“Hey, Memphis.” Skip glanced over his shoulder from where he stood at the flat top, caramelizing some onions.
“Hi.” I waved and sat down.
“Want some lunch?” he asked.
“I’ve got it.” Knox held up a hand and walked to a shelf teeming with pots and pans. He took down a pot and filled it with water. Then he set it over a flame with a dash of salt before disappearing to the walk-in, returning with four different blocks of cheese. He chopped and grated until the water boiled, then he dumped in a box of dried pasta.
Knox moved through the kitchen with command and grace. It was like watching a dance.
A movement at my side stole my attention. Skip slid a plate and napkin in front of me, then winked. Busted. I hadn’t so much been staring at Knox as caught under a spell.
I blushed. “Thanks.”
“Want a new fork?” He nodded to the one still in my fist.
“This one is fine.” I set it on the plate.
Skip returned to his tasks, tearing off a ticket that rolled from a small black printer against the wall. He read it, then attached it to a clip that hung beside a warming rack. The bulbs glowed orange against the silver metal shelf.
My gaze drifted to Knox as he plated salads on three white plates. His hands plucked exactly the right amount of lettuce from a mixing bowl. His forearms flexed as he sprinkled the greens with shredded carrots and croutons from a roasting pan. Then he added sliced cherry tomatoes and drizzled on a purple vinaigrette.
Those blue eyes stayed focused, never once drifting my way. If he felt me staring, he didn’t glance up.
And once more, I became entranced with his every move. His steps. His hands. His face. His hair was long enough to curl at the nape of his neck. My mother would have called it shaggy, though I’d argue it was sexy. I’d seen what was beneath that coat my first night in the loft. I knew what those curls looked like dripping wet.
A low pulse bloomed in my core. There was always a rush where Knox was concerned but this was a curl, like thread wrapping around a spool, winding tighter and tighter with every turn.
Knox was more tempting than any meal.
More dangerous than the knife in his grasp.
The swinging door flew open and a pretty woman with brown hair hurried inside. A black apron was tied around her waist. Her white long-sleeved button-down was perfectly starched. “Hey, Knox. We’re out of chardonnay in the wine cooler. Do we have more stashed away?”
“There’s more in the cellar,” he answered, returning to the cutting board, this time with a red chili pepper. What would have taken me minutes to chop, he diced in seconds, the pieces precise and delicate. “I forgot to grab it this morning. Give the front desk a call. Eloise or someone else can bring some up for us.”
“I can go get it,” I offered.
The woman looked to me and smiled. “You’re Memphis, right? One of the housekeepers? I’m April.”
“Hi.” I waved. “Nice to meet you.”
“Here.” Knox dug a set of keys from his pocket. “The wine cellar is two doors down from the break room. Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” I took the keys and hurried from the kitchen.
I couldn’t, wouldn’t, let myself get distracted by a handsome man. Not again. My heart couldn’t handle another break.
Not that Knox was in any way interested. In truth, I wasn’t all that interesting. I’d given up worrying about my appeal the day Drake’s life had stirred in my belly.
Hurrying to the cellar, I unlocked the door and stepped inside, scanning the dimly lit shelves. The temperature was cooler in here and goose bumps broke across my bare arms.
I’d been hot all morning. Usually when I cleaned a room, it was right after the guest had showered, and it made the rooms muggy.
I scanned the wine labels, some I recognized. My fingers drifted along the sleek neck of a cabernet from a winery I’d visited in Napa years ago. It was a bottle I could no longer afford.
One day.
I moved to the shelves of white wine, loading up on a variety, then hauled them out of the cellar, locking up behind me. In the short time I’d been gone, the number of restaurant patrons seemed to have doubled. Without Knox snagging attention, fewer noticed me as I rushed back to the kitchen, depositing the wine bottles on the prep table.
“Thanks.” Knox nodded to my plate. “Lunch.”
A steaming bowl of macaroni and cheese sat beside the plate Skip had brought over. On it was the same salad Knox had made for an order.
I took my chair, knowing I would never eat it all, but picked up my fork and dove into the mac ’n’ cheese first. Rich, creamy flavors exploded on my tongue. A moan escaped my throat. The chili peppers gave the sauce a kick. The cheese was gooey and tangy and complex.
Knox stood on the opposite side of the table, and when I met his gaze, there was nothing but utter satisfaction on his face.
“This is really good.”
“I know.” He arched an eyebrow. “No more blue box.”
“I bought a ten-pack.”
“Ditch it. I always keep the ingredients on hand if you want some.”
“Thank you.” A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth as I dove for another bite. I wouldn’t bother him to cook for me. I’d just save my cheap pasta and powdered cheese for dinners alone at home.
By the time he came home most nights, he’d never know otherwise.
I’d paid too much attention to his schedule this week, mostly in hopes of staying out of his way. But also for a rare glimpse. The thrill that came with Knox was addicting. Only a foolish woman wouldn’t appreciate such a good-looking man, and I was trying very hard not to be a foolish woman.
Knox went back to cooking as I ate with abandon. He tore off an order slip from the printer, and it joined the lineup of others. While Skip manned the flat top, Knox arranged plates, then dropped a basket of shoe-string-cut potatoes in a fryer.
“Why Quincy?” His question was spoken as he sliced a ciabatta roll. He was so intent on the bread that it took me a moment to realize his question was for me.
“I wanted a small town. A safe place to raise Drake. I was thinking California. An influencer I follow on Instagram was raving about these small towns up and down the coast. But they were too expensive.” As much as I would have loved to live beside the ocean, there was no way I’d be able to afford it.
“You’re from New York?”
“I am. I was tired of the city.”
He pulled the fries, then smeared the ciabatta with an aioli, balancing what seemed like ten orders at once.
When I was in the kitchen, I had to concentrate only on the food, cooking one thing at a time. He’d probably grimace if he knew that preparing my blue-box macaroni had taken me just as long as it had taken him to make it from scratch.
“So how’d you land on Montana?” he asked.
“That same blogger did an interview with this baker in LA. She, the baker, said her favorite place to vacation was Quincy. That she and her husband spent a Christmas here and fell in love with the town. So I looked it up.”
The pictures of downtown had charmed me instantly. School ratings and the cost of living had sealed the deal.
Knox gave a dry laugh as he shook his head. “Cleo.”
“Cleo. Yes, that was the baker’s name. You know her?”