“Sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” Lori said. “Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be right behind you. Behind you, Abby. I love you, but not enough to get in front of a camera on national television. I’m going to go grab dinner before I drive the Bunco Babes home.”
Abby smiled. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Let’s hope we never find out. Night.”
An end-of-round bell chimed loud enough to make Abby’s ears ring.
The Bunco Babes—most of whom were significantly on the other side of Social Security—had been holding their monthly die games at the Flutterby long before Abby began working here. The group’s themed get-togethers were both a pleasure and a pain, as inevitably something would get changed at the last minute, from the menu requests—tonight they’d ordered pizza from Zane’s—to the decorations, but that was where Gran came in. Letting her focus on the group, both as a member and an organizer, gave her something to concentrate on other than the fact that she was growing older. Their continued patronage also brought in some extra cash, and right now, every penny counted.
And about those pennies...
Abby returned her attention to the online application Gil had steered her toward. Everything seemed straightforward enough.
No, she wasn’t a professional chef. No, she hadn’t had any professional training. Yes, she agreed not to use any employees of the Flutterby Inn during the competition. No, none of her employees or family were associated in any way with the National Cooking Network.
Her eyes blurred as she clicked the boxes. No wonder people didn’t read the fine print in these migraine-inducing contracts.
“Okay, here we go.” She hovered the mouse over Submit and caught the bold print below the button: “Application not processed until full payment of fifteen hundred dollars is received.”
Abby sagged in her chair.
Fifteen hundred dollars?
Her heart lurched. She couldn’t afford the seven hundred dollars for the miniscule promo tent the network would provide—how did she expect to come up with more than double that? Sell her car? Hardly. The ten-year-old clunker probably needed more than that in repairs, not to mention she needed a vehicle to get Gran to and from her doctors’ and physical therapy appointments.
Asking friends was out of the question. Money and family—and to Abby her friends were family—did not mix. She didn’t own anything of much value. Well, except...
Her stomach twisted as she pulled her parents’ wedding rings free from her shirt. She bit her lip.
She couldn’t be that desperate. Could she? Would it be worth it? Selling the only thing she had of her parents when there was no guarantee she’d win? If she did, she needed to rethink her strategy. She’d have to have help. Not financial. She needed someone to guide her, encourage her. She needed...
She needed a teacher.
Her thoughts spiraled around each other as she minimized the application screen and opened a new window, this time checking out the benefits of the upcoming festival on the NCN site. All those chefs, all those people who made creating meals look as easy as opening a door. How hard could it be if she really focused? Maybe it was as simple as reading as many cookbooks as she could get her hands on, and there was a library full of them in the kitchen. Matilda collected cookbooks like Mr. Vartebetium collected bills.
She clicked through the various chef bios, wishing she had their confidence, their talent. Their...
Abby squinted, leaned forward until her nose was practically pressing against the screen. That face. Her heart pounded. She knew that face. She recognized those eyes.
She gasped and looked toward the staircase. It couldn’t be. Energy she thought she’d lost buzzed inside her like a frenzy of bees trapped for too long. He didn’t have a beard and his hair was a lot longer, but there was no mistaking the attitude that exuded off the screen or those blue eyes.
She bolted through the dining room, lifting a hand in greeting as her Babes called out to her. She flicked on the kitchen light and headed for Matilda’s overflowing shelves filled with her collection of signed cookbooks. Meticulously organized as Matilda was, Abby skimmed her fingers across the top shelf and yanked out the copy of All the Best by Jason and David Corwin.
One glance at the back cover was all she needed, except she almost didn’t recognize him. So he could smile. He could even laugh. She could almost hear the brothers as the affection reached off the page and brushed against her heart.
David Corwin. He’d been killed, she remembered, trying to recall the details. Earlier this year in a plane crash. Ursula and Paige had talked about the tragedy at the diner, seen on the news how the entire food community had gone into mourning.
Along with his brother.
Jason. Now the sadness made sense, but she couldn’t dwell on that.
Jay Corwin was a cook. No. She knew him well enough by now to lay odds he’d take exception to that term. Jason Corwin was a chef.
And he was right here. In Butterfly Harbor. At the Flutterby. Before a food festival.
Hugging the book against her chest, she wandered to the desk, dropping into the chair as her thoughts coalesced. She reopened the application, hovered the mouse over the final submission button.
Did she dare?
Her hand shook. No. Not quite yet.
She clicked off the screen, grabbed the brochure and hurried upstairs, turning the book face-out as she knocked on Jay’s door. The TV inside his room went quiet a few seconds before he answered the door, a hesitant look of welcome on his face.
“Good evening, Abby.”
Did he have to sound like Dracula welcoming her to his lair? Abby shook herself out of distracted mode and thrust the cookbook at him.
“I need you to teach me to cook.”
* * *
OF ALL THE things Jason expected to find on the other side of his door—room service he hadn’t ordered, an offer for turn-down service, a poisoned mint for his pillow—it certainly wasn’t Five-Alarm Manning asking for cooking lessons.
He forced himself to resist the urge to glance at his and David’s first bestselling cookbook. The book that had started them on the path to their dreams. “I’m not a chef anymore.”
“Are, were, whatever. You can still cook.” Abby pushed past him and took a seat in the wing-back chair next to the terrace doors. “I know, I’m being pushy and I’m sure you’re still irritated with me over how I spoke to you before. Sorry about that.”
“I really don’t think you are.” Clearly, she wasn’t leaving any time soon. He closed the door.
“Yeah, okay, you’re right.” Her sneaky grin wrinkled the top of her nose and triggered an odd flutter in his chest. “But what are you going to do? Leave? You’ve paid for three weeks.” Why was she looking at him as if she knew some big secret he remained clueless about? “I don’t care about your employment status. What I need is someone to teach me. I thought about asking Paige since Matilda is out of town, but as Lori said, I’d rather stay friends with her, and, well, you and me? Not friends. Problem solved.”
Jason crossed his arms over his chest and arched a brow. Another one of those layers, he supposed. “You got this spiel out of a self-help book, didn’t you?”
“No, no.” She waved a hand in the air. Her energy and enthusiasm flitted about the room like a rogue butterfly. “I just meant we don’t have anything to protect. I already irritate you, and, well, the feeling’s definitely mutual, but I need to know how to cook.”
“And you