Heart's Haven. Lois Richer
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they called charisma?
He cannot be trusted.
The warning that had carried her safely through the past popped up and jerked her back like a safety harness. She could not trust him.
Cassidy fought free of his magnetism. Why couldn’t her new boss have been a sweet, chubby old man with bow legs and a face like a prune?
Her fingers tingled. She glanced down. Their hands were still melded together.
“Are you all right?”
Define all right. She had to survive six months of him. Judging by her overreaction, it wasn’t going to be a cakewalk. Dragging her fingers from his grip, Cassidy backed up two steps, inhaled a cleansing breath.
Cassidy completed a quick visual inspection of the room. “I don’t know what to call this.”
“Try chaos.” An amused smile twisted his lips.
“Have you considered a cleaning service?”
“All part of my assessment.” He waved a hand in front of his face, then coughed. “Besides a new kitchen, I guess we also need a new exhaust fan. That one sounds bad.”
At last, something about which she could speak intelligently.
“They work better if they’re clean. Most things do.” Her brain took in what was there and its condition, ignoring the hot plate he’d used. “This place will need some refurbishment. Has the budget been set yet?”
“The Wisdom Foundation has been very generous.” An infusion of starch altered his lazy manner. “This building wasn’t cheap, but it’s in the perfect location, and I think it’s exactly what Gail would’ve wanted.”
“Gail?”
The moment the word left her lips, his eyes froze. Tyson St. John didn’t have to say a word. Any fool could guess from his reaction that Gail was someone special. His wife?
“I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“Don’t be. It’s only—” After a moment’s pause he grudgingly offered details. “Gail was the one with the view for this project—the Haven, that’s what she wanted to call it.” He tilted his head just the slightest degree, as if to hide his expression. “She saw it as a place where the hungry could come for a decent meal, where the homeless could find a bed and some warmth. A kind of community center.”
“Well, there’s certainly enough room to do all that in this old school. It’s huge.”
Tyson St. John remained silent while she navigated the kitchen, opened sticky cupboard doors and peered into the dingy storeroom. He said nothing when she checked the interior of the ancient cooler and hastily backed away from the odor. He didn’t even comment when she rattled the doors of the cast-iron monstrosity that had served as a stove in some previous lifetime.
Cassidy didn’t say anything, either. But her heart sank faster than a stone thrown into Lake Michigan. It looked like nothing had changed since the building had been built. When she saw the narrow darkness of the receiving staircase she couldn’t suppress a groan.
“What’s wrong?’
“Transporting supplies up and down that will be a killer.” She pushed open the door to an adjoining room and walked inside. Remnants of cafeteria tables and chairs lay all over the place.
“The dining room,” he said from behind her, as if she hadn’t already figured that out.
“Any idea how many people you expect to serve?”
Tyson St. John’s shoulders went back. His brows drew together. He swallowed then shook his head.
“I’m, um, that is—er, I don’t think we’re that far yet. We only received possession of the property two months ago.”
Two months? Surely his assessing should have been finished.
Frustration nipped at Cassidy’s nerves, winching them a notch tighter. She’d expected to walk in here and get right to work, but with the kitchen not even ready to boil water, she foresaw her time extending exponentially.
“Mr. St. John—”
“Ty,” he insisted.
“Ty. Since I’ll only be here just six months,” she emphasized softly, “I’d like to get to work as quickly as possible. Do you have a schedule for start-up?”
The welcome in those clear blue eyes frosted up. Goodbye sense of humor.
“We have a rough plan. My thought was that we would get your input before we made a decision on any big changes in the kitchen.”
“My input.” She seized the opportunity. “All right then. Do you have a pen?”
When he blinked Cassidy knew he wasn’t prepared for her list. She’d give it to him anyway. They couldn’t afford to waste time deciding who did what. January in Chicago was frigid and the homeless people would need a place to come to.
She removed her coat, pulled a black marker out of her purse, picked up a hunk of cardboard from the floor and laid it on the counter. As she wrote, she spoke.
“Most of the money will have to go toward the big-ticket items. Cooler, freezer. We’ll need a new stove. I can manage with the pots and pans that are here. Now for small wares.” She checked the cupboards, shrugged. “Not bad. I bring my own knives, so we can manage for now. I am going to need a mixer though.”
She kept going, printing the things she needed—clearly and legibly so there would be no mistake about her requests.
“Wait!”
Cassidy froze at the barked order, peeked over one shoulder at her boss. His eyes gaped; he looked stunned.
Sympathy rose. She did tend to get carried away sometimes.
“Don’t worry, I can adapt to minimal conditions. Now in regard to helpers—I’ll need two. Full-time. Strong, willing to learn, not afraid of correction. It’s important—”
“Ms. Preston, would you please stop?”
“Stop?”
“Yes. Stop.” The relaxed demeanor had vanished, replaced by the deportment of a man used to giving orders.
The change in him made Cassidy catch her breath. Angry or teasing, he was still very good-looking, even when his eyes hardened to glacial chips and the steel in his voice warned her he wouldn’t easily relinquish control.
“I realize you are a fully qualified chef, Ms. Preston, and that this must be a bit of a comedown for you. But the Haven is not—”
“Hey, Ty!” The yell was punctuated by the echo of an elephant herd tromping downstairs. A boy burst into the room. Well, not quite a boy. A preteen? “You’ll never believe what I found.”
Tyson St. John sighed as he raked a hand through his hair.
“No, I probably won’t. Jack, this is Ms. Preston. She’s a chef. Elizabeth Wisdom sent her to cook for us.” His mouth tightened as he drew the boy forward. “This is my nephew, Ms. Preston. Meet Jackson Dorfman.”
Cassidy found the introduction stilted, but had no time to dwell on it as Jack jerked away from the contact and frowned at her.
“A cook, huh? What kind?”
He was testing her. That belligerence, the bottom lip jutting out, the glare from those bittersweet brown eyes—all characteristic signs of onset teenager-hood. Two younger sisters had educated Cassidy in the challenges of that particular age very well. It was not an experience she yearned to repeat.
“It’s nice to meet you, Jack.” Cassidy met the glare head-on. “What kind of cook do you want?”
“I-I don’t know.” He seemed surprised by the question, not quite