was here till after eight Friday night. Next time, you may want to think about having somebody else stay with the guest. You’re in charge. The event is your top priority.”

  “The client, not a guest,” Willow said, forcing her temper down. Amanda had done her a favor, and she hadn’t been there to judge the situation for herself, which colored things. She was twenty years older than Willow, and she hadn’t had a partner before. Used to thinking she knew best, which didn’t mean Willow had to agree.

  “Not even the Aussie client,” Amanda said. “The American, and the money man, according to Jamie. He won’t be choosing any caterers, that’s certain. Below his pay grade. Nobody was quite sure why you’d gone off with him in the first place, actually.”

  “Jamie didn’t tell you, then.” Willow rinsed the onions in hot water, then in cold to reduce the eye-sting, and started slicing, her knife blade moving fast. Getting into the rhythm, and calming down along with it. “Todd Ehrlich didn’t deliver plates or cutlery. Brett drove back to Byron, bought us paper goods and flowers, made it look like a picnic, and saved the day.”

  “You already mentioned that Todd hadn’t delivered, actually.” Amanda’s hands were moving as fast as Willow’s. “In your phone message. I’m sure Tom ordered properly.” Tom, Amanda’s husband, did the website and the photos, though Willow itched to get her hands on both, and helped out with the admin side of things as well. “Things happen. Signals get crossed. Next time, darling,” she said, her tone softening, turning Willow’s spine a fraction less rigid, “send Jamie or Crystal instead. She’s sweet, and so willing. You don’t let a client know you�
��re having difficulties. That doesn’t make us look competent, does it? I’ll be stunned if they don’t ask for a discount.”

  “Actually,” Willow said, wiping out cast-iron pans and breathing deeply, “Brett promised me a bonus, as the event went so well. The guests were quite happy with the food. I did ice blocks. They were a hit.”

  “Ice blocks?” Amanda stopped stuffing lettuce leaves and stared at her. “This isn’t the school picnic. That was a serious money event. I thought we’d agreed on elegance. They asked for elegance.”

  Willow concentrated on getting the heat low and even enough before adding knobs of butter to the pans. Proper caramelization was a slow, slow process. “Yeah, well, they loved them all the same. Went over a treat. I’m wondering about costs myself, though. The PR said she was paying ninety-five dollars a head. Dearer than I would’ve expected, without a sit-down.”

  Amanda stood still for a moment, then laughed. “That’s why you don’t handle the money side, though, isn’t it? Maths isn’t your strong suit. No worries, darling, we’ve got the costs and the markups well sorted. That’s our job. You’re on food, and you’re very good at it. If the ice blocks were a hit—well, there you are. You never know what’ll come into fashion. Sometimes you hit the lucky button.”

  And other times, Willow didn’t say, you’re out ahead of the fashion, because you have a nose for it. “It’s just that Omnivore generally came in well under ninety, from what I know,” she said, not sure why she was persisting. “For something similar, that is. And that’s a bigger operation, of course, with a pricing structure to match.” Which never ended up with a run to Woolie’s for paper goods, she didn’t add.

  “I can see how you’d think so.” Amanda was still working on her lettuce packages, scooping and folding with efficient, practiced motions. “We’re aiming for boutique, though. That’s our niche. I’ll say it again, Willow, and I’ll try to be clear. You’re good with the menus and the food. That’s why I offered you the partnership. Don’t question my side of the business, please. I’ve been doing this job since you were in pigtails. That was why you wanted to buy in, wasn’t it?”

  Willow kept stirring her onions. She had to, or they’d burn, and she needed to finish this. Her face was flushed, and not just with heat. Sometimes, being a redhead was a real hindrance. “Yeah,” she said. “It was. But I am a partner, and I want to understand the entire business, not just my own niche.”

  “Oh, darling.” Amanda wrapped up her last packet, set it on the tray, washed her hands, and came over to the island where the commercial stovetop sat. “I’m sorry to be brusque. It’s all been a bit of a cock-up these past couple days, between one thing and another. I’m glad to have you here. Look at us, two of the biggest weddings of the weekend on our plate, and on our way to well and truly claim that boutique corner of the market for ourselves. You’re a wizard with flavors. Those meatballs? And who else would’ve thought of ice blocks? That’s why I asked you to buy in. It’s not all about money. It’s about the food as well.”

  “You’re right,” Willow said, letting the tension go. “All the same, I’ll be glad to get through today. Who’d be a chef, eh.”

  “Only somebody who loves it,” Amanda agreed. “Burns, sliced fingers, tempers, and all. Only somebody who loves it too much to walk away.”

  “Hey,” Brett said when Willow came through his door. He shut his laptop and shoved the swinging table back. “That’s my day getting better. Once again, you’re beautiful. It’s nearly eight, you texted me at eight this morning, and you still look like that? How?”

  She adjusted the tote bag on her shoulder. Looking a little unsure, suddenly, like she wanted to believe him but wasn’t sure if she should. “I went surfing after the wedding and got my energy back, that’s how. So you like this? I thought it looked like a nightdress, but Azra said no, it was good. It’s cool, it’s comfortable, and I got it at the Op Shop. Three for three.”

