Love Inspired November 2014 #2 (10 page)

Ah, now she'd done it. Had she knowingly thrown that door open, or just by accident? He puffed up his chest. “I am an outstanding cook. I could probably cook circles around half the restaurants in Gordon Falls, and not just on firehouse fare. I'll have you know my skills extend far beyond chili and burgers.”

Her eyes narrowed at his boasting. “Do they? So not only can you install ovens, but you can use one, too?”

There was just enough tease in her words to seal her fate. “I'm on duty tomorrow night, but Friday you are going to find out just how well this man can cook his way out of a paper bag. As a matter of fact, I could probably cook a paper bag and you'd think it was delicious.” Before Charlotte could put in one word of protest, Jesse stood up and began opening the mostly empty cupboards and fridge, taking stock of what was here and what he'd need to bring. “You said you were going to the grocery store and back to Chicago for a load of stuff tomorrow, right?”

“Yes?” She looked as if she had just opened Pandora's box and wasn't sure if she should start regretting it.

“You're coming back Friday? You've got a saucepan?” He circled his hands to mimic a deep round pan just in case she didn't know her way around a kitchen.

“I'll be back Friday. And of course I have a saucepan.” Her hands crossed over her chest.

“Frying pan?”

“Yes. Two, in fact.”

He scratched his chin, the meal planning itself in his head already. “Bring both.” Grabbing a receipt from off the counter, he started writing. Within five minutes he'd given her a list of items and suggested tableware. This was going to be fun. If there was anything Jesse Sykes knew how to do as well as build things, it was cook things. Delicious, incredible things. Friends cooked for friends all the time, right? It wasn't a date. Not even close.

Charlotte sat there, running her hand down the list with her mouth open. “Um, I've got everything on here but a cheese grater.”

“I'll bring mine. And my spices. I don't trust the grocery store stuff most people get—no offense, but it makes all the difference. Can you be back in Gordon Falls by five-thirty?”

She shrugged. “Works for me.”

Charlotte's smile held the tiny hint of “you gotta be kidding me” that touched the edges of her eyes. It kindled an insane need to put that doubt to rest and flat-out amaze her. Jesse knew—down to his boots knew—that he could. He just wasn't going to take the time to analyze why.

Chapter Ten

C
harlotte pulled open her back door Friday night to the sight of Jesse holding a pair of stuffed grocery bags. A bouquet of flowers tottered on the top of one bag while a loaf of delicious-smelling bread poked out of the other. He grinned. “Hungry?”

She grabbed one of the bags and held the door open. A whiff of “clean guy”—that extraordinary mix of soap and man and a hint of whatever it was he put on his hair—wafted by as he passed, and Charlotte felt her stomach flip. Maybe she should have stayed in Chicago and said no to this little feast. That probably would have been the smart thing to do, but this didn't really feel like a date, and besides, Jesse didn't strike her as the kind of guy who took no for an answer.

Still, there was no denying the guy was seriously attractive. And toting incredible food. God must have known what He was doing when He ensured she wouldn't be hosting Jesse alone.

Just as he put the bag down on the counter, Jesse caught site of Charlotte's new housemate. His entire face changed.

“You have a cat.”

Jesse said the words slowly, biting off the end of the last word with a sharp
t.
This was clearly not a welcome revelation.

“I do.” She forced ignorant cheer into her voice. For the fifth time today, Charlotte wondered if Melba had known
exactly
what she was doing when she'd presented her with the furry little wonder when Charlotte got back from Chicago this afternoon. She walked over to the kitchen seat where her new companion sat staring suspiciously at her guest cook. “Jesse, meet Mo.”

Mo curled up the end of his tail in something Charlotte hoped did not translate to “I was here first.”

“Hello, Mo.” Charlotte could practically watch Jesse's back straighten. Dinner was in danger of becoming a territorial battle, and the man had been here all of thirty seconds.

“You brought a cat into a house under renovation.” Charlotte could practically hear Jesse's brain trying to link the two ideas. While he never said it, and was trying hard not to look it, the man's every pore seemed to seep “Are you out of your mind?” She watched him mentally sift through potential verbal responses before he settled on “That will make things interesting.” Then he set down the bag of groceries they'd both forgotten he was holding.

Charlotte, who'd already set down the bag with the bread, walked over and stroked Mo. He arched his back up to meet her hand, keeping one yellow eye on Jesse as if to say “See? She likes me.” “Melba gave him to me as an early birthday present. She has a cat she loves very much.”

“I remember.” They weren't happy memories, that much was clear. He chose his next words carefully. “I'm surprised Melba failed to remember that working on the house with Pinocchio didn't go especially well.”

