Baby Makes Three

Her laughter sounded like ice breaking. “Really? And here I thought you finally wanted to sit down and talk—” She pretended to be surprised when he stood.

“This isn’t going to work.” He slammed the serrated knife onto the small cutting board. “Coming here was a mistake.” He grabbed his keys and headed for the front door.

“Ah, the infamous Gabe Mitchell cold shoulder as he heads for the door. How I have missed that.” Her sarcasm raked him and suddenly he couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

He put his hand on the doorknob and at the same time, she tentatively touched his elbow and a spark of electricity shot up his arm.

“No. Stop. Please, Gabe.” Her tone held a certain honesty that he couldn’t walk away from. He could walk away from her anger and sarcasm, her lies and evasions. But when she was vulnerable—he just couldn’t walk away.

He stopped, his shoulders hunched as if to protect himself. He noticed and immediately straightened.

“I’m—” He could hear her swallow around the words. “I’m sorry. I…forget I said anything.”

He weighed the cost of turning around. Of sitting back at that kitchen table, the one from her grandmother.

He needed a chef and she was the best.

He turned and looked right into her liquid black eyes. “No more talk about the marriage or the miscarriages.” He shook his head. “It’s counterproductive. For both of us.”

She huffed a little laugh and licked her lips. “Okay. You’re right.”

He sat down in the midst of the awkward silence that breathed between them, but he was satisfied that the past wouldn’t leap out at him anymore, ambushing his plans for the inn.

“You want something to drink?” she asked, heading for the cabinet above the fridge. She stood on tiptoe and pulled down a bottle of red wine.

And, despite himself, he watched her move. Her pale skin glowed in the half light. She’d lost some of the lush curvy weight she’d carried in happier days. Her arms were muscled from the hard work of running a kitchen, but the rest of her was a whipcord.

She looked as if she’d missed too many meals. She looked tough.

“I thought you might be hungry,” he said. She hadn’t even glanced at the stove even though he knew she could smell the tomato soup.

“I ate at work,” she said and he didn’t force the issue. He’d bet the inn she was lying.

“Wine?” she asked, holding up a bottle.

“I’d love some.” He forced himself to be warm to her, cordial. Due to years of practice, he could slip into gracious without batting an eye. It was a suit he donned when he needed it. “I’ve got Oreos.”

That made her smile, and the tension in the room cracked and he could breathe again.

“I met your roommate,” Gabe said, watching her uncork the bottle like a professional. “Nice guy.”

He tried to steer the conversation toward her situation, remind them both, no matter how unsavory, they needed each other.

“He’s clean and pays the rent on time.”

“Sounds like the proper arrangement. How was work?”

“Why don’t we just cut to the chase here, Gabe.”

She popped the cork, poured a perfect four ounces in each glass, grabbed a cookie from the package on the table, then retreated across the kitchen. She hoisted herself onto the counter, sitting in the shadows. He could only see the gleam of her skin, the shine of her eyes and her shaking hands as she lifted her glass to her mouth and drank like a woman in need.

Again, his gut told him to get out of that kitchen, away from the quicksand of Alice’s pain.

“Go ahead, Gabe,” she said. “Give me your pitch.”

He rubbed his face, wondering how he’d ended up here, of all places.

“Having second thoughts?” she asked, her voice a sarcastic coo from the darkness by the stove. “Wondering if your ex-wife might be drinking a bit too much? Thinking maybe she’s just a little too much trouble?”

“Yep,” he told her point-blank. She poured herself another glass, not even trying to assuage his fears.

“Well, you had to be pretty damn desperate to come find me. So unless things have changed since this afternoon, you’re still pretty damn desperate, right?”

He nodded.

“Let me tell you, drunk or not, I’m still the best chef you know. So, give me your pitch.”

“I can’t ask you to do this if you’re…not stable.”

“I’m plenty stable, Gabe. I just drink too much after work. I drink too much so I can live in this house and not go crazy.”

He understood that all too well, but it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t jeopardize the Riverview Inn with a bad decision, and Alice could be a very bad decision.

“But Zinnia? What happened there?”

“I didn’t realize I was applying for a job. You came to me.”

“Yeah, I came to you in a parking lot at Johnny O’s. You’re the best chef I know, but something’s happened to you and I think I need to know before I make you an offer.”

“I’ll worry about me, you worry about your inn.” She stared unflinchingly into his eyes and he knew from years of hard experience that he wouldn’t get any more from her.

“I could leave,” he said, a warning he knew he really couldn’t follow through on.

“You have before,” she said. “But I think you’re too desperate to walk out that door and—” her smile was wan “—I’m too desperate to let you. Tell me what the job is.”

Honesty again, when he’d least expected it, and as usual when she was real with him, he couldn’t refuse.

“The position is executive chef at Riverview Inn. Opening day is May 1.”

She choked on her Oreo. “That’s a month away. Cutting it close, don’t you think?”

“No one knows that better than me right now.” He smiled ruefully. “As bad as that sounds it’s actually worse. I have the Crimpson wedding in June and—”

“Crimpson? Crimpson frozen foods?” she asked and he nodded. “Well, that’s quite a feather in your cap.”

“Right, so it’s pretty important that the event be flawless.”

“Two months?” she asked. She leaned over the stove and waved the scent of the soup up to her nose. “Opening day in four weeks and a wedding in eight?”