I See...Love (A Different Road Book 1) (3 page)

“Joss, you’re going to kill me,” Nina says, walking into my bedroom looking like a screaming banshee on a humid summer night. How I would know that, I don’t know. California isn’t known for its humidity.

“Why am I going to kill you?” I ask curiously, putting my hair up in my standard chef ponytail. No one likes long brown hair in their food.

“I can’t go with you to Mr. Mason’s this morning like we planned. Something is wrong with the website. I’ve been on the phone with tech support all morning, and no surprise, they’ve been no help,” she says, as she swats at her head in an attempt to tame her hair in my bathroom mirror.

“You’re right. I’m going to kill you. We’ll just reschedule for tomorrow,” I say. It’s not a big deal. We sometimes need to reschedule, as do clients.

“Uh…yeah, no. If Mr. Mason is anything, he’s anal about keeping his schedule.”

“Ha ha ha, you just said anal,” I tease, trying to cheer her up. I know how upset she gets when there’s something wrong with her website.

“Really, I’m not kidding. You’re going to have to go by yourself and you can’t be late, not even by a minute.”

“Are you being serious right now? If he lives in a big Malibu mansion beach house and has this gorgeous gourmet kitchen as you say, then doesn’t he have a staff? What, is he going to be there the whole time?” I ask, surprised.

Half of our clients have staff that just lets us in. We do our thing, clean up, then get out and go on to our next client. The other half are stay at home wives and mothers that, most of the time like to hang around and chat with us while we cook, some even like to help a little.

“He has staff, but not like you think. He’s usually there, but he stays out of sight. At least that is until he’s not and he’s using his ninja skills to tell you something isn’t right,” she says with a sigh.

The way she said he has staff, sends my curiosity radar lighting up. It was almost sad how she said it.

“Dude, I will not have someone tell me I’m not cooking right. Did he graduate from culinary school? I think not. How did we get him as a client anyway?” I ask, not remembering just why she got his account and not me.

“Long story, it was a favor of a friend of a friend,” she says, leaving my room.

Well, I guess it’s a good thing Nina insisted I pack all the ingredients for him last night myself. At least I know everything that’s supposed to be in the cooler is in the cooler.

“You owe me a drink tonight for bailing on me this morning,” I say, walking into the office.

Nina is already in her chair, staring at the computer screen in front of her. Both of her hands are on the side of her head with fistfuls of her blonde locks in a death grip.

“Deal, I’m sure after today, I’ll need a few drinks myself,” she says with a weak smile.

“You’ll figure it out. Don’t get too over-stressed. I’m sure once you take a step back, the solution will just come to you,” I say, and then kiss her on the top of her head.

I grab my cooler bags, and then head out to the catering van. It takes me a few trips to load everything in the van for my three scheduled clients today. Before I head out the door with my last trip I yell, “Bye, Nina, I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye, have a good day. Call me if you need anything,” Nina yells from the office.

The drive to Malibu is short, and I make sure to get to Mr. Mason’s house on time per my warning of his anal tendencies. Ha, ha, ha, yep, anal is still a funny word. I grab his cooler bag, walk up to the front door and ring the bell. Before my finger can even leave the button, it’s immediately opened with more force than I expected. It was like a vacuum, and the little fly away hairs from my chef ponytail fly toward the opening door.

A very handsome and sweaty man wearing only a pair of low around the hips basketball shorts answers the door. Well, hello Mr. Mason! I plaster a smile on my face and with my one free hand, I try to inconspicuously smooth the stray hairs back in place. Nina was right. He’s not half bad to look at. His face, which looked hopeful when he opened the door, falls to one of disappointment.

“Hello, Mr. Mason, I’m Joss. I’m going to be Nina’s replacement,” I say, setting down the very heavy cooler bag.

I extend my hand to him and he shakes it firmly. His eyes give me a once over and that familiar sadness Nina exhibited this morning glistens in his eyes.

“I’m not Mr. Mason. I’m Josh. Nina did tell me you’d be coming from now on. I had hoped she changed her mind though. Come on in,” he says, stepping out of the way to allow me inside.

Well, that explains the hopeful, then disappointed look on his face. I’d be disappointed too, if I were expecting Nina and got me instead.

