Page 48 of The Chef's Kiss
17
JORGINA
Hudson didn’t let me come into work for three whole days, and I didn’t like it. I’d been off for longer than I worked for him in the first place.
There was only so long one could sit around the house feeling sorry for herself.
My grandfather wanted me to tell the rest of the family about the pregnancy, and maybe I should, but I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be ready.
On Friday, the doctor told me I had to be aware of how I felt at every moment in case this happened again, but I hadn’t felt the slightest faintness, and it was time to get back to working toward my future.
A text from Cara came in, but I couldn’t read it, not now.
When I walked into the restaurant, I froze. This was not the same place I’d left. Gone were the burgundy walls, replaced with a coastal blue. The table cloths had been removed, leaving bare the beautiful solid wood tables. Paintings of ships and sea life hung on the walls, elegant, yet simple and fitting for the location without being a kitschy nautical theme.
Hudson appeared from the kitchen, stopping when he saw me.
“You listened to me.” I smiled, looking around the restaurant. He’d kept the starry lights on the ceiling, and I was glad for that.
“Lena had a team in here night and day working on it.” He stepped forward. “How are you?”
“Let’s just agree that question is off the table, okay?”
He hesitated a moment before nodding. “And—”
“Also off the table. The baby is fine unless I tell you otherwise.”
He wiped his hands on his apron. “Okay, how—”
“Hudson.”
“I was going to say how about some breakfast?”
“Oh.” I laughed. “I already ate. I didn’t know you were going to cook for me every day I worked.”
“Well, being that I’m still living in a motel, I’m really cooking for myself so I don’t have to eat out all the time.”
I lifted one brow. “Since you’re a chef, when you cook here, doesn’t that still constitute eating out?”
His lips quirked up. “I feel like eating outside today.”
I couldn’t blame him. The day was perfect, with bright azure skies, little wind, and a warm seventy degrees. “Go ahead. I can run over to the printers to talk to them about the menus. They should be done by tomorrow.”
“Later.” He gestured to the kitchen. “I know you said you ate, but I made enough for two.”
“Only two?” I walked past him, the scent of ham hitting me. “If it tastes as good as it smells, I’m definitely eating a portion for the baby too.” It felt weird to mention my situation to someone else, like a part of me had been busted right open and now lay vulnerable and unprotected.
We took plates of fried ham and eggs benedict out to where a small lake sat between the restaurant and the back half of the orchard. There were no tables, so we took our seats on a grassy mound, settling our plates on our laps.
For a few moments, we ate in silence, but it was the comfortable kind of silence between two people who didn’t need to speak.
I groaned in appreciation of the food. “Has anyone told you that you should be a chef?”
“Once or twice.” A dimple appeared in his cheek that I hadn’t noticed before.
“And that manager of yours … she spends more time being late and eating on the job than actually working.”
He gave me a wry smile. “We’ll change that no doubt.”
