I smile along with her. “You got off lightly. He used to call me the Hollywood Assassin. Said I cooked like I was trying to poison somebody.”
She laughs again, gently. Her face showing a few more phases of beauty. I let the moment settle, enjoying the sight of her a little more, that smile, those eyes…
“Well,” she says, glancing at the clock above the desk. “I really should get on the lunch shift.”
“No you shouldn’t,” I say, stepping out from behind the desk. “I had Mark come in to take your spot. Wasn’t sure if you’d even show up today.”
“That’s fair.” She frowns and nods, as if disappointed that she won’t get the chance to work today.
I don’t know whether it’s because I’ve been too busy to take a woman in weeks, the cramped intimacy of the back office, or the delicious curves of her body, but I’m struggling to find a way to end this conversation that doesn’t involve pulling her over the desk and tugging her jeans down to her ankles to bury my head between her thighs and find out what she tastes like.
I check the time, and realize I should have left the office about two minutes ago.
“What do you think about kids?” I say, packing my pockets as I prepare to leave the office.
“Um…as customers? In the restaurant?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, are you good with kids? Do you like them?”
“Sure. Actually, I used to volunteer teach a cooking glass for an elementary school in Idaho. And I have two nieces back home, and either they’re mature or I’m not, ‘cause we always have a great time together. Why do you ask?”
I move toward the door and hold it open for her.
“Because I’m gonna need your help,” I say as she moves through, and I steal one more look at her peachy ass. I talk as we move through the restaurant, toward the front. “I signed up for this Young Chef mentoring program—or rather, Martin signed me up for it. He thought it would be a good bulletpoint to the publicity around me, and the new restaurant. Said I had gone too far down the ‘hard-edged food perfectionist’ route, and needed to show a more humane side.”
Willow nods as we push through to the tables.
“I can see that,” she says, without sarcasm.
“Yeah…well, I’m not exactly sure I have a more humane side. Last time I spoke to a kid, I was one.” I push open the front doors and scan the street. “There they are.”
The mousey woman with a warm smile who I assume to be Chloe’s supervisor is standing next to the small girl. The kid has dark hair, tied back into a ponytail, and dusty, tan skin. I wasn’t exactly sure what nine year olds look or sound like, but she’s a little more upright and tough-looking than I imagined. Less a waddling toddler and closer to the kind of savvy kids you see in movies, not least because she stares at me with a judgmental gaze.
The supervisor waves and we start moving toward them. If I thought this was a silly idea when I heard it, then I think it’s outright stupid now that I’m actually doing it. What the hell am I going to do with this kid? Teach her how to make a red wine reduction? Make her a cheesecake and sit her in front of a TV to watch cartoons? I suppose if worse comes to worst we can use an extra pair of hands peeling garlic cloves.
What I’m feeling right now is probably the closest I’ll ever come to empathizing with guys who have no confidence going on dates; concerned about doing or saying the wrong thing. I don’t even know how to greet her, whether I should shake her hand, tousle her hair, or lower myself to her eye level and make baby noises.
Luckily, Willow wasn’t lying when she said she liked kids, and does exactly what I needed her to do—help me.
“Hi there, I’m Maggie,” the supervisor says, shaking my hand.
“Cole Chambers. Great to meet you.”
“Hello, I’m Willow,” she says, shaking the supervisor’s hand with a smile before directing a huge smile and happy eyes at the girl. “Hey you! What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” the girl says, and immediately I’m struck by the way Willow’s infectious smile seems to compel the kid to do the same. Guess it works on kids, too.
“That’s a gorgeous name,” Willow says.
“I like yours, too,” Chloe replies, shedding any shyness instantly under Willow’s warmth. “It’s also the name of the tree.”
Willow laughs easily.
“What do you think?” she says, wryly. “Am I like the tree?”
Chloe sizes her up, her smile showing her gapped teeth now, enjoying the game.
“No…well, you’re tall. But a lot less droopy.”
We all laugh, and I turn to Maggie to ask, “So what are we doing today?”
“Oh, that’s on you. I’m leaving her here now,” Maggie says, in the slow, clear tones of someone who often addresses large numbers, “and I’ll be back to pick her up in a couple of hours. Does that sound ok? My cell number is in the email we sent you, just in case.”
“Wait, but what am I supposed to do?” I say, getting a little frantic now. “Just give a cooking lesson, or lecture her on matching appetizers to mains, or—?”
Maggie eyes me, a little puzzled.
“Nobody told you anything?”
“Nope.”
“Well, Miss Chloe is involved in a cooking competition, and she’s made it through the first rounds already but the finals are in a few months, and most of the contestants—as well as being experienced and having attended cooking courses—are being mentored by various chefs from California. None of them as big as you, though, I must say,” Maggie smiles.
“Oh, that sounds awesome!” Willow says, glancing from me to Chloe to share her excitement.
“So,” Maggie continues, “you can do whatever you want, whether it’s refining her skills or working on her mental game—anything you can think of to try and help her be a better cook. It’s not about the winning, of course, but it should be fun for both of you.”
“Say no more,” I assure her, finally feeling like I have a handle on the situation. “I might not understand kids, but I definitely understand competition.”
Minutes later, Willow, Chloe and I are walking toward the neighborhood farmers’ market. Willow and Chloe are getting on like a house on fire, and I’m spending more time marveling at how good Willow is at this than I am thinking about the kid.
“Are we going to cook after this?” the kid asks.
“Hell no,” I say. “I don’t let chefs get anywhere near a flame until they prove they can understand the principles. Produce, plan, and prep.”
Willow squints at me a little.
“Isn’t that exactly what you used to say on your show? The one where you showed convicts how to cook?”
I glance at Chloe, then back at Willow.
“I don’t see how this is any different—with less swearing, perhaps.”
Willow nods, a smile as if humoring me, and we enter the farmers’ market, passing through stall after stall where I drill into Chloe the importance of choosing good produce and providing consistent quality.
After about an hour of eyeing vegetables with a critical gaze and squeezing fruit, I turn to Chloe.
“You have any idea what you’re gonna cook for the final round?” I say.
Chloe looks up at me, the smile she’s been pointing at Willow turning into a pout.
She shrugs and says, “I dunno. The first round was assigned dishes, and after that one they gave us the ingredients they wanted us to use to make something up, but for the finals we have to pick our own dish. I have no clue. There’s just too many things I could choose.”
“Well,” Willow says, “what do you like to eat best?”
Chloe thinks for a second.
“Pasta.”
I shake my head and frown.
“You ain’t winning a cooking competition with pasta.”
Willow glares at me before turning back to Chloe.
“That sounds great,” she says. “Let’s see about selecting some ingredients to make your pasta the best.”