Mo apparently took offense to that, leaping in a brown, black and white streak toward what would be the dining room. Evidently he wasn't going to stand around and listen to Jesse defame his character. She imagined he'd head up to the bedroom soon, as the mattress on the floor had become his favorite spot since this afternoon. “She mentioned it might be a bit of a bumpy ride at first. But I love Pinocchio, and he was great company curled up next to me in the guest room at Melba's. Mo's been fine and settling in all day. It'll be nice to have company. You told me you were a dog person, but I didn't realize that meant you were an anti-cat person.”

Jesse began taking items out of the bag. “I'm not an anti-cat guy. I just recognize that construction can stress animals out. You may be in for a bumpier ride than Melba let on.” She watched him choose to get past it, pushing out a breath and turning to her with the bouquet of flowers from the grocery bag. “These are for you. Paid for, fair and square.”

She didn't want to let Mo ruin the evening, either. She'd considered Mo a convenient excuse, a way to cut the evening short if things felt as if they were getting too close. Now, looking at him all spiffed up and offering a bouquet of flowers, Charlotte realized she liked Jesse. She
really
liked him. And that could still be okay; one dinner with him didn't constitute a lifetime of sirens and anxious nights. It was just a friendly dinner. She didn't have to stress over it the way she might have over a
real
date.

She took the flowers, delighted that he'd chosen a mixture of wildflowers and sunny pastels rather than something serious like roses or ordinary like carnations. The arrangement fit the room, fit the sturdy little table that would host their meal. “Thank you. They're lovely. I brought a vase from my Chicago apartment, too. I was going to put some greenery from the backyard in it, but this is much nicer.” She reached into a box on another counter, found a doily Mima had crocheted and set it on the table with the vase right in the center.

They worked together on the meal as easily as they had worked on the bathtub. Jesse was masterful in the kitchen, doling out small jobs like chopping shallots while hovering over four different pans of delectable-smelling food. It made the cottage feel like a true home. A meal with friends.

Only it didn't seem to want to stay just “a meal with friends.” Jesse would catch her eye every now and then, smiling confidently as he explained why this had to boil for just a minute more, or why that ingredient had to be added just a little at a time, and her pulse would catch just a bit. He sang snippets of Sam Cooke's “You Send Me” while he worked, and his voice swirled around her as it filled the kitchen. Then he lifted the lid on one saucepan and spooned up a creamy white sauce that smelled delicious. Jesse tasted it, eyes closed in assessment, added a little more of something, then tasted again. His resulting smile beamed of victory. “Here, try this.” He held out a spoon, and Charlotte couldn't have refused for all the world.

Had someone told him Alfredo sauce was her favorite? Had he run into Melba or Clark at the grocery store? Or was this just another way Jesse Sykes knew how to keep his customer happy? “Oh,” she said, going beyond just a taste to lick the spoon completely clean. “Oh, my. Wow.”

“My family may be Anglo, but Italian is my specialty. Douse that handmade fresh spinach fettuccine with this, add the Brussels sprouts I've got going over there, and you'll think you've died and gone to heaven.”

Charlotte winced. “I'm...um...not really a fan of Brussels sprouts.” Actually, she didn't know anyone who was a fan of Brussels sprouts.

“You haven't tasted mine.” He said it as if resistance to his particular brand of vegetable would be impossible. The tone of his voice made her believe him. Or at least want to believe him. “Close your eyes.”

She gave him a look. “A bit dramatic, don't you think?”

He gave her a look right back. “You'll eat those words right after you eat my Brussels sprouts.”

Parking a hand on one hip, Charlotte countered, “You know that sounds ridiculous, don't you?”

Jesse wagged his fingers in front of her face until she rolled her eyes before squinting them shut. She heard him fiddle with the top of a saucepan, then the sound of his voice very close and soft. “Open.” He sang the word more than said it, his tone smooth and coaxing. She felt him close with her eyes closed, smelled the soap on his skin now mixed with the marvelous scents of his cooking. Maybe Brussels sprouts had been given a bad rap. She felt the fork against her tongue and bit down on what he offered.

Oh.

Brussels sprouts were the epitome of gross vegetables, the thing universally turning up child and adult noses everywhere. These could not have been Brussels sprouts. They were crunchy and a bit crispy, with something savory hiding between the tiny green leaves. Half a dozen different tastes and textures mixed on her tongue. This was the chocolate cake of vegetables. It couldn't be those nasty green orbs everyone avoided in the produce aisle. He was tricking her; he had to be.

Charlotte opened her eyes wide, unprepared for the closeness of Jesse's triumphant face. There was a second piece on the fork, which she immediately ate. “Wow,” she said with her mouth full. He was so close, so dauntingly handsome, and he had just fed her his cooking. At this very moment, Jesse Sykes was the most attractive man on earth. Denying it was just plain impossible. “That's a vegetable?” she whispered, just for something to say because his nearness was fogging her thinking.

