The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice. Kristin Hardy
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leaning idly against the wall by the back door. He looked tall, lean, insouciant. His teeth flashed white as he tapped the side of his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute. Face flaming, she turned hastily back to her marigolds.
It had been going like that all week. The more she tried to avoid him, the more he was everywhere she looked. No matter how early she dropped in to work the grounds or tend the greenhouse or get supplies for her workday, she always seemed to run into him. He’d be heading into work or coming back from the farmers’ market or taking a break from the heat of the kitchen, but he’d be there.
The fact that she’d been able to avoid talking to him so far was scant comfort. She could read it in his eyes as he nodded or winked or gave one of those half-assed salutes: he hadn’t forgotten. He was just biding his time.
The thought made her stomach tighten.
Enough, she thought impatiently and pressed another marigold into place, using her knuckles to tamp down the earth around each plant. She didn’t need to think about it anymore. What she needed to do was—
A thump and a curse from one of the guesthouses had her glancing over. It was her father, carrying one of the inn’s Adirondack chairs up the stairs to the guesthouse deck, and not having an easy time of it.
She frowned as he stopped halfway up, leaning on the railing, breathing hard. “Dad?” she called, rising to her feet. “You want some help?"
She didn’t wait for the answer but jogged over anyway. By the time she got there, he was standing again and waving her away. “Everything’s fine, hon. I was just catching my breath. This fool cold I’ve had just won’t go away.” He wiped his forehead.
She caught hold of the bottom of the chair and began carrying it up with him. “Don’t you have someone who can do this?” She shook her head before the words were even out.
“Okay, dumb question, never mind. But seriously, maybe you ought to give it a rest. You don’t look so hot.”
“I’m fine,” he puffed. “I just need to kick this bug.”
“You just need to stop running yourself into the ground,” she countered. “Didn’t the doctor tell you that last week?"
“The doctor’s office is probably where I got the cold. I was fine until I went to see him."
“You probably had it already, you just didn’t have symptoms.”
“That’s what your mother says.”
“And if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll never get over it,” Cady scolded.
“Your mother says that, too.”
“Lucky you, surrounded by adoring women.”
“Or women who think they’re always right.”
“That’s because we are right,” she said as they topped the stairs. “And one thing I’m right about is that you need to take a break."
“I’d better not. I’ve got to get these chairs out. Tomorrow’s Friday and we’re full up. First time all year.” He sank down on the Adirondack with a sigh. “I just need to sit down for a minute, that’s all."
“What you need is to take some ibuprofen and go to bed.” She bent over him worriedly, studying his pasty face. “I’m going to call Tucker. He and I can put the chairs out."
“Don’t bother him,” Ian protested. “He’s got the marina to worry about."
“I’ll help him push his boats around next week.” Straightening, she pulled out her cell phone.
Ring tones sounded in her ear and then there was a click. “Whadda you want?” Tucker demanded, but she could hear the grin in his voice.
“Is that any way to talk to your favorite cousin?” Cady asked.
“The one who never calls me unless she wants to ask a favor? That cousin?"
“You mean the cousin who comes to every one of your gigs, no matter how many Dave Matthews songs you insist on playing?” Tucker played bass on weekends in a local bar band that featured more enthusiasm than talent.
He gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. What is it this time?"
“I need your help moving some deck furniture. Dad’s not feeling so good."
“I’m feeling fine,” Ian muttered bad-temperedly.
“He’s not feeling so good,” she repeated. “There isn’t that much to move. We could probably do it in half an hour if you’ve got the time."
“Be there in five,” Tucker responded without hesitation, hanging up. Over on the docks, she could see him leaving the marina kiosk in his work shirt and jeans.
“Everything all right?” a voice called and she glanced down to see Damon at the foot of the stairs.
Any nerves she might have felt were tamped down by concern. “Just calling in reinforcements,” she told him. Behind her, Ian shifted. “Don’t you move or I’ll call Mom,” she threatened, turning to give him a stare.
“Not one of you kids gives me any respect,” Ian complained.
“I know. You’re so maltreated,” she soothed, leaning in to kiss his forehead. “Now be quiet and rest. Better yet, go back to the house and lie down."
“I can’t do that. One of the waiters called in sick. I’ve got to fill in for him tonight and there’s way too much to get done before then."
“You’re not working anybody’s shift. I’ll take it.”
Ian snorted. “You hate waiting tables more than you hate working the front desk."
“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” She flashed him a grin before turning for the stairs. “Besides, I can use the tips."
Damon was waiting for her when she reached the bottom. “He okay?"
Her smile faded. “Just a cold that’s coming back,” she said. “He tries to do too much sometimes. It happens when your job description includes everything."
Damon glanced over at the array of slatted wooden chairs and snack tables outside the storage shed. “Where are all those going?"
“On the decks of the guesthouses.”
“Lotta stairs,” he observed.
“You’ve noticed that?”
“I guess maybe you could use some help.”
“Speaking of jobs, shouldn’t you be in slinging hash?”
“I get time off for good behavior,” he told her.
“I’ll skip pointing out the obvious because we need to get these chairs out,” she said. “If you’re serious about the offer, we need two chairs on each deck, plus a snack table."
“You outsourcing my job?” Tucker demanded from behind her.
Cady rolled her eyes. “In case you two haven’t met, Damon, this is my cousin Tucker McBain, who runs the marina. Tucker, this is Damon Hurst, the new chef at the restaurant."
Tucker had sun-streaked brown hair and the easy grin of a man who spent his life on the water he loved. He also had the McBain height that only Cady had somehow missed inheriting. It gave him an appearance of lankiness that was deceptive; a person who looked carefully would see the muscle and power Tucker had developed over years of running the marina and working his lines of lobster pots. A person who underestimated him would be both foolish and sorry.
“Now she’s raiding the kitchen for conscript labor.” Tucker shook hands with Damon. “She’s out of control."
“Clearly.”
“So, you in on