Page 99 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“You don’t mind, do you, Mitch? It’s always better to have more shots to choose from,” Charlotte asked, pulling her camera from its bag.
“No, go ahead,” he said, the words coming out a touch gruffer than he’d expected.
Ralph tossed him a little wink. “You don’t have to worry, Mitch. I’ll have Charlotte back in a jiffy,” he finished before gesturing for her to walk alongside him.
Why the hell would Ralph say that?
“If you stared any harder at that girl, your eyeballs might explode,” Louise remarked the second Ralph and Charlotte were out of earshot.
He focused on the old spatula. “I wasn’t staring.”
“Oh, no? And what were you doing in the truck when you got here? Helping her with her contact lenses?”
He glanced away. “She doesn’t wear contact lenses.”
“I didn’t think so,” the chef threw back.
Louise Dagby wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
“You knew Charlotte would be with me today, didn’t you?”
Louise weighed the question. “Ines might have mentioned you would have someone with you when we spoke. Remember, she and I became friends when she was working on your first reality TV deal. You know, when she asked menotto divulge your true connection to this place.”
Oh, he remembered.
He fixed his gaze on the entrance to the shelter’s kitchen. “Ines was doing her job. People don’t look too kindly on juvenile delinquents stealing their cars for parts.”
“You and I both know that you had your reasons for doing that, Mitchell,” Louise countered.
He shrugged. “The judge didn’t think so.”
Louise’s expression hardened. “Thanks to that judge and the juvenile justice system, your seventeen-year-old ass landed in my kitchen doing mandatory community service and not in some cell.”
She wasn’t wrong. He was lucky, damned lucky, he’d gotten community service instead of time in juvey. He didn’t see it that way at the time. Back then, with his grandfather in hospice care and barely enough money from the old man’s pension to cover the rent, stealing cars and selling the parts had filled in the gaps. When the judge sentenced him to community service at the Helping Hands Community Kitchen, he’d figured he’d do his time making bologna sandwiches for homeless people, then try to find something that paid the bills that wouldn’t get him incarcerated. Even back then, he was smart enough to know that it was a whole different ball game when he turned eighteen. He could end up in prison. Instead, he, along with Holly, who’d been caught shoplifting, and Seth, who’d gotten pinched throwing a brick through a store window, showed up for community service.
Three underaged lawbreakers.
And the rest is history—a gut-wrenching history.
“So, what now, Louise? You’ve got me to yourself. I saw you and Ralph doing that whole eyeball conversation thing. What do you have to say?” He waved her off. “Wait, let me guess. You’re disappointed in me. I should have called or emailed. I’ve been an inconsiderate ass.”
The woman’s hardened expression softened. “I don’t have to yell at you, Mitchell. I could never be harder on you than you are on yourself.”
He flinched. “Why do you always call me Mitchell?”
“It’s your name, isn’t it? It was on the judge’s orders. And also, because I don’t want you to forget who you are.”
He scrubbed his hand down his face. He didn’t even know who he was anymore.
“But you’re right,” she continued. “I did want some time alone with you—not to berate you but to watch you cook. I’m entitled to my namesake sandwich, and the food truck won’t prep itself. You cook. I’ll observe. Think of it like the old days,” the woman answered, heading toward the back of the truck.
He hadn’t cooked for Louise in years. He still recalled the first time he, Holly, and Seth had made the Signature Louise sandwich for her. The concept had been his. An organic grocery store had donated a shit-ton of Dijon mustard, and a local apple farmer had sent them tubs of apple butter. Louise wasn’t sure how they would incorporate the condiments into the menu before the items expired. But the composition had come to him immediately.
The spark. The gift. His ability to harmoniously integrate different flavors and textures in his culinary creations exploded in a grilled cheese-inspired bang.
Focusing on the task at hand, he opened the door for Louise, helped her inside, then set out prepping the food truck for the lunch rush. The comfort of going through the motions returned. He popped open the order window, grabbed his knives, and methodically laid out his supplies and utensils, concentrating on the order and symmetry of the process.
“I was sorry to hear about Holly. How are you holding up?” Louise asked.
