He turned his attention back to the stove. “Cal—” did not find a halfhearted sketch of him doing tai chi “—just mentioned you were a really good artist and lived in Toronto.”
She lathered butter and maple syrup on her pancake. “That’s all in the past. I’m going to have to figure out something else to do now. Mmm,” she said around a mouthful of pancake. “These are fantastic. I don’t suppose you want to work at the café? We’re desperate to hire a second cook.”
“Sorry. I’m too busy right now.” But once his house was finished, he’d consider it. The café was probably the hub of the village, and that was the kind of thing he’d like to get involved with.
He put another pancake on her plate, poured more batter into the pan and expertly cooked up a stack of pancakes as Sylvie ate hers. When he had what he hoped would be enough, he sat at the table, slipped a couple more to her and added syrup to his.
“Thanks.”
Adam forked up a mouthful and sat back to watch her eat. He was a good cook and he liked feeding people. He might not be able to help Sylvie with her problem, but at least he’d made sure she started the day with a good breakfast.
When she finished eating, Sylvie shoved her plate to one side and leaned toward him. “Would you teach me how to cook?”
Feeling as if he’d been dropped into the middle of a minefield, Adam placed his forkful of pancake back on his plate. “You don’t know how?”
“No, and I want to learn.”
“Um...” He looked everywhere but at the hint of sadness in her eyes. “Teressa. Ask her. She’s a cook.”
“Teressa hates me. She won’t teach me.”
“I met her yesterday. She seemed like a nice person. I doubt she hates you.” When Sylvie skewered him with a snarky look, Adam smothered a smile. He liked her sass.
“Okay, she doesn’t hate me. She thinks I’ve got it made, and her life stinks. She loves her kids, but having two different fathers for them is hard. Nothing’s ever come easy for her.”
“And it has for you?”
“No. I’ve worked my butt off. But no one sees that, or at least wants to see it. I’m the one who left and made it in that big, cold world out there.” The corners of her mouth crimped tight. “Sorry. I don’t usually indulge in self-pity.”
He had to admit that he didn’t understand what her problem was—she was young, beautiful and apparently successful. What he did know was he needed to come up with a reason why he couldn’t teach her how to cook.
No way could he spend time around this woman and not have rampant fantasies about her. She was just too damned hot. It wouldn’t take long for him to want to act on those fantasies, and then he’d be back to the Carson men wanting to know exactly who he was and where he’d come from. Assuming, of course, Sylvie was interested in him. “Your father and brothers don’t know how to cook?”
“They do, and they won’t teach me, either. Everyone either thinks I should be painting all the time, or they’re afraid I’m going to slice a finger or hurt myself if I work in the kitchen. But they don’t get it. I need to know I can do something other than paint.” As Sylvie paused, the pleading in her eyes damn near broke his heart. “We don’t have to tell anyone. It would be our little secret.”
No. He tore his gaze away from her angel-blue eyes and said the word inside his head again to make sure he got it right. No.
“Sylvie, I—”
“Please don’t say no.” She reached across the table and grabbed his hand. “I’ll get up early, and I’ll clean up whatever mess we make. And I promise I’ll be really, really careful so I don’t hurt myself.”
Because if she did, the Carson men would fry him alive. “You don’t know how to cook anything?”
“I can make coffee. And scramble eggs. Sandwiches, of course.” She shot him a crooked smile. “And I excel at ordering takeout.”
Her smile hooked into him and his resolve softened. “You’d think your family would want you to know how to take care of yourself.”
“I was always good at drawing.” She dipped her finger into the pool of syrup on her plate. “I won an art contest when I was nine. That’s the year my mom died, and somehow my family saw that contest as my consolation prize for losing Mom. Or so my therapist tells me. After that, Pops and Dusty and Cal couldn’t do enough to...I don’t know, nurture my talent, I guess. I was the baby of the family and the only girl, so... They were all hurting, and maybe it was easier to concentrate on me rather than deal with their own pain.”
She stared at the pattern she’d drawn in the syrup. “It eased their grief every time I drew a picture, so I kept drawing and drawing and drawing. I thought—I don’t know—that if I kept it up everything would be okay, and we’d be happy again. I drew my way into a scholarship when I was sixteen, and I’ve been living away from home ever since.”
He’d left home at fifteen for entirely different reasons, and he was sure he’d been a lot tougher than her. Even with his false bravado, it had been a rough go sometimes. Sixteen was a tender age. Too young to leave home.
His unexpected anger at her family caught him by surprise, and he stood and picked up the plates to dispel the feeling. The world was full of nasty, dangerous people. What had her family been thinking to let Sylvie leave at such a tender age?
He let the dishes clatter into the sink and turned on the water as he did his deep breathing exercise. Okay. None of this was his business. Keep things on track and get out.
“They never had a chance to teach you how to cook,” he said as he started washing the dishes. “Doesn’t mean they won’t now. You should ask them.”
“I have.”
Adam closed his eyes and prayed he hadn’t heard her voice tremble. He grabbed the frying pan, scrubbed it with more gusto than necessary. “I gotta go. Cal’s going to be here soon.” He drained the sink and bolted for the door, keeping his back to the table where Sylvie sat.
Not sat, huddled.
Man, why did he look at her? He’d almost made it out the door. What was it about this woman that unhinged him? He liked women well enough, had even fallen victim to a few and had a couple of semiserious relationships. But he’d always felt a measure of reserve with them, because truthfully, he didn’t quite get women, and that usually resulted in him saying as little as possible. So far, that didn’t seem to be happening with Sylvie. If anything he had to work at keeping his mouth shut.
He walked back to the table. “I’m not saying I’ll be available every morning, but okay, maybe tomorrow. I’ll show you how to make an omelet. You’ll have to get up early, though.”
Her eyes twinkled as she beamed up at him. He sighed in resignation and tore his gaze away from the stunning picture she made, with the morning sun kissing her face. “And you’ll have to clear it with your father first,” he added.
Her twinkle dimmed at the same time the delicate line of her jaw hardened. “I’m twenty-six years old. I do not need my father’s permission.”
But he did. If he pissed off her family, he could lose Cal’s help, and work on his house would grind to a halt. Things were getting off track, and he’d just started working on his house. “We’ll try one morning, then.”
“And go from there.”
Adam backed up fast when Sylvie jumped up from her chair, looking grateful enough to give him a hug. Not going to happen.
“I’m not making any promises. Just so you know.” He rushed the door and escaped outside.
Teach her how to