Page 33 of Off the Grid
“Fine.”
“But—”
“No buts.”I saw that coming a mile away.
She pursed her lips in frustration. “Why—”
“None of that either.”
“How—”
“No,” he said, unable to quite stifle the laughter in his tone as he reached out and placed a finger over her lips. They were soft and plush and undeniably alluring, even when twisted in a frown—or perhaps especially so. Leo dropped his hand. “Let’s change the subject. Tell me about those doughnut-hole things you made—what were they called? Profiteroles?”
She stared at him for a prolonged second, and then rolled her eyes and started walking. “Don’t call them doughnut holes. It’s a crime against baking. Profiteroles or cream puffs, but for the love of God, not doughnut holes.”
His mouth quirked into a smile as she visibly shivered. “What was that tower you were making? What was it for?”
“It’s called a croquembouche,” she corrected, not in a snide way, more of an informative one. The passion in her voice was undeniable, which was exactly what he’d been banking on. The easiest way to shift a conversation was to turn it to something the other person couldn’t help but talk about. He used the technique in interviews all the time, to force a victim out of their shock, or to get a tight-lipped informant to open up. “I was making it as a job application of sorts. The head pastry chef of my restaurant quit, and the head chef and owner are interviewing new candidates. That’s why I was in such a rush to get out of my apartment when you showed up. I didn’t want to be late for my presentation.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” he goaded. “I thought you were already, and I quote,the youngest head pastry chef in New York City, thank you very much.”
She tossed a glare in his direction. “Well, I’m about to be.”
“I like a woman with confidence.” He elbowed her gently, and the ghost of a smile passed over her lips. She hastily stifled it. “So how do you make them?”
“Well…” McKenzie launched into a recipe. Leo listened, asking questions to keep her talking, genuinely interested. Yet in the back of his mind, he pictured the man she’d described—white hair, leathery skin, and wealthy enough to own an Aston Martin—running through the headshots and profiles he’d practically memorized he’d been looking at them for so long. Two years spending every waking minute hunting the Russian mob, and Leo came up with nothing.
So what was he missing?
And what did it mean for McKenzie?
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McKenzie
“—so I dropped out of Cornell after a semester and told my mom I was going to culinary school instead.”
“You dropped out?” Leo asked, mouth agape. “Of an Ivy League education?”
McKenzie snorted. “You sound like my mother.”
“I’m sure that went over well.”
“You have no idea.” She sighed, thinking back to that conversation. McKenzie had been home for two weeks over Christmas break before she decided to break it to her mother that she wasn’t going back.
Oh, yes, you are, her mother had shouted.
No, I’m not.McKenzie’s voice was stone—she could be pretty stubborn when she wanted to be. Clearly.
You are a Harper! Harpers are not college dropouts, McKenzie Kathleen! I will not accept it.
Yeah, well, I thought we weren’t criminals either, but Dad already saw to that.
She’d regretted the words the second they’d passed through her lips—even now, the memory made her wince. But they’d done the trick. Her mother had stormed off, leaving McKenzie alone at the dining table. The slam of that door still brought a scratch down her spine.
“I had a trust fund,” McKenzie pressed on, trying to keep her tone as nonchalant as possible. “So there wasn’t really anything my mom could do. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for deciding to become a pastry chef instead of a doctor or a lawyer, something that might restore the family name.”
Leo frowned at that. “But you’re kicking ass, and you clearly love it. Isn’t that more important?”
