Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“This is beautiful,” I said, setting my purse and phone on the table just inside the door. “You have a designer eye.” I shot him a wink. Truthfully, I knew zilch about designer anything, but I knew good taste when I saw it. Or rather, I knew expensive when I saw it. It was the opposite of the old, slipcovered sofa at my house that had once belonged to my mother. I loved that sofa though. When you sat on it, it embraced you like an old friend.
Gage smiled as he placed the bag of art carefully on the dark wood dining table. “No, my designer has a designer eye. I can’t take credit for anything except the kitchen.”
I turned toward it. “Wow,” I said, walking over to the large island with the black stone countertop that separated the kitchen from the living and dining areas. I ran my hand over it, surprised that rather than being smooth, it had a leathery feel. The appliances were obviously state-of-the-art, the stove practically taking up half the back wall.
There was a spice rack built into the alcove that enclosed the stove and housed the exhaust fan, and my eyes lingered on them, noting that most bottles were half full, unlike the spices at my house that I bought here and there to make one thing and then had to inevitably throw out when they expired mostly unused. I recalled the crab cake cooking lesson he’d given me, my mind straying to the activities that followed and a resulting shiver rolling down my spine.
“Cold?” he asked.
“No. A goose must have walked over my grave.”
He chuckled but gave me a perplexed look.
“My mom used to say that. It’s just a strange expression that means when you shiver for no reason, someone is walking over the place where you’ll one day be buried.”
“That’s a really creepy way to explain a chill.”
I smiled. “My mom sometimes had a dark sense of humor. But I think she got that one from my granny.”
I dragged a finger along the counter as I took in his wood cabinets that went all the way to the ceiling, the container of kitchen utensils, the knife block, bottles of oils and small bowls of salts sitting on a marble lazy Susan to the side of his cooking space. Whereas the living room and dining spaces looked virtually unused, this kitchen felt different—lived in, personal.
When I turned toward him, I saw that he’d been watching me, a small smile on his face that held some note of what I thought might be nervousness. Was he worried I wouldn’t like his place? No, certainly not. First, it was perfect, and he had to know that, and second, why would he care what some waitress from Mud Gulch thought anyway?
“I suppose I’m not surprised that you like to cook, Mr. Crab Cakes Extraordinaire,” I said. “Your parents must have taught you?”
He shook his head. “No. Actually, I doubt either of my parents can do more than boil water. We had a family chef growing up who’d studied in France. Jean LaCourt. He taught me some of the basics, and then when he saw I had a knack for cooking, he showed me recipes that took greater skill.” He looked contemplative for a moment, perhaps a little nostalgic. “He was amazing.” He turned slightly. “My father was confused about why I wanted to spend so much time in the kitchen. I got the feeling he was displeased so I stopped going to Chef LaCourt for actual lessons, but when I could, I’d sneak in there and watch him work. I had this notebook. I’d take notes in it and then hide it in my sock drawer.”
He gave me another smile, but this one appeared a little brittle. Oh. That struck me as sad. He’d found a passion, even at a young age, and set it aside when his father preferred he turn in a different direction. “Does Chef LaCourt still work for your family?”
Something passed over his expression that looked like fleeting grief. “No. He retired when I was in high school and moved back to France. He passed away a couple of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He lived a good, long life and died with his family around him. Can I, ah, offer you a glass of wine?”
I watched him as he turned toward a drawer and removed a wine opener, his shoulders relaxing. It was clear he wanted to move to a different topic. “I don’t know,” I said. “Last time we shared a bottle of wine…” I raised my brows but then my expression morphed into a cringe. I’d attempted to lighten the mood, but even I wasn’t ready to make light of…us. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought that up.”
But Gage smiled, even if it appeared a tad pained, and walked over to a wine fridge where he removed a bottle of red. “I think we can manage to control ourselves. Just some friendly dinner and group art appraising.”