Chapter Twelve
It was just a cooking lesson.
Nick reminded himself this as he walked into the kitchen. Rosalie was a step behind. He could already smell the cotton vanilla on her skin. His stomach was flipping and flopping. He inhaled a calming breath and settled into his lackadaisical Fontaine stride. If he could fool St. Aster into thinking he was over his grief, he could fool Rosalie for an hour or two. He could pull off his usual cool demeanor, hiding his deeper feelings underneath.
Their trip to New Orleans hadn’t helped curb his crush. The one-on-one time did anything but. Instead he got a chance to experience what it was like spending a large amount of time in the company of Rosalie—almost like a day date. The more he reminisced on the trip, the more he realized that was what it was.
The two of them had gone on a date and called it a business trip. They had traveled to NOLA under the guise of shopping at Coffy’s, but had wound up doing much more. Certain moments from their day together replayed on a loop in his mind. Their dance during the street parade had felt like a dream. The secrets they shared were like strange comfort. Finally, someone he felt like he didn’t have to pretend with…
But he had to remain professional. He was her boss. That was the bottom line.
Nick glanced at Rosalie and the small smile on her face melted any resolve in his bones. He swallowed hard, body like jelly and composure off-kilter. He didn’t know how he was going to get through their lessons if a mere smile from her turned him into mush. It was embarrassing. Worse than that, it was pathetic.
Around Rosalie, he devolved into a schoolboy. He grew giddy thinking about her. His palms sweated. He couldn’t trust his voice not to waver. His senses spun into overdrive at the slightest response from her. He was a man falling deeper and deeper for a woman he could never have.
“The kitchen is spotless,” said Rosalie, clueless to his inner turmoil. She tied her apron about her petite waist and then marveled at the stainless steel appliances backdropped by the white cabinets. “Was this closing shift or did you do an extra scrub down?”
He rubbed the back of his neck and half grinned. “I figured it’d be easier for us if everything was in order.”
“You mean you cleaned the kitchen for our lesson?” she asked with a rising pitch. Her teeth caught her bottom lip for a thoughtful nibble as she set out inspecting the room. She ran a finger across the countertop for the slightest sign of grease or grime. When none turned up, she rounded on him and laughed. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re more invested in these lessons than I am.”
“It’s nothing,” he dismissed, passing off her observation with a cavalier lie. He grabbed his own apron and fastened it around his frame. “You forget I’ve got a decade of kitchen experience. I like a clean kitchen. That’s all.”
Her right brow arced, but she let his fib fly. She didn’t object, choosing her battles wisely. That terrified him. If Rosalie was playing chess, that meant he was playing checkers. Was he that obvious? Could she tell he had feelings for her?
He swallowed again and rued the sound it produced. It was an audible gulp for their ears, and he snuck a look at her and played it off with a good-natured grin. Before she could tease him for it, he launched into the day’s lesson.
“I figured we’d start off easy. Something basic that’s a favorite on the menu.”
“Gumbo?” Rosalie guessed.
He scoffed, yanking open the industrial-sized refrigerator. “Gumbo is beyond your skill set. You told me you burn grilled cheese, remember?”
It was Rosalie’s turn to squirm. She rolled her eyes and dug her hands into the front pockets of her apron. He could practically see the embarrassed flush warming up her dark brown skin. He wanted to laugh, the sight so damn cute, but he resisted.
“I’ve cooked grilled cheese without burning it,” she mumbled feebly.
He grabbed a tub of ghee from the rack on the refrigerator shelf and passed it off to her. “We’re starting off easy. Figured I can show you how to make some good ol’ fashioned cheesy shrimp and grits.”
“That’s what Mr. Yancy always orders when he comes in.”
“We’re famous for our grits.”
“Didn’t you used to be famous for the whole menu?”
“Once a upon time,” said Nick, hitting a confident stride. He forgot his nerves and snapped into chef mode. “I need you to go to the spice rack and grab paprika, salt, ground black pepper, and our special creole seasoning—you’ll know it when you see it.”
Rosalie did as asked, collecting the four items. He prepped the workstation, explaining each step of the process. For as unorganized as he was in the office, in the kitchen was a different story. In the kitchen he took his workstation seriously, ensuring his ingredients, cookware, and utensils were arranged as needed. Rosalie was an attentive student, hanging on his every word and watching his every move.
He fried up the cast-iron pan and dumped in three tablespoons of ghee. Minced garlic soon joined the melted ghee, sizzling hot in mere seconds. He gestured to the shrimp they had coated in a spice mix and asked if she knew how to sauté.
“I know how to spell sauté. That’s about it.”
“There’s a trick to it. It’s all in the movement. Watch how the contents tips upward against the rim and then flips,” he instructed with effortless ease. He dropped the half pound of shrimp into the pan. Under his expert touch, the melted ghee, minced garlic, and spiced shrimp flipped midair and landed back in place. He repeated the motion several times over, showcasing his technique. “You’ve gotta push the pan down, then forward. You pull back and voilà! You’re sautéing. Wanna try?”
The wrinkle he loved appeared on the bridge of her nose. He encouraged her with a smile.
“It’s easy. Give it a try. I promise you I’ve done worse than anything you can do.”
“You mean cooking?”
“When I was first learning? I told you about the eyebrow incident. Lost count how many fires I’ve started. C’mon.” Nick guided her to the forefront, sidestepping out of the way. He observed over her shoulder. “Hold on to the handle firmly. You got it. Now do the motion I showed you—tip down then forward then bring it back.”
“Like this?” Rosalie attempted to mimic his smooth sauté, but came up short. The shrimp and garlic spun into the air and landed everywhere but the pan. She immediately let go of its handle with a mortified cringe and step back.
He was behind her, a brick wall to hold her in place. He balanced out her alarm with cool understanding, reaching for her arm and guiding it back toward the pan’s handle.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t back off now. You were doing good.”
“Are you kidding? The shrimp went flying across the kitchen.”
“That’s okay. You landed a couple. Concentrate on those.”
“And ignore the shrimps on the floor? Got it.”
“It’s only half. Not so bad. Especially for a first try.”
“You’re trying to make me feel better.”
Nick ignored how sensitive his sense of smell was, picking up her vanilla cotton scent over any other. That was the risk he took standing behind her. He shut that part of his brain off and pressed on, buckling down into instructor mode.