The Naughty List (9 page)

“When does that happen?” Insecurity gripped my voice.

Ben’s voice came from behind me. “Spring. The snow pack begins to melt by spring.”

I turned and found him with a cup of ice in his hand and a stupid grin on his face. “A man’s reputation is about as important as his word—at least where I come from.” He looked past me and toward Rachel. “You have my word that no harm will come to your friend, unless it’s of her own doing. I can’t help if she burns herself in the kitchen with whatever it is she does.”

“She’s the best pastry chef in the West. Wyoming’s lucky to have her,” Rachel said and extended her hand. “Thank you. Lucy means everything to me. I’m going to hold you to your promise.”

“I wouldn’t expect otherwise,” he said and tilted his cup of ice toward me. “See you on the plane.”

* * *

I walked to the end of the boarding line and Rachel stood beside me.

Rachel reached into her purse. “Okay, close your eyes,” she said.

“What?”

“Close your eyes and hold out your hands. I bought something for you.”

I held my hand out palm up and closed my eyes. The weight of something light, yet fragile, made me cup my hands.

“Okay, so check out your present.” She clapped.

I opened my eyes and looked down at a rectangular-shaped porcelain box in the palm of my hand. On the white lid, a picture of a Smurf juggling an ice cream cone haphazardly loaded with five flavors made me smile. The colorful ice cream scoops zigged and zagged off his cone and his little blue face was a portrait of determination.

“It reminded me of you,” Rachel said.

I grinned. “The little blue Smurf or his clumsiness?”

“Both.” Rachel carefully removed the lid of the box and handed me a small slip of paper.

“What is this?” I unfolded the paper and saw two words that would make any chef salivate: Williams-Sonoma.

“A spun sugar tool will be delivered to your resort tomorrow evening.” A proud smile crossed her lips.

“Oh my gosh.” I stared at the paper.

“I know that all of your best desserts, the ones I
love
, are topped with that yummy spun sugar art stuff you do. And I know that you’ve been wanting to have one of your own. So now you will.”

“Rach.” I looked up into her blue eyes that were the color of the Pacific when the waves broke against the shoreline. I raised my shoulders and felt every emotion I couldn’t say roll down my cheeks.

“No crying. Nuh-uh. This is not goodbye.” She wiped away a tear and pulled me into a hug. “This is simply, ‘I’ll see you soon.’”

I nodded and felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Lucy?”

Before I turned toward his voice, Rachel’s was in my ear. “You know,” she said. “The Smurf box is the perfect size to hold a condom. I already checked.”

I squeezed her tighter. “Awesome,” I whispered in her ear. “Because I don’t have any and I’m thinking I’m not going to need one anytime soon.”

Rachel stuck a condom packet in my hand. “I got it at the airport bathroom.”

I closed my hand around it and tucked it into my jeans. “I can’t believe you.”

“Luce.” His voice was pulling me away from my best friend.

Rachel released her hold on me, but not before she looked me in the eyes. “You know sometimes good guys wear black.”

I turned to see Ben standing tall in his black hat with his hand out. “They’re making us board on the tarmac and it’s a bit slippery from rain. I thought you might… I dunno, need some help. You look like the klutzy type.”

“You’re just full of compliments, aren’t you?” I said. Inwardly his gesture made me smile, but outwardly I rolled my eyes toward Rachel. “See what you’ve created? He’s so afraid of your wrath you’ve actually softened the beast.”

Ben’s cheeks ignited with color.

I squeezed Rachel one last time and kissed her on the cheek. “Love you.”

I tucked my Smurf box into my purse and looked up into Ben’s dark brown eyes. They reminded me of midnight, which was just on the horizon.

* * *

“So why pastry chef?” Ben had switched seats with the passenger next to me and snaked the window seat. But at least there wasn’t someone sandwiched between us—probably because there were only two-seated rows on our section of the plane. Ben had stowed his cowboy hat in the overhead compartment but that still left his broad shoulders and muscular arms to eat up the remaining space between us. “Why not head chef or sous chef?”

“A pastry chef is one of the most creative chefs in the culinary industry,” I said.

“Yeah, I get that, but a chef could say the same thing. Their entrees are supposedly
masterpieces
, though why anyone would want to do anything other than grill beef is beyond me. I mean, slap it on the grill and let’s go.
That’s
a masterpiece.” He paused and a goofy grin played on his lips. “I digress. And you still haven’t answered my question. Why pastry chef?”