  It did look a little like a nightgown, not that there was anything wrong with that. Another V-neck, and more little straps, probably, under her cropped pale-pink sweater. The dress was white, and it was cotton, or something like that. More importantly, it was slit at the side to well above the knee. That was nice. Her hair was up in a knot again, presumably because it was still hot outside. If he wanted to take it down—well, he’d had to rest too much today, and resting had meant thinking about her curled up in that chair last night, and about how his leg had throbbed and he’d wished she’d lie down beside him. Surely it would feel better to have her body next to his, his arm around her, and her head on his shoulder. The nerve endings would settle down if you had somebody like that beside you. You could relax.

  “No,” he said. “Nothing wrong with that dress. You look terrific in white. I think it’s the hair.” What she’d said finally sank in. Damn painkillers. “Wait. Are you telling me they opened the beach again? And that you got back in? No.”

  “Different beach,” she said. “And, yeah, I was a bit scared. Maybe a bit more than that. I may have had a moment or two at the end there where I was paddling in to shore and feeling like the shark was behind me. If it were a movie, that would be when the bite came, once I thought I was safe. It wasn’t a movie, though, and if I’d waited longer to get back in the water, surely it would’ve been worse. Life’s scary. I can’t stop living it, though, can I?”

  “Hey.” He caught her hand and held it. She was a little shaky, he thought. “Come sit by me.”

  She started to say something, then closed her mouth again and set down her bag. He waited. Finally, she perched on the edge of the bed. He put his arm around her, trailing the tube from the IV, and she leaned into him.

  That same sweet smell, like the best dessert you’d ever had. Softness, and reserve. He touched her cheek with his non-tube-intensive hand and said, “Yeah. Rough few days. Life hasn’t given you many breaks, has it?”

  A breath, heaved in hard. “It has, though. I’m lucky. I’m good.”

  “Mm.” He touched his lips to her temple, there where the vein showed blue. “You look fragile, but you’re not. And yet.”

  “Well, maybe . . . sometimes, you just need somebody’s arms, hey. Could be you’re it.” Her own arms were around him, too, and he kissed her again, on her cheek this time. She said, “I wanted to kiss you like this last night. I thought, ‘Why didn’t I? Why shouldn’t I? It’s his cheek. You’re not performing oral sex on the bloke.’”

  He laughed. It hurt. “Wow. All right. Because it felt like more, maybe? Or so we’ll hope.”

  “Except that you’re immobilized.”

  “Well,” he said, “there’s that,” and she laughed, stood up, and moved to the chair. Too bad. She started digging in her bag and said, “You’re feeling better, obviously.” Tender moment over.

  “Yeah.” He wanted to say something else, but he wasn’t sure what. He wasn’t used to that, and he wasn’t getting any fonder of it. He decided on, “How did the wedding go? Rescue anybody today?”

  “Not today. I just fed them. But I did make possibly the best meatballs you’ve ever tasted. If your tummy weren’t so rocky, I’d have brought a few along to show you what I can do. I also did a gorgeous vanilla custard for my tarts that made me think of you, as you seem to enjoy the sweet stuff so much.” She pulled a thermos, a plastic container, a glass, a bowl, and a spoon from her bag one at a time, like Mary Poppins, set them on his table, and asked, “Can I move this?”

  “My laptop? You bet you can. I’m off the clock, and so are you. And you’re right about custard. Can you make Boston cream pie? I keep wondering.”

  She set the laptop over by the window. “I’ve never heard of it, but I can make most anything. For tonight, I brought you your peach-vanilla smoothie. With ice cream. Just enough to make it delicious. I had the nurse at the desk put a couple of red ice blocks in the freezer for you, too. Something to walk down the hall for tomorrow, maybe. Your smoothie’s dessert, though, because I also brought this.” She
held up the plastic container. “If you aren’t hungry, you can save it for later. It’s good for you, and it’s still warm.”

  “What is it?” He couldn’t see inside the opaque plastic. “You terrify me. I fear liver, or possibly steak-and-kidney pie. I have no desire to eat anybody’s internal organs, or to use the blue plastic bag again. If you make me eat a kidney, I might.”

  She was smiling, so that was good. “It’s chicken and dumplings. Buttermilk dumplings. American, full of protein, easy on the tummy, and containing no organs whatsoever. I even took the chicken off the bone for you.”

  “Willow.” He looked at her as severely as he could manage. “How did you have time to make this for me? How much energy do you have?”

  “Heaps. Just like you.” She got busy scooping it out into the bowl and arranging his table for him, then took a tiny plastic zip bag from her tote and scattered something frilly and green in the dish. “Parsley garnish to make it prettier. I told you, cooking’s my happy place, and this was easy. I had the stock in the freezer already. Slow cooker, and so forth. Besides, if you rescue somebody, you’re responsible for him, right? I’m wondering about you, though. You broke your femur two days ago, you’re in hospital, you’re on major drugs, and you’re working. Are you a workaholic, Mr. Hunter?’

  She was talking too much because she was uncomfortable. She’d exposed herself by making him a special meal, and she was trying to cover it up for fear he’d take advantage. Not physically, obviously, because that was off the table, so why?