Rosalie breathed for the first time since encountering Ma. She had forgotten about what she said on her first day working at Ady’s. The phone conversation was nothing more than boiled over frustration. She had been venting. Nothing more. Unfortunately, she failed to think about how that would shape Ma’s perception.
It had done nothing but goad her further. As far as Ma was concerned, the only acceptable way for her to get back onto her feet was by earning her real estate license. Rosalie wasn’t so sure. Her job at Ady’s wasn’t perfect, but following in Ma’s footsteps didn’t feel right either. She couldn’t articulate why.
Just that it wasn’t for her.
Project Fixer-Upper was starting. It was going to require a large chunk of her time. She had already begun mapping out the details. She couldn’t—and didn’t want to—put that on hold for the real estate licensure. Renovating Ady’s felt like something she could do right. These days that list was getting shorter and shorter.
Instinct told her to focus on Project Fixer-Upper. Ma would have to understand.
On day one of Project Fixer-Upper, Nick agreed to meet her at Ady’s at 9:00 a.m. Since punctuality wasn’t one of his strong suits, she assumed he would be late and dragged her feet showing up. She still wound up early, parking her Honda Civic on Main Street. For the next few minutes she would have to sit and wait.
From her purse she dug out a pamphlet for the upcoming Autumn Festival. Yesterday she had picked it up from the community center at town hall. She had read the pamphlet cover to cover, paying special attention to page three. The page dedicated to the annual town restaurant competition spelled out the guidelines. As far as she could tell, Ady’s qualified.
It was a matter of convincing Nick to enter.
Rosalie stuffed the pamphlet back into her bag and glanced around Main Street. The other shops were open for business and cars lined the sidewalks nearby. Then she spotted the familiar glint of bronze behind Ady’s. She hurried onto the sidewalk, turning the corner around the building. Sure enough, Nick’s truck sat parked behind the restaurant. Her jaw dropped. How long had he been here?
“I didn’t expect you to be here,” she called out upon walking through the door.
The dining area was empty, untouched since closing shift, but the dry dust scent was gone. The aroma replacing it was heavenly. The savory scent could only be from one place. Rosalie left her denim jacket on the hostess podium and headed for the kitchen.
The light from under the door spilled onto the floor of the otherwise dark restaurant. Rosalie pushed the door open and paused in the doorway. Nick’s back was to the door as he stood tinkering over the stove. He whistled as he reached for an egg from the carton on the counter. He cracked the egg, splitting it open for the yolk to fall and sizzle on the pan. He had no clue she was there.
She debated on watching him some more. By the looks of it, he was enjoying himself. His whistle was theatrical and his demeanor was effortless. Unlike his clumsy attempts of managing the restaurant, he looked to be in his element in the kitchen. He added a pinch of salt to the frying egg and moved on to the next pan where andouille sausage was browning. If the women who thirsted after eligible bachelor Nicholas Fontaine could see him now, in his natural habitat, they’d swoon…
Her own cheeks warmed at what started out as an objective thought, but tumbled into another category altogether. Nick not only looked like a pro in the kitchen, he looked good in it. His tall, broad-shouldered frame moved fluidly around the stove. His large hands delicately handled the food he cooked. The contrasts were jarring and worse, undeniably affecting.
Rosalie squashed those thoughts and cleared her throat to interrupt.
“You’re early,” he answered without turning around. He dialed down the heat on the pan with the sausage and wiped his hands on a towel hanging off the wall. “I thought I’d have the place to myself for another ten to fifteen minutes.”
“I would’ve been here even earlier, but I assumed you’d be late.”
“Ouch.”
“I mean, not that I don’t think you can be on time. Just that…you’re usually not.”
“Flattery’s not your thing, is it, Rosalie?” Nick sidestepped to the rack of clean plates and grabbed two off the top. “Hungry? I’m making some breakfast.”
“I thought you didn’t cook anymore?”
“I never said I don’t cook anymore. I said I’m not the chef anymore. There’s a difference.”
“So, what, you sneak into Ady’s each morning and cook yourself breakfast?” Rosalie asked, folding her arms. She walked deeper into the room and leaned against the counter across from him. His deft ease with which he flipped the egg in the pan looked right out of a culinary show on TV. She gave an impressed nod from behind his back. “Looks like you could probably teach Jefferson a thing or two.”
“I’m making breakfast. It’s a simple meal.”
“You haven’t spent much time with Jefferson in the kitchen, have you? He fumbles over the toaster.”
Though Nick was still facing the stove, she saw the hint of a grin curve his lips. “He gets the job done. It might not be done well. But not everybody’s a natural like my mom.”
Rosalie wanted to point out that it seemed like he was. She bit her tongue and refrained, deciding to mind her own business. Nick had his reasons for stepping back from the kitchen work at Ady’s. Reasons that were none of her concern. What was her concern was fixing up the restaurant in order to keep her job, rebuild her savings, and provide for Remi.
Nick handed her a plate loaded with well-seasoned eggs, colorful peppers, browned sausage, and pan-fried hash. Her confusion was plain on her face, eyes dropping to the plate in her hand and back up to him. He laughed and leaned against the counter opposite her.
“It’d be pretty rude to eat while you’re standing here,” he explained, digging in with his fork. “What’s the matter? Not a big breakfast person?”
“No, it’s not that. Just that…this looks delicious.”
“It’s a family favorite. We call it creole hash. Maxie loves it.”
“You might have to share the recipe. I’m pretty sure Remi would too.”
“Thanks for joining us for dinner last night,” he said between bites. “You didn’t have to humor the kiddo. I know you had other things going on.”
“Remi wanted that dinner at Doughboy’s just as much as Maxie—maybe more. She’s been begging to eat anything other than PB&J’s.”
His brows lifted and dimples dented his cheeks. “PB&J’s? As in peanut butter and jelly?”
“You said it yourself—not everybody’s gifted in the kitchen. I’m one of those people. Luckily, my mom cooks fresh meals every night at dinner. Remi’s made sure I know all about how Grandmommy Lacie is the better cook.”
“Kids and their filters.”
“Or lack thereof.”
Rosalie took her first bite of the dish Nick called creole hash. The flavor hit her taste buds with robust flair. She paused chewing on the mouthful with widening eyes that met Nick’s. He was back to looking amused, as if he knew exactly what her reaction would be.