I grab the cooler and walk inside. Just as Nina said, this place is fantastic. The open concept house allows you to see right through the family room to the back wall of glass doors. Outside the doors are the beautiful, sandy Malibu beaches. The house is so close to the shore you can hear the waves crash as they come in. The air in the house is laced with the pleasant, salty smell of the ocean. This is like the ultimate dream job.

“This way,” Josh says, holding out his arm toward the kitchen.

It takes effort to rip my eyes away from the beach, but when I do, they land on the incredible gourmet kitchen Nina told me about. Her description doesn’t do this kitchen justice. My fingers itch to get started. I take a step forward, but I catch a figure out of the corner of my eye leaning up against the wall. I give a little startled yelp as I take in the figure.

It’s a man, and he’s buttoning up a crisp, white dress shirt. By the look on his face, he’s not a happy man. Even though he’s exuding grumpiness, my mouth hangs open as I take him in. To go with the white dress shirt, he’s also wearing a pair of impeccably pressed black dress pants. But what catches my eye are his bare feet. For some reason, his dress pants and shirt look sexy as hell with his bare feet. My eyes travel up his body and fixate on his hands as he buttons the second to last button on his shirt. The veins on his hands stand out on his muscled hands and manicured fingers. My eyes travel to his neck, then to his firm, clean shaven jawline. As I stare at his face, the heavy cooler in my grasp starts to slip from my fingers. I snap out if it and rush to the counter, setting it down more forcefully than I intended.

I look back into the family room and now recognize the man leaning against the wall as River Mason. I’ve seen him in many tabloids and magazines in client’s houses. I’m not up on the latest celebrities or fashion trends, I’m usually too busy, elbow deep in a kitchen, but sometimes my eyes may wander to a tabloid cover in a client’s house. Then I visually see Mr. Mason take in a deep breath through his nose.

“You’re not Nina,” he barks, taking me by surprise. His tone literally made me jump out of my own skin.

“Gee, what gave that away?” I whisper under my breath.

Nina is super model tall with blonde hair and blue eyes, and you could seriously bounce a quarter off of her toned ass. Me, on the other hand, I’ve got mousy brown hair, plain brown eyes and I like to eat the food I cook. I’m not fat by any means, but let’s just say I can’t borrow Nina’s pants.

“What?” he questions enunciating the last letter, with an authoritative snap.

“Uh…no, I’m not Nina. I’m Joss,” I reply as nicely as I can. “I’ll be taking over for Nina,” I finish.

“Jocelyn?” he questions.

He questions it like he doesn’t know anything about the switch up.

“No, my first name is Joss, just Joss,” I reply, getting slightly mad.

It’s one of my pet peeves when people assume Joss is my nickname, then proceed to take it upon themselves to call me Jocelyn. Yes, my middle name does happen to be Lynn, making it Joss Lynn, which sounds very similar to Jocelyn, but completely different. Only my mother calls me Joss Lynn when I’m in trouble. There is a slight pause between the two names and it sounds nothing like Jocelyn.

“What kind of name is Joss?” he asks with a defiant, irritated face.

“It’s the kind of name that was given to me on my birth certificate. What kind of name is River?” I fire back.

Oops, shit, now I’ve done it. I’ve been in his house for less than ten minutes and now he’s going to fire me for sure.

“Touché,” he replies, with a nod and a smile. “Josh, can I talk to you in the bedroom?” he continues.

I giggle to myself…in the bedroom. He wants to
talk
to Josh in their bedroom. God, I’m so dumb! I get it now, and to think I was staring at him like an adolescent schoolgirl idiot. I was thinking he was the hottest, most attractive man I’ve ever laid my eyes on, which is strange, because I don’t ever give men a second thought. I’m just not looking for a relationship, never have. If I didn’t enjoy cooking so much, I probably could have pursued a career as a nun. But, I’m not religious and, thankfully, I do love to cook. Figures though that I’m attracted to a man who just took another man upstairs to
their
bedroom to
talk
.

I roll my eyes at myself, then start to unpack the cooler, but not before the sight of River Mason standing against the wall dressed all handsome with bare feet, creeps back into my thoughts. What the hell? Do I have a foot fetish going on or something? I’d say no, because I don’t even like my own feet. I wouldn’t have pretty painted toes if it weren’t for Nina insisting we have mani/pedi Sunday. It’s the only day off we have and she insists we pamper ourselves, at least one Sunday a month.