“You should see what I do with butternut squash,” he boasted, “but this is a personal specialty.” He reached out and brushed a bit of sauce or butter or whatever that splendid concoction was off her chin. She shivered at his touch, fighting off the dizzying sensation his brown eyes kindled in the pit of her stomach.

Talk. Talk before you do something else, something you don't want to do right now.
“Every Brussels sprout on earth should stand up and thank you.” She hated how flustered she sounded, hated how he knew exactly how he'd wowed her and was currently reveling in it. “I hope you made a lot of those.” She ducked out of the dazzle of his eyes to peer into the covered pan.

“Pace yourself. You'll want to save room for dessert.”

The man had made dessert. That was just plain fighting dirty. If this man produced a cheesecake then all hopes of sensibility were lost. Charlotte puttered around the kitchen, fighting the sinking feeling that was like drowning but a whole lot sweeter.

Jesse stood still, watching her, as in control of the moment as she was out of it. “You want to slice up some lemon for the water?” The words were mundane enough, but his eyes seemed to say “So I don't kiss you right now up against the refrigerator?”

There was a journal page upstairs in Charlotte's bedroom listing all the reasons why dating a firefighter was a bad idea. Right now Charlotte couldn't remember a single one of them.

* * *

Jesse had eaten in some pretty spectacular restaurants, had even done the firehouse's entire Thanksgiving dinner last year, but no meal had ever filled him with the satisfaction of Charlotte's little table currently spread with his cooking. Even Mo—the predatory little beast—had come in from the living room to view the spectacle, perhaps hoping to leverage his cuteness into a little creamy Alfredo sauce.

Jesse gave him a “my turn” glare as he walked over to pull out Charlotte's chair for her. The urge to run a hand through the cascade of her blond hair caught him up short, and he nearly tripped on his way around to his side of the table. His plan to keep the evening light and friendly was falling prey to the look of utter delight on her face. It sank deep into his chest and settled there like a craving. She took such a rich pleasure in the world, in small things, in things he often took for granted. What gave her such a rare capacity for joy like that? Even in the face of all the obstacles life had thrown at her recently?

He settled himself in his chair and reached for the serving spoon. “Dig in.”

She cocked her head at him. “No grace?”

It took him a minute to realize what she'd said.

“Grace,” she repeated. “Over the food.”

“Um, sure,” he said, fumbling. “Why not.”

Charlotte extended her hand for his. Jesse was sure a man ought not to feel the sparks her hand left in his palm while saying prayers. He told himself not to luxuriate in the softness of her hands while he closed his eyes. He'd never been the hand-holding kind of guy, but right now holding her hands felt to him like whatever he saw shoot through her eyes when she tasted his cooking.

“Thank You, Father, for this wonderful meal Jesse has set before us.”

Jesse wasn't prepared for her words. He was expecting some rote little poem, some Sunday school verse said in memorized monotone. Charlotte was praying. Real, actual, as-if-she-talked-to-God-every-day conversation. Over his food. “I'm grateful for this house, for all You've made possible, for all the work that went into this delicious food. I am, quite surprisingly, thankful for Brussels sprouts, too. Who'd have thought?”

Jesse opened one eye to see her smiling, eyes closed as she carried on the easy dialogue. He'd not seen grace—or even prayer—ever look like this. It startled him, shaking something loose that felt as if it didn't belong rattling around under his ribs.

“Bless the hands that prepared this food,” Charlotte tightened her grip on Jesse's hand, making his pulse gallop for a moment, “and may it nourish our bodies. In Your Son's name, Amen.”

“Amen,” Jesse gulped out, hoping that was the right thing to say. He was still trying to work out what had just happened. Chief Bradens had been known to say a formal grace over meals at the firehouse, but they never sounded like that, and they never made him feel as though someone had just hit him with a thousand-watt floodlight, dazzled and blinking for focus.

“This looks incredible. I want to stuff myself silly—I've tasted all of it and I think you're about to meet my piggish side.”

“Knock yourself out.” He wanted to see her piggish side. He wanted to see her unrestrained enjoyment, to hear her groan with delight and lick the sauce off her fingers and ask for seconds if not thirds. He'd enjoyed lots of compliments on his food before, but those mostly fed his ego. Her pleasure in his cooking only made him want to make her happier. That wasn't the kind of selfless gratification Jesse was used to, and he didn't know how to deal with the feeling. He only knew he liked it, and he wanted more of it.

He ate with enthusiasm. He watched her eat with relish, going on about this project and that fixture between raves over the food and sighs of what could only be termed gastronomic infatuation. The combination of Charlotte gushing over his food and espousing big renovation dreams was like catnip to Jesse—to put it in Mo's terms. His insides were buzzing like live wires, sparking with every small touch, every adorable look. More than once he yearned to kiss the Alfredo sauce off her cheek, off her lips, no matter how stridently Chief Bradens and his own sense of caution had warned him off. He had found women disarmingly attractive before, but this was a whole new scale of allure.