The article popped up on the screen, and he read it in Sloane’s distinct silky voice.
Influenced by head chef and developer Graham Cooper Jr.’s time in Paris, Simone is a groundbreaking addition to the J. Marian Restaurants family. The cozy atmosphere offers patrons a respite from the bustle of downtown Dallas, and the commitment to quality in its diverse menu proves that a fast, casual concept doesn’t have to be synonymous with hurried and uninventive.
He scrolled through Sloane’s reviews of the dishes she had photographed—crisp, inviting images of hearty breads and fresh vegetables and bubbling cheeses with vivid descriptions of each taste and smell.
And to think he’d ever questioned what use she would be for him. For his restaurant. He’d never second-guess one of his mother’s recommendations again.
With the last sentence of the article, his fate was sealed. The emotions of the night all whisked together from the corners of his brain to form a lump in his throat.
Simone represents a thoughtfulness, precision and execution poised to revolutionize the fast-casual restaurant experience—a can’t-miss if you’re in the Dallas area.
Cooper stared at the screen, sinking down the outside wall of his restaurant to a crouch. For the first time since he said goodbye to Simone, he had an ally. Someone who believed in him and not just because they shared his blood. Who cared that Sloane was paid to write these things? Whoever she was, guarded and talented and fiercely protective of her camera, with her words, Sloane Bradley made him feel like he could do anything.
“À la bonne heure.” Cooper could almost hear the words Simone often told him as she poured tea into his mug. “In good time.”
Had his time finally arrived?
“JUAN DAVID, MAYBE you should wash your hands before you eat that.”
It was Thursday, the highlight of Sloane’s week. She got to spend a few hours in the kitchen with the kids in the City on a Hill after-school program.
It had started out as a guilt thing. Voice mails from one of the administrators, which she’d ignored twice. A sloppy demo of grilled chicken salad that the kids ate only because they were trying to be nice. But they’d warmed up to her, just as she was. No questions asked. No pretenses. Her heart had opened quickly to them in ways she didn’t think she was capable of after the accident. Now on Thursday afternoons, those kids were her safe place—a reminder of who the old Sloane was. A glimmer of hope for who she someday could be.
Juan David wiped his nose again with the back of his wrist and looked at Sloane, his grin as cheesy as the pot his right hand hovered inches above. “Yes, Miss Sloane.” He stepped off the stool and jogged in the direction of the hand-washing station. His place on the stool was stolen by his little sister Samira, who wasted no time dipping her spatula into the roux for a stir. This beautiful six-year-old with uneven dark bangs and a gap-toothed smile had great instincts in the kitchen.
A group of three older kids returned, balancing a cutting board of turkey kielbasa sausage and scallions they’d chopped under the careful supervision of their teacher, Miss Jaime.
“Look at those perfect knife cuts!” Sloane took the board and carefully set it on an empty stretch of counter. “Are you sure you guys even need me here?”
Three pairs of eyes rolled in response to her hyperbolic enthusiasm.
“Duh, Miss Sloane,” said Chloe, the only girl of the trio, a spitfire who was eight-going-on-eighteen. “What do you think?”
Sloane knew she wasn’t supposed to have favorites and really did love all of the kids. But those three—Miles, Chloe and Davon—were the ones she’d been with the longest and the ones she most looked forward to seeing every week.
Especially Davon. He had a soft spot in her heart because he reminded her of an eight-year-old Aaron, only with a much louder personality.
“I think you guys had better start helping Emma grate some cheese because this sauce is almost ready.” Sloane nudged the side of Davon’s grainy oversize polo shirt with her elbow. No response. Something was bothering him.
“Miss Sloane, I—” As if in slow motion, Samira’s little cobalt-colored eyes screwed up and she turned and sneezed before Sloane could react, covering her arm and the hip of her jeans in germ-infested bodily fluids. Immediately, she could almost feel a crawling sensation. Keep it together, Sloane. It’s not that bad.
“It’s okay, Samira.” Sloane gingerly placed a clean, gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Bonus points for not sneezing in the food. I guess you and Juan David caught the same cold, huh?” She motioned to Jaime to take over the roux and then guided Samira to the hand-washing station. Armed with a hefty stack of paper towels and Sloane’s hand sanitizer, they cleaned themselves off as best as they could.
But as Sloane supervised the methodical Chloe stirring in three different cheeses, she checked the clock on the wall every few minutes, trying not to let any part of her skin come in contact with her jeans. Only a few minutes stood between her, a hot shower and a fresh change of clothes.
The timer on the stove went off.
“The pasta is ready!” a chorus of voices proclaimed.
“Okay, everyone,” Sloane said in her most obnoxious, booming voice, “stand back.” She slipped a pair of oven mitts over her fresh plastic food service gloves. “Davon, colander?”
He shook his head and took a step back, an uncharacteristic darkness etched into his long-lashed green eyes.
“Okay. Miles, colander?”
“Ready, Miss Sloane.” Miles steadied it in the sink and backed away quickly.
“Hot water coming through!” Sloane sang in a high-pitched voice that made the kids erupt into laughter. She emptied the pot into the sink and turned her face so the steam didn’t burn. “Shoom! Shoom! Shoom!” She threw her hands up and down, mimicking the billowing steam to the kids’ laughter. Shaking the remaining water from the colander, she whisked it to the stove again and poured it in the pot with the finished roux. “Miles, Chloe, Davon. Do you have the rest of the cheese?”
“It’s ready,” Chloe said.
“Yes, Miss Sloane.”
Silence from Davon.
Miles sprinkled it into the pot—with clean hands, Sloane checked—as Chloe stirred. Davon stood back, watching with his arms crossed.
Sloane’s chest hitched as he swiped at a tear in the corner of his eye. Her little friend was usually so enthusiastic. And ornery. The others had to fight to share the energy and attention of the room with him.
“And the grand finale. Drumroll, please.” As the kids rapped their hands against the counter, their stomachs, thighs—whatever they could find—Sloane scraped in the turkey kielbasa and scallions and evenly distributed them in the cheesy mixture. “All done. Look what you guys made!”
Six small heads crowded around for a glimpse of the pot’s contents, and Sloane had to admit it looked amazing.
“Wow,” Samira said. “And we can make this at home?”
Sloane nodded and banged the spatula against the pot to free a clump of excess cheese. “It’s a lot better for you than the stuff in the box, too.”
“I bet it doesn’t taste as good.” Miles jutted his round chin.
“Okay, then.” Sloane raised her eyebrows. “You don’t have to try it. More for everyone else.”
Even though he was grinning and clearly knew she was joking, the fleeting look of panic in Miles’s blue eyes made her laugh.
“Oh,