I take out my cooking notes, then turn around and freeze with my hands spread open midair like I’ve got jazz hands. I ball them into fists, and then put them on my hips. Usually when I first meet a client, they walk me through their kitchen so I can familiarize myself with where everything is. Oh darn, I guess I’ll just have to snoop around. This will be kind of fun.

I open cupboard after cupboard, then move on to the drawers. I eye the pantry, and then take a peek in the refrigerator. I didn’t need to look in either the pantry or the refrigerator, but I couldn’t help myself. We bring absolutely every ingredient we need to cook, even the spices. But, we do use the client’s pans, utensils, and serving dishes. We do carry a few extra items in our van just in case the client doesn’t have a particular item, but we generally use their equipment.

Now familiar with the layout, I pull out a large skillet and start to sweat some onions, garlic, chili pepper, salt, and pepper while I get the rest of the ingredients out of the cooler. I find a dish and start to assemble the ingredients when I hear a heated conversation going on between Josh and River in
their
bedroom. I guess there’s not hanky-panky going on in there after all, and River’s idea of
talking
is actually
yelling
. I reach into the outside pocket of the cooler for my music player. I plug my earbuds in and crank out some tunes to drown out their arguing. It’s our policy that we sign non-disclosure agreements with our clients, but to me, ignorance is bliss.

I start to get a little swagger going on in my hips as an awesome song comes on. As I assemble, I dance to the music and enjoy myself while cooking in such an amazing kitchen. I start singing along to the words in my head when I hear, “What are you cooking?”

Those aren’t the words to this song. I feel a tap on my shoulder, then one of the earbuds is pulled out of my ear.

“Hey!” I instinctively shout, and then turn around to see Mr. Mason standing an inch from my face.

“What are you cooking?” he demands.

Oh, it was him asking what are you cooking, and those weren’t the words in the song. Good, for a second there, I thought I was going crazy and the lyrics to the song had changed. But, so not cool for pulling out my earbud.

“Eggplant Parmesan,” I tell him, turning off the player, then I remove the other earbud and set it all on the counter.

“Your music was so loud, I could hear it in my bedroom,” he complains.

Oh, he so could not hear it all the way in his bedroom. It would have to be a million decibels to hear it through my earbuds, plugged in my ears, and all the way in a totally different room. And over his yelling, I might add. What a liar McPherson pants.

“Has Nina ever cooked this recipe for me?” he continues.

Oh, boy here we go! The complaining starts on the very first dish I cook. This will be an interesting client for sure. And I think Nina will owe me ten drinks tonight, and maybe a back massage too.

“I’m sure she has, but I cook mine a little different than Nina,” I tell him, trying not to be offended.

“That’s it,” he says.

“What’s it?” I ask confused. He’s already had enough of me and he’s firing me from one dish!

“This smells like what my mother used to cook,” he says, taking another big smell.

What does he mean used to cook?

“What’s in it?” he asks.

I start to rattle off the list of ingredients as I put the ingredients I’ve already used back in my bag.

“That, what’s that smell right there?” he asks.

I was just screwing the lid back on the nutmeg. I stop, unscrew it and take a smell. It really is pure heaven in a jar.

“Nutmeg. It’s the secret ingredient that no one knows is there, but makes all the difference in the world to the dish,” I say, then raise it to his nose.

Oh my God! I just raised a jar of nutmeg to River Mason’s nose. I quickly pull my hand back down and screw the lid on. My eyes travel down to his feet and instantly I’m disappointed to see he now has on a pair of shiny, black dress shoes. Granted, they’re very nice black dress shoes, but another glimpse of his bare feet would have been nice. But, getting a look at the complete package is also a treat.

“River, I just got a call, your conference call has been moved up. We need to head into the office,” Josh says, walking into the kitchen also wearing a nice business suit.

Oh yeah, I forgot about Josh.

River lowers his head to the side of my face and I freeze, completely thrown for a loop. I’m unsure just what I should do. Do I back away? Do I hold still? Do I slap him? Shit! No, we don’t slap clients. He’s totally invading my personal space, though. He’s so confusing. He’s angry, demanding, and totally full of himself, but this…this is uncharacteristic. My eyes dart back and forth as he takes another deep inhale. I guess my staring at his feet is as weird as him smelling the back of my ear, so who am I to question.