I inhaled the stream of cold air filtering down on me from the overhead vent. “No one’s ever asked me that before.”

A pleasing look filled his face.

I stared at the clouds that had collected around our airplane window. “Every great meal ends with dessert,” I said. A splattering of stars glowed in the distance. “A pastry chef, a truly good pastry chef, makes the last impression on the guest before they leave the restaurant.”

Ben gently smiled.

“What?” My tone turned defensive. “You think that’s lame, don’t you? You think ‘how hard is it to make dessert,’ right?”

“No. Not at all.” Without his hat shielding his face, his expressions were palpable.

“Then what? Why do you have that shit-eating grin on your face?”

“If I have any expression on my face, it’s shock and awe.”

I chuckled. “Shock and awe?”

“Absolutely. I love dessert. Who doesn’t love dessert? The shock and awe is that I never thought about dessert as being the last impression of a meal, but you’re right. It is. And if it’s done correctly, it’s delicious.”

“Oh, I do it correctly,” I said quickly. “Um, what dessert are you talking about?”

“Baked Alaska.”

“Oh, yes.” My mind instantly catalogued the ingredients and preparation for the rich dessert. “The problematic area for most new pastry chefs is browning the meringue.”

Ben leaned closer, if that were at all possible, and his eyes narrowed in on me. “Explain.”

“Well, the sponge cake, or Christmas pudding base, is easy to prepare. That’s culinary one-oh-one. And so is layering the ice cream and then the meringue. But—” I held up my finger. “—he entire dessert has to be placed in an oven set at just the right temperature, for just long enough to firm the meringue. If you overcook it, the ice cream has a burnt flavor to it. If you undercook it, then the meringue isn’t able to be an effective insulator to heat through the ice cream and blend the flavors.”

“The one I had they lit on fire,” Ben said in a tone that made me wonder if he thought I was clueless about all things culinary. “Maybe it wasn’t Baked Alaska? Maybe,” he said and elbowed me, “it was like Naked and Wild in Alaska because I almost ate the entire dessert and I felt pretty wild afterward.”

I laughed. “There’s a variation to Baked Alaska called Bombe Alaska because dark rum is splashed over the cooked meringue and then the entire dessert is flambéed.”

“Which do you prefer? Baked or flambéed? Hot or…” His lips were inches from mine. “On fire hot?”

I leaned against my chair, trying to create some distance, but he simply closed in on the space. “Um.”

“May I interest you in a beverage or cocktail?” A flight attendant redirected our attention.

“Bourbon, neat,” I said and fished under my seat for my purse. Before I could grab my wallet, Ben handed her a fifty.

“Make that two. And leave a few of those little bottles behind. I got to keep my eye on this one.” He nudged his elbow toward me. “And you know what they say about crazy red heads.”

I jerked my elbow hard against his. “You’re right I am crazy to be sitting next to you.” I looked at the flight attendant. “Make that multiple bottles.”

“We’re only allowed to serve one alcoholic beverage at a time,” she said, handing Ben his change.

“And, darlin’, you are.” He placed the twenties back in her hand. “You’re serving us one beverage and those little bottles are for our refill. Somewhere, some place, someone is celebrating New Year’s Eve.”

She smiled largely at Ben. “You are a charmer, aren’t you?”

“The man likes his refills,” I said.

The flight attendant nodded. “The airline inventories those little bottles, but…” She reached into her cart and handed Ben a split of champagne and two plastic glasses. “They don’t inventory the champagne on special occasions. But don’t tell any of the other passengers. Our champagne toast isn’t until the next flight.”

Ben jokingly looked around suspiciously and then shielded the contraband in the crook of his arm.

The flight attendant and I both laughed.

“Would you care for a snack?” she asked.

“You’re the culinary expert.” Ben looked at me with sincerity in his eyes that took me off guard. “What goes well with bourbon and champagne?”

“Aspirin?” I slapped my thigh.

“Cute,” Ben said. “But seriously, what would complement these drinks?”

“From the snack menu?” I clenched my teeth and glanced at the flight attendant “Sorry, but nothing.”

Ben looked over my head at the cart of offerings. “Not even Oreos? Or peanut M&M’s?”

“Chocolate would be preferable to…” I said.

