“Hall and Oates while you cook?” Jake asks, his eyes lit from within when I look up at him.
“Got a problem with it?” I tease.
He shakes his head. “Not one bit. A little ‘You make my dreams come true’ is good for the soul.”
I hold his stare for a moment before he clears his throat and breaks the gaze, pulling his eyes away. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Oh?” Picking up one of the bags, I unpack the utensils I need to whip the truffle cream together, pulling them out one by one. I wave a whisk in the air. “Is it good news?”
“Depends,” he says slowly as he dips a hand into the bag to help, pulling out a pair of wooden spoons. “I’m leaving in two days. Your brother texted when we were on the way over. They want me there for practice by the end of the week so I can play the home game this weekend.”
“Oh.” I knew it was coming, so I shouldn’t be surprised, but I’m not ready. Not yet. I feel like this world that we’re in here, in Sweetkiss Creek, is special. It’s ours and only ours. Sure, he has this reporter who’s bothering him and I’ve got Todd, but we also have each other to talk to and so much more to learn yet about one another. I’m not ready for this part of us to be broken and shared. Not yet.
This is why I can feel a splash of cold water, an inkling of worry, that maybe we’re only good here away from the crowds and the people, away from reality. A lot can happen once he goes back to his real life, which is nowhere near what I have in Sweetkiss Creek.
“Hey,” Jake whispers, standing beside me and wrapping an arm around my waist. “What’s that look for?”
Shrugging, I glance his way as I pull out a clove of garlic and start mincing. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he says. “You don’t think because I’m going back that this will stop, do you? This,” he says, pointing back and forth from me to himself. “Because I don’t want this to stop. I want to figure it out.”
Placing my knife down, I pause what I'm doing and stare at my hands. “Really?”
Jake takes my hands in his. “Really. Let’s not look at this as goodbye because it’s not that dramatic.”
A noise from outside the kitchen door reminds us that we’re not alone.
“This is also a conversation we should wait to have after tonight,” I say, plastering a smile on my face as I get back to the business at hand. “Right now, I need you to go find that butler and ask him what dishes they want us to use, then get to stepping and make sure the dining room is set up. Got it?”
“Yes, chef,” Jake growls, winking. “I like it when you’re bossy.”
Giggling, I wait until he’s out of the room before I let the smile slide off my lips. I hear his words, I know he means what he’s saying, but I’ve also been down this road before. One where someone makes a promise to me and I hold out, hoping to see it to fruition. Todd was a different story, a different man than Jake, and I know that. But why is it so hard to put that past hurt behind me this time?
Swallowing the small lump in my throat, I put my head down and do the one thing I know I can do well right now—lose myself in my cooking. We can deal with this other stuff later.
“They are loving every bite,” Jake says as he walks back into the kitchen for the third time in ten minutes, holding another empty wine bottle. “They’re also loving my hockey stories and”—he dangles the empty bottle in the air before tossing it in the recycling bin—“they’re going through the wine like it’s water and they’ve been in the desert for days.”
“I’m so glad it’s you who’s here tonight,” I acknowledge, plating the last dessert that will go out. “What a night! Everything has flowed really well, huh?”
“They love it. I heard John say he’s going to talk to you about doing another private dinner for him in a few weeks. Did you know he’s the owner of that local rideshare app, Hitch?”
“You’re kidding,” I say, slapping my hand over my mouth in an attempt to choke down my laugh. “That’s hilarious.”
“In a roundabout way, we should thank him for introducing us.” Jake winks as he grabs a couple of the desert platters and hoists them in the air. “Can I take these out now? A couple of these guys need more food to soak up the booze.”
I wave my hand in the direction of the kitchen door. “Go on, then, be rude not to take it out, wouldn't it?”
Smiling, I look around the kitchen and let out a long, slow breath of air. I feel like tonight I did what I was supposed to do: I made my mom proud. And I can’t wait to call her after and debrief. She’s going to be thrilled to know how well it went.
There’s a kerfuffle outside of the kitchen door, then the sound of a platter being dropped, clanging to the ground. As the door swings open, I look, half expecting to see Jake come through, but it’s not him.
The man who enters is a bit disheveled and looks like he could be a little confused. However, as I watch his movements, I realize he’s just impaired. He’s probably one of the guests who’s had a bit too much to drink that Jake was talking about.
“Can I help you?” I say, stepping forward and holding a hand out to help steady him.
“Pfft. I’m fine,” he says, pushing his hand through his sandy-blond hair as he leans against a counter. He’s tan, the kind of color that comes from being on a yacht—not a boat—in the Caribbean, and his whole demeanor screams privilege. His energy feels chaotic, and I have a weird feeling that I need to get this man out of here. “I came in to thank the chef.”
“Well, you’re welcome.” Smiling through gritted teeth, I tell myself to relax, but my body won’t let down its guard.
