A Summer to Remember (11 page)

Without letting the embrace turn sexual, Elliot released her, then went into the kitchen. She missed his warmth instantly but appreciated his judgment tremendously. “I didn't pick up anything to go with lunch, since comfort foods don't generally need go-alongs. Well, other than what's implied by the name. Macaroni needs cheese. Chicken needs noodles. Spaghetti needs meatballs.”

She sneaked a swab at her eyes before smiling. “And cheese.”

“I thought you didn't eat Italian.”

“Put enough cheese on it, and I'll eat dirt.”

“I'll remember that,” he said with a flash of a grin. “But I did notice Saturday night that your candy dish was running low, so I brought these.” From the bottom of the shopping bag, he took out a small package of Hershey's Kisses with almonds and tossed them to her.

Fia's laugh was choked as she caught the bag and tore it open, emptying it into the small crystal heart on the counter in front of her. “I keep my dish for Kisses small. Otherwise, my butt wouldn't fit through the door anymore, but it makes for some great disappointment when it runs empty.”

“I'll make sure that doesn't happen.”

Something fluttered in her chest and stirred a knot in her throat. “Remember what you said on the phone. If you offer to do something, you do it. Always. It wouldn't be nice to disappoint a chocolate kiss-aholic.”

“You have my word.” He raised one hand in the air, holding the other palm down as if swearing on a stack of Bibles.

When Scott made a promise, he'd raised two fingers up.
Scout's honor,
he'd always said, and she'd always thrown back at him,
You were never a Scout.
He would give her that lazy grin and correct himself.
Scott's honor.

Smiling at Elliot, she wondered: Was there anything in the world sexier than a man with honor?

Two o'clock arrived much more quickly than Elliot had expected. He put up the last of the dishes, dried his hands, and hung the towel neatly on the bar, then faced Fia. “Should I change clothes for the interview?”

She took her time checking out his appearance, and he didn't mind. Her gaze scanned side to side, reminding him of a mapping device producing a one-dimensional image. And the whole time she looked, she continued to smile, in fact smiling even a little bigger by the time she finished. “Nah. If you showed up in dress clothes, Lucy would probably feel obligated to run home and dress up, too. She thrives on making people comfortable.”

“That's a good quality for someone in the restaurant business. So many servers treat their customers like annoyances these days.”

“So many people treat other people that way these days. I had clients who came thirty minutes late to every session, expected me to put my other clients on hold so I could give them an extra thirty minutes at the end, and assumed that I was happy to clean up their sweat and spit when we were done.”

“That's just gross.”

“Yeah. I learned after a while to say, ‘Well, I've done all I can for you. It's time to move on to a more experienced trainer.' Everyone loves to believe they've outstripped your abilities, especially in such a short time.”

Elliot gave her a lingering look. “I can't imagine many clients, not male, at least, who were willing to move on so quickly from you. If I'd wandered into the gym seeking a trainer and got you, I would have forgotten everything I'd ever learned about exercise just to prolong our time.”

She laughed as she slid off the bar stool and walked to the couch to scoop up Mouse. “A few guys tried that, but it's not hard to tell when their muscles have muscles upon muscles. Besides, I was married. I never thought once about a client after I walked out the door each evening.” She nuzzled the soft patch between Mouse's ears, then asked, “Can she stay with me while you do your interview?”

“You wouldn't mind?”

She shook one finger at him. “One thing you need to learn, Elliot. If I offer to do something, then I do it. I never offer just to be nice while hoping to get turned down. I think I'm perfectly capable of watching Mouse while she snoozes.”

On cue, the dog opened her mouth wide in a yawn and snuggled closer to the warmth of Fia's body. Elliot envied the pup for that. “I appreciate it. I left her in the truck this morning with the windows rolled down, but soon it'll be too warm for that.”

“She'll be fine here. She's already comfortable, and she already likes to pee on the patio.” Fia shrugged as if that settled it, then hesitated a moment before speaking. “I could call Lucy and tell her we're friends.”

