My eyes narrow. “You know what I mean.”
“Oh, you mean sex?”
I roll my eyes. This is so obviously a game. He comes in here looking all hot, figuring he can seal the deal he didn’t close last night.
“Duh.”
He moves in way too close.
“I’m all for sex, Christina Rose, all for it. I could dedicate many, many hours to finding all your hot spots. And I suspect with that temper of yours you’d be quite the handful, which is something I’m all for in a sexual partner, but really, I’m just here to help you make soup.”
I try to ignore the heat that’s climbing my cheeks.
“Oh. You’re skilled in the art of soup-making?”
He shrugs. “I’ve opened a can or two.”
“What, when the help has a day off?”
His smirk doesn’t falter.
“My soup… not from a can,” I inform. “My soup? Made with love. Some of the people out there can’t get the luxury of soup even from a can. Here, on days when I cook, they get food with flavour, nutrition, and that’s made by someone who cares.”
He smiles. His eyes sparkle. “I’ll get peelin’. You can get ready for the lovemaking.”
My face flames at how he’s twisted my words. I spin away and go back to grating cheese.
“Wait,” I say, turning back to face him.
He looks at me expectantly.
“You’ll need this.” I pass him a hairnet.
He looks at it with shock. I can’t help but smirk as I spin back away from him.
Hunter
She’s beautiful when she’s angry. I have no clue why she’s so pissed at me, though. She has a problem with people with money, obviously.
Money doesn’t make me an asshole. Okay, some of my past deeds make me an asshole, but I’m trying to do better.
I peel potatoes for the next hour and then she has me washing dishes while she cooks. I enjoy watching her make salad and homemade bread bowls to serve the soup in. The kitchen smells amazing.
A few hours later, I watch her serve it with fresh herbs and freshly cracked pepper on top, presenting it like she’s feeding people at Bistro Bleu. Some of them are filthy. Stinky. Some of them are clearly homeless. Many of them look like regular people and know her by name. She gives everyone a genuine beaming smile, but every time her eyes land on me, she scowls.
I’m perplexed. She has such a hate on for me. Why does the lady protest so much?
Christina
He’s been here all day with that smug smirk, staring like he can see through my clothes.
I’m dressed for the day I planned to have—a day in a kitchen feeding needy people, lonely people, people who need a break. This centre means something to me and I hate that he’s here pretending to give a crap. Why? Does he think that’ll get him into my pants?
“So,” Hunter says, putting his jacket on. “Wanna grab a coffee?”
“I’m all coffee’d out, thanks,” I say, tossing my hair net into my cubby and fluffing out my hair.
His eyes are on me like I’ve just done something cute.
“It doesn’t have to be coffee. We could go for a drink. We could—”
“Up early for work tomorrow. Bye.” I head to the door, calling out “G’night Frannie.”
“‘Night, doll. Thanks for today. See you next week. Thursday?”
“Yep,” I say.
“Stuffed peppers?” she asks.
I give her a thumbs up.
“You rock, girl. Thanks for the help, handsome.” She winks at Hunter on her way through the swinging kitchen door.
“My pleasure, I’ll be back Thursday, too,” he calls.
I spin to face him. “No, you won’t.” I then raise my voice. “No, he won’t, Fran.”
“Yes, I will,” he whispers to me, smiling, then raises his voice, “I sure will, Fran!”
Ack. I storm outside. He follows.
“Why are you so pissed at me, Christina?”
I grit my teeth as I shove my key into the lock on my car.
“I don’t have time for this. In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m not interested.”
“Well, gotta say, I get that you’re tryin’ to convey that, but I think persistence pays off.”
“It’s not happening.”
“We’ll see,” he says cockily.
“No.” I snap my fingers in front of his face. “Wake up. I’m not doing this. I’m not interested in being your next conquest. You’re wasting your time and you’re frustrating me in the process. So… give it up.”
I pull my door open.
“Christina?”
I sigh but don’t turn around.
“You definitely made love with that soup. Best damn potatoes I’ve ever tasted. And, by the way, thank you for saving my life. You didn’t just save the life of some rich jackass. You helped him want to become somebody better.”
I’m a little stunned. I swallow and take a deep breath.
I turn around, but he’s gone.
Thursday, Hunter is back. There are more volunteers today, so it’s much easier for me to ignore him because Cathy, another program director, keeps him busy with unloading a truck of kitchen supplies.
“Is he here for community service?” Louisa, sole caregiver to her elderly father with a plethora of medical problems asks as I’m refilling the supplies at the coffee station.
“I don’t think so, why?” I ask.
“Man that sexy spending his time here? Figure he’s got a debt to pay to society.”
I shrug. She reaches for a coffee mug.
“Or maybe he’s just a nice guy,” she muses.
I hear him laugh and turn to look. Louisa is watching him talk to her father, Mr. Shriar, who frequently played chess with Mr. Wagner. Mr. Wagner died last month of pneumonia and Mr. Shriar has looked a little lost ever since.
Hunter crosses the room and passes me, eyes sweeping over me appreciatively before he gets to the boardgames shelf. And I feel a swell of pride and then shame simultaneously because yeah, okay, I put a little effort into my appearance today. And I’ve had half a dozen comments, too because I don’t usually dress up to come here. I chide myself because I probably dressed up a little in case he did show up. Stupidly.
He grabs the chess set and then passes me again, this time smiling at Louisa and not even looking at me.
My heart skips a beat when I see Mr. Shriar’s face light up at the sight of the chessboard.
“Oh wow,” Louisa says. She looks touched. “Dad will be thrilled.”
I squeeze her shoulder affectionately and head back to the kitchen to check on the stuffed peppers with a warm fuzzy feeling that Hunter might be not so bad after all.
I get into the kitchen and the smell… burning.
Oh no!
I rush to the wall of ovens and smoke billows out of the first one when I yank the door open. The broiler is on! I choke on the fumes. Three trays of stuffed peppers are charred to a crisp.
Damn it.
The ones in the adjacent oven are okay; that oven is at the correct temperature.