• • • • •
The sauce burned.
“That smells awful.” Lou giggled from the kitchen floor. She lay partially atop Al, her head propped up so she could see his face. Her free hand played with his thick hair as he traced squiggles on her bare back.
“I can’t believe a chef would let her sauce burn. How unprofessional.” Al shook his head in mock disgust.
“Mmm, I’d choose burnt sauce over professionalism any day.” Lou’s stomach rumbled.
“It seems we worked up an appetite. We should probably eat so we have energy for the rest of the night,” Al said.
Lou got up and tossed Al an apron that said “Wisconsin Cheddar Does It Better.”
“Here’s an apron. We don’t want you to get burned.” Lou put on hers. They finished making dinner, both enjoying their memorable meal wearing nothing more than their aprons.
• • • • •
Lou woke to the smell of fresh coffee and something delicious baking. She reached over to find Al’s side of the bed cool and empty. She could hear him knocking about in the kitchen, a room she’d never look at quite the same.
Lou rolled onto her back and spread her limbs wide to take up most of the bed, enjoying the sensation of lazing about fully awake. Warm sheets gave way to cool ones as she reached onto Al’s side of the bed. Hmmm, Al’s side. She now thought of them as having sides, having a future.
A loud crash echoed down the hall.
Before Lou could get enough momentum to swing her pleasantly tired body out of bed, Al’s voice said, “Don’t get up. Nothing’s broken. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Good enough for her. Lou settled back into the pillows, enjoying the smell of breakfast prepared by someone else. She loved to cook, but she still liked having other people cook for her. When you’re a chef, most nonprofessionals are too intimidated to cook for you. You get used to preparing all the meals when you have dinner parties with friends. The long hours, late nights, and weekends whittled away at any non-restaurant- based friendships. Eventually, most of your friends came from the industry. Al cooking for her was a special treat.
And here she was, lying in bed with a handsome man making her breakfast. When she heard his footsteps coming down the hall, she sat up in anticipation. Al walked in carrying a full tray including a plate piled with scones. He settled it between them on the bed.
“You can bake?” Lou asked.
“Any proper Englishman can make a scone.”
Lou rolled her eyes at him.
“Okay, that’s not true. My grandma taught me. It’s saved me more than once. It’s difficult to find a proper scone here—Harley’s excluded, of course.” Lou grabbed one and took a bite.
“These are wonderful. And coffee. I don’t deserve you.”
Al concentrated on fixing his tea, then said, “I don’t think that’s true.”
They munched scones and drank their hot drinks in comfortable silence. Finally, Al looked at the alarm clock on the bedside table and said, “Would you mind if we turned on the telly? I feel like I’ve been out of touch with the world.”
“It’s been less than twelve hours. Are you implying time with me seems like forever?”
Al was struggling to find the words to get himself out of this quandary when Lou laughed.
“Don’t worry. I’m just teasing. Here’s the remote.”
Lou started on her second scone as Al flipped on the TV. The local morning news had just begun. The young weatherman promised an Indian summer for the next week, then temperatures would drop below forty. Given the time of year, they would probably not see forty again until March. Where would her life be by then? Would she have a job? Money for rent? Would she and Al still spend lazy mornings in bed together? She looked over at him, admiring his scruffy jaw, thinking about setting aside her scone to nibble on his neck instead. He was a wonderful distraction. Over her daydream, she heard, “Restaurant critic A. W. Wodyski died this weekend of a heart attack. His tenure in Milwaukee, while short, was full of controversial and popular reviews.”
Lou’s coffee cup hovered inches from her mouth. Her emotions swirled. She wanted to be happy with the news, but even after his crap criticism, she couldn’t muster enough energy to truly care. Because of Al’s presence in her life, she’d found an unlikely path out of that pit. Now on the other side, she was okay. Better than okay at the moment. She looked over at Al, who was watching her from the corner of his eye.
“What?” Lou asked.
“Nothing, I guess. You looked upset for a moment.”
“Just gauging how I felt about the news.” Al looked confused, as if he needed more information. “Did I never tell you? His review of my restaurant destroyed any chance of growing my customer base. Since his negative review, only our most loyal clients still come. I wish they had posted a picture. I would love to know what he looked like. Not that I’d remember. The night he ate at Luella’s was the same day I found Devlin with Megan. The day we met, actually. I don’t remember much except doing a lot of dishes. I’m surprised my hands aren’t still wrinkly.”
She wiggled her fingers in front of her face.
“Lou.” Al looked uncomfortable. “You should know—”
“I’m sorry,” Lou interrupted. “I shouldn’t be talking about him. That’s not fair to you.”
“That’s not it. You—”
Lou interrupted him again.
“Seriously. It feels like ancient history to me, so I didn’t think how mentioning Devlin might bug you. Let’s not talk about it.”
Al sighed.
“I assure you, it doesn’t bother me. We can talk about anything you like.” Al touched her face, cupping her cheek in one hand. She tilted toward it and closed her eyes to really enjoy the sensation of his touch.
“I love you,” he said.
Al whispered it. But a whisper with the power of a spring thunderstorm—the power to cleanse, to excite, and to calm. And the power to destroy. Lou felt safe and vulnerable, whole and scattered. With open eyes, the last bastion of resistance in her heart disintegrated in his shower of affection.
Saying “I love you” changed everything.
Lou managed a breathy “Me, too.”
• CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO •
How long do you think I need to wait before I tell her?” Al asked.
He tapped his fingers on the bar, waiting for John’s reply.
“Tell her what? . . . Oh, you mean tell her you’re taking the job of the man who destroyed her livelihood who was really you but you’ve created a fictional death and obit because you would never hurt her ’cause you love her so much.”
“That’s about right, but I probably won’t add in all the extra bits. What’s up your bum?” Al prodded John with his elbow. When Al wasn’t dining out—he sometimes took John now, who had a surprising eye for detail and refined palate—they often went for drinks while he waited for Lou to finish at the restaurant.
John turned toward him and chewed his lip. Al had never seen him so rattled. John always acted sure of himself and his surroundings.
“The paper wants to send me to Paris.”
“That’s fantastic. Why so crabby?”
“Hannah wants me to meet with different fashion houses. They want to actually have coverage rather than relying on Associated Press for the details. Hannah seems to think I have a good eye and they want to make it more prominent in the paper.”
“Mate, that’s brilliant. I’m not understanding your bad mood.”
“I can’t go looking like this.” He gestured to himself. “They’d never let me in. No one would take me seriously.”
“You’ve done all right thus far. Maybe you don’t need to change.”
“Ha—I may be a boy from ’Stallis, but I’m not an idiot. I get away with this here because I do most of my shopping online. Any local shopping I do I act like I’m an errand boy. They accept that and I get what I need.”