He straightened the leash he'd dropped on the couch when he arrived, folded it neatly, and laid it on the cushion back. He'd never had anyone put in a good word for him, other than in the Army at promotion time, when a yea or nay was part of the evaluation. In all his jobs since then, he hadn't known anyone who could pull strings, but he hadn't minded. “I appreciate the offer. Thank you. But no.” He shrugged sheepishly. “I'd rather have a job because I'm good enough to have it than because someone else smoothed the way.”

A bit of ease spread through Fia's eyes. He was guessing that she hadn't been totally comfortable making the offer, but she'd been willing to do it for him. That meant a lot.

“You think my friends would hire you just because I asked them to?” she asked, head tilted to the side.

He brushed his hand lightly over a strand of hair that rested against her cheek, combing it back into place behind her ear. “I think your friends would do just about anything for you.” And he was including himself in that group. She was a good person who'd had some really crappy luck. She deserved all the help she needed to come back from that.

She glanced at her watch, then moved to the door, easing him that way. “Well, don't worry about the interview. You'll love Lucy and Patricia. And don't worry about Mouse. I'll take very good care of her.”

The dog, still nestled in her arms, obviously had no argument with that. Elliot stepped outside, holding the storm door, then hooked his finger in the thin braided belt around Fia's waist and pulled her a few steps. He kissed her left cheek, then right, then grinned. “Soon I'm gonna do that for real.”

Instead of blushing or being coy, Fia gave him a steady look. “I'm counting on it. Go before you're late. Charm the girls. Get hired.”

He laughed as he took the steps to the driveway. His cell phone showed two fifteen. He was pretty sure there was nowhere in Tallgrass he couldn't reach in fifteen minutes, unless it involved entering or exiting the fort during morning and evening rush. The radio was on, the windows down, and he was singing along with a classic George Strait song when he pulled into the Prairie Harts lot.

Though the sign was turned to
Closed
, the door was unlocked. He stepped inside, the bell overhead dinging, and called, “Patricia? Lucy?”

“In the kitchen,” Lucy replied.

When he walked through the wide door, he found her standing next to a counter filled with trays of tiny cupcakes. He didn't exaggerate with
filled
, either. There was barely space on her side for a bowl of green butter cream frosting and a pastry bag.

“Wow. How many cupcakes are here?”

Her forehead wrinkled. “Please don't make me do the math again. Enough, I hope. All of them in the black and white liners”—she gestured to the ones on the right half of the table—“are for a soccer tournament. They're getting grass frosting, and each one will have a candy soccer ball on top. The rest of them are for a reception tonight, and we're doing different shades and flavors of butter cream. Do you mind helping?”

“I'd be happy to.” He washed his hands, then fitted a 233 tip to a pastry bag, filled it with frosting, and took up a position across from her. The tip was cylindrical, with multiple openings that forced the frosting out in thin lines. With the streaky color of the frosting, it made for pretty realistic grass.

“Patricia's running some errands. She'll be back soon. But you already know she was pretty impressed with you.”

He grinned. “My sister, Emily, says women like me. I tell her it's because I like them, too. You have a great place here.”

She raised her head for a moment to glance around with deep satisfaction before she returned to piping the frosting. “We're expanding a lot faster than I'd expected. Initially I thought if we stayed in business for a year, then we'd add sandwiches, salads, and a few specials like chicken pot pies or beef stew for lunch. Well, the shop did great, and there was an interest in lunch right away, so we started that last month. Patricia and I were amazed. Of course, it might help that my fiancé”—she broke off, gazed at her engagement ring, then repeated the word as if it were still new to her—“my fiancé is the head football coach at the high school, and football is a very big deal to a small town.”

“It might help.” Elliot finished the twelfth cupcake on the tray, slid it aside, and reached for another tray. “But not as much as the fact that your cinnamon rolls are incredible.”

“Thank you.” Her cheeks flushed. “Have you ever worked in a bakery or a restaurant before?”