“Nutter Butters?” His voice peaked. “Oh, those are tasty little treats.”

I shook my head. “Stick with the chocolate.”

The flight attendant handed him a sleeve of Oreos and M&M’s. Ben handed her another twenty. “Keep the change. And keep coming back to see us.”

“Enjoy your evening,” she said before pushing her cart to the next row of seats.

“So if you were on one of those cooking shows where they give the contestants odd ingredients and they have to make an appetizer or dessert, what would you make out of this?” Ben released the tray table on the seat in front of him and spread out his offering: bourbon, champagne, Oreos and M&M’s.

I looked at the assortment and then back up at him. “About the only thing I could make that would be edible would require a few more ingredients, but…”

Ben leaned toward me. “What? What could you make?” His interest was captivatingly cute.

I raised an eyebrow. “I could probably pull off chocolate bourbon pops.”

“Interesting.” He held up the bottles of bourbon and the champagne and waved them toward me. “Which one first?”

I cocked my head toward the bourbon.

“Are you sure?” He asked. “If we drink it, you won’t be able to make that tantalizing treat you just mentioned.”

“Open the booze.”

“So what exactly are bourbon pops? Are they like bourbon balls, but only smaller?” He twisted off the cap and poured the contents into a plastic glass.

“It’s a frozen treat.” I waited until his glass was full and then held mine toward his.

“To…” He looked at me, his dark eyes covering my body in a glance.

“Cheers.” I clashed my plastic cup against his and diverted my gaze. The smooth whiskey sailed down my throat. “Not bad.” I peeked at the label.
And affordable, too.

“So how do you make these bourbon treats? Do you use Oreos or M&M’s?” He ripped open the bag of peanut M&M’s with his mouth and splayed the contents on his beverage napkin. “You can have any color but brown.”

My face must have conveyed my curiosity.

“You thought I was going to say ‘green,’ didn’t you? I don’t need help there,” he said with a wry smirk. “Besides, I think the brown little nuggets have more chocolate.”

I chuckled. “It’s just food coloring.”

“Don’t ruin it for me,” he said and scooped all the brown M&M’s off the napkin. “They’re more chocolaty. So these bourbon pops, are they easy to make? Can I do this at home? Or do I need one of those fancy commercial kitchens?”

“Who put a quarter in you? Or is the bourbon already talking?” I lightly tapped my finger on his chest and felt nothing but muscle.
Hell, yes.
I quickly regained my composure. “So are you a cheap drunk?”

“I am cheap, but not when it comes to handling my liquor. I’m an inquisitive quasi-cook that’s too frugal to enroll in a class. Besides, I’ve got—” He glanced at his cell phone. “—another hour and a half to pick your brain about all things culinary.”

“You don’t need to entertain me or
act
like you’re interested in my work.” I took another swig of bourbon.

“I’m not good at acting. And if you haven’t already noticed I pretty much speak my mind. So if you prattle on too much I’ll let you know. But right now,” he said and poured the rest of the bourbon in his glass, “you aren’t boring me.”

“Good to know.” I leaned my head against my chair. “So to make chocolate bourbon pops… you’ll need…” My mind started dissecting the dessert. “Sugar, chocolate, cocoa powder, salt, and…” I rolled my head toward Ben. “Of course, bourbon.”

“That’s all? Hell, I think I have that in my cupboards at home.”

“Most people do. It’s not a difficult dessert, but it’s definitely something you’d want in summer.”

“Ah hell, I eat ice cream all winter. Just because it’s cold outside isn’t going to keep me from a little Ben & Jerry’s.”

“Food is your friend,” I stated rather than asked.

“I work hard and I like to enjoy a good meal. I can’t eat big meals or desserts at lunch or for breakfast or I’ll end up back to sleep. But by dinner time, I’m looking forward to a something hot and special.”

“Are we still talking about food?” Again I slapped my thigh. “I really crack myself up.”

He shook his head and, unconstrained by his hat, his black waves of hair moved fluidly.
My God how I’d love to run my fingers through that.
When I stopped staring at his hair, I realized he was staring at me.
Ah, what the hell.
“So what is it that you do? For a job?” I reached for a red M&M.

“Long story. And it’s boring. I’d rather hear about bourbon popsicles.” He flung an M&M in the air and caught it with his mouth. “Can I make these bourbon gems at home?”