“I've waited tables a few times, but I've never been in the back of the house. I haven't had any sort of classes, either, but I grew up helping the women in my family bake, cook, serve, and clean up every day. I like food. I like planning menus, prepping it, making it taste good and look good. When I was in the Army, I did holiday meals for all my buddies who didn't have family nearby or couldn't go home, usually between forty and sixty people at a time. I'm used to hard work—I grew up on a ranch—and I know my way around a kitchen, and I make a damn good loaf of bread.”

“Artisanal breads,” she said with a sigh. “We've had requests for those. What are your favorites?”

“Ciabatta. Focaccia with caramelized red onions and black olives. Sweet yeast rolls. Brioche. Sourdough in loaves, sticky buns, or with herbs and spices. I had to learn soda bread to satisfy my aunt Amy, who's Irish.”

Lucy sighed again, this time with a hint of longing. “I love sourdough bread. Neither Patricia nor I have a starter, but I know where we can get one, unless you have your own.”

He shook his head regretfully. “My mom and my aunt weren't into bread, so my grandma's starter died with her.” Emily had tried to keep it going for him, discarding half of the flour-water-lactobacillus mixture, then feeding it every week, but it wasn't habit for her, and life had gotten in the way. When she'd finally admitted it had turned to nothing more than a crusty, stinky mess, it had been a second loss.

If he'd had less self-confidence, such sentimentality might have embarrassed him.

When all the tiny cupcake cases in front of him held frosted cakes, he asked for the soccer ball candy, and Lucy directed him to a shelf behind her. Dozens of candy balls filled a huge stainless bowl. He set the bowl on the stool on his side of the counter, put on gloves, and started adding one ball per cake. He took care of the four dozen he'd frosted and the six dozen Lucy had finished, snapped on the lids bearing the Prairie Harts logo, and moved the trays to the cake refrigerator.

“What was your MOS?”

Elliot moved the candy bowl to the shelf and slid on the stool to start frosting more cakes. “I was a sniper.” The same tension that had clenched in his gut when he'd given that answer to Fia, to really pretty much everyone, was there again, but not quite so sharp. After all, like Fia, Lucy was an Army wife.

She stopped to refill her pastry bag with more frosting. “My husband, Mike, used to say a lot of people can do a lot of jobs, but it takes a special person to do certain ones, and sniper was one of them. He said he couldn't do it, but God love the ones who do.” She met his gaze. “
We
love the ones who do, too.”

Now it was his turn to flush. “Thank you.”

They worked in silence a few moments before she returned to business. “We're open Monday through Saturday from six thirty to two. It usually takes a while to get the last few people out and clean up, and then we have our catering clients to take care of. That's what got us into the business, so we stay loyal to them.

“What we would like to do to start is have you make bread for our lunch specials. We've been buying a white sandwich bread from another bakery, but I'm convinced our walnut-celery-chicken salad sandwich would be so much better on brioche. We're also getting ready to add gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches, so your breads would be a great help there. Then, of course, if you have time, we'd appreciate help with the baking and cooking and decorating. We pretty much do each other's jobs, except for the bread. That would be your province.”

“Sounds good.” Elliott candied, lidded, and refrigerated another dozen boxes.

“We offer two weeks' vacation, and we're flexible about that, but please, not during the weeks of my wedding and honeymoon. We don't have health or dental insurance yet, and we don't offer a retirement plan. But we want to. We want to be that small business that pays better than anyone else in town and keeps their staff so happy, they won't go looking anywhere else.” She wrinkled her nose. “Patricia and I and our friends—we've all had those jobs where you're lucky to make minimum wage, and getting sick is a fireable offense, and to top it all off, your boss is a jerk. We promised we'd be as much the opposite as profits allow us to be. So what do you think?”

What Elliot thought was,
God isn't just smiling on me. He's grinning ear to ear.
“If I can have access to the kitchen tonight or early tomorrow morning, I can bake you a sample of my breads, then you and Patricia can decide if I'm worth it.”

Lucy snorted. “I can tell you what Patricia has decided; she told me so before she left. ‘Tell Elliot we'll have our first company dinner at my house, Wednesday night at six.'” She slid off her stool and stretched the kinks from her back before returning to the cakes. “She's already put in her vote for yes. She likes you. I like you. Can you start tomorrow?”