“Nonsense. Tell me his name, and I’ll call the kitchen so I can speak to him personally.”
“Vincent,” she said softly, not wanting to say his last name after Roberto’s reaction.
“Is that his last name?”
“No. His name is Vincent Moretti he’s—” She stopped herself and waited because if Roberto knew the name, she was positive he did as well.
“I know who he is. Are you telling me that Chef Moretti is in my kitchen right now doing the cooking while you’re outside talking to me on the phone?”
She wasn’t expecting that reaction from him. “Yes.” Her voice was soft like a child who knew they were in trouble. But for what she wasn’t quite sure.
“He wasn’t on the guest list last week.”
“No he wasn’t. I assume he was a last minute add or filling in for someone else. I never actually asked.” Another poor choice on my part. I’m supposed to be monitoring the entire resort, and I don’t even inquire why he’s here. I should never be left in charge again.
“You should be by his side, learning everything you can. It’s an opportunity that most are not given. And yet you’re talking to me as though it means nothing to you.”
Because, it doesn’t. I don’t like cooking. Just because he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met and I could listen to him talk about cooking all day, doesn’t mean he can teach me to cook. “Dad, he’s here to help, not train me. You’re the chef, probably better than Vin—Mr. Moretti. Besides, you know how I feel about being in the kitchen, having people try what I make.” I dread it. I know I’ll never be as good as you, so why bother?
It was the same argument they’d had since she was a teenager. He wanted her to learn and take over the kitchen at the resort, and all she wanted was to be out on the slopes.
“You know how you feel about learning how to cook from me? Trust me, you’ll feel different with Chef Moretti. With the right person, it’s not learning but connecting, sharing. A man and a woman cooking together can be very enlightening.”
Oh, my God. Dad, you’ve got your fever back because you seem to have forgotten I’m your daughter. “Dad, I don’t—”
“Do not Dad me. I’m not getting any younger, and at this rate, I’ll never have any grandchildren.”
This is worse than I thought. He’s trying to get me married off. “Dad, I’m a grown woman who—”
“Would stay on this mountain, trying to take care of me, and never get out and live and find love. If you’re not working, you’re skiing alone on the slopes or sitting at home reading. And a successful, well-liked, and respected man is there helping you, and you don’t want to be with him. Why?”
“Dad, he’s not helping because of me. He just doesn’t want the other guests to suffer through my cooking.” Can’t blame him.
“Chef Moretti wouldn’t care about the other guests. It’s not his reputation on the line. It’s mine and the resort’s. Open your eyes, child, and see; if he is in there doing all the work, he’s doing it because of you.”
“Me?” That’s ridiculous. He could have any woman he wants.
“Really, Nita, I don’t know what you’re looking for in a man, but you’ll be thirty before you know it. Your mother and I’d been married eight years by your age.”
She was regretting even speaking to her father right now. As if I don’t have enough stress on me already, you’re talking like I’m going to be an old spinster if I’m not married by thirty. She wanted to tell him this was a different time; people didn’t jump into marriages and live happily ever after. They had careers and lives that also fulfilled them. Of course that will only open up another can of worms. Because right now I don’t have those either.
“And you think Mr. Moretti will be impressed by my cooking skills and do what, ask me to marry him? Dad, I think you better get back to bed and take something for your fever.”
She wasn’t trying to sass her father, but what he was saying made no sense at all.
“Maria is not intimidated by my cooking skills. She’s in my kitchen making fresh pasta. And she brings me a spoon to taste, and her eyes sparkle when I tell her how good it is.”
More information than I need to know, but at least you’re eating. “Yeah. Great. I have to get back to work now.”
“I hope you understand what I’m telling you.”
More than I want to. “Yes, Dad, I do.”
“Good. Now do as I say and don’t leave his side for a moment. Understood?”
How is it that I’m twenty-six and you’ve got me wanting to run to my room and hide under my blanket? I thought fathers were supposed to scare the boys away, not push me to them. Do you want me out of the house that much? There are easier ways than this to stop me from living at home.
Renita was no fool. Even though she didn’t want to admit it, she’d seen Vincent looking at her, and when he was close to her, she knew there was a mutual attraction. But all that changed the moment she found out he was not one of the skiers here, but he was one of the elite attending the formal New Year’s Eve event. He was only flirting with her until the other guests arrived. He’s probably just bored.
Knowing that made her more determined to keep her distance. She didn’t want feelings for someone who’d never reciprocate. And if her father was right, the last thing she needed was spicing it up in the kitchen with Vincent. I need to keep it professional. Go in, do what he says, and get out. Simple.
No matter how much she was going to hate that, she’d never disrespected her father before and wouldn’t start now.
“Yes, Dad. I understand. Can’t wait till you feel better and can come back to work.”
She disconnected the call and reluctantly entered the kitchen again. Vincent was barking orders at Karen, one of the other sous-chefs. The man who’d been so kind and gentle with her seemed to be totally different with the staff. He was all business and expected—no demanded—perfection. That was something he wasn’t going to see from her. Not in a million years.
Although, there was nothing between them for him to look at her any other way than the way he did the rest of the staff. Craziness. That’s exactly what I am. And I’m not even kitchen staff. I’m supposed to be out in the dining room to make sure everything is perfect. Why did I ever promise to be by Vincent’s side? I’m only going to irritate him with my lack of skill.
As she watched him, she took a step backward. I don’t think Dad meant to literally stand next to him. I think in the same room, actually on the other side of the room, will work just as well. Probably better.
He must’ve been watching her while she’d been looking at him because he patted the workstation. “Come by me.”
She stood, hoping to be able to get out of doing what he requested. She looked at the others; although still working, they were paying close attention to both she and Vincent. “I thought you wanted me to plate,” she said softly.
Never turning to her, he said more firmly, “I want you here with me. They can plate.”
When she made eye contact with Roberto, she saw a hint of a grin before he turned away quickly. I hope the guys don’t think that Vincent and I are . . . oh, this is embarrassing.
Renita held her head up and pretended to be confident as she made her way to Vincent’s side. Once there she whispered, “I really think that I’d be better at—”
“If you don’t try, you’ll never know if you can do it.” He reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ll never be the same after a couple of private lessons with me.”
Her cheeks flushed as somehow her mind had wandered from the kitchen and into the bedroom. She had no doubt he was not only a master in the kitchen. His confidence was sexy as hell. If he were a spice, he’d be a habanero pepper, super hot. Remember Renita, he warned you, cooking is all about chemistry. And if you get too close to him, you know you’re going to ignite.
“So what are we making today?” Please don’t say love because I’ll have to quit my job and move away if you d
o.
“Why don’t you tell me what you know how to cook, and I’ll show you how to make it better.”
“It’s a very short list.”
“How about we start with lasagna?”
Oh, God no. That is way too hard. “I can’t. Maybe something simpler.”
“Grilled cheese?” He arched a brow, but the curl of his lips said he was teasing her.
I think this might be easier if you yelled at me like you do the other staff. That way I won’t like you so much. “Maybe something in-between.”
“How about we skip cooking and head straight for dessert?”
Renita’s tongue betrayed her as she licked her top lip. “Sounds sweet.”
She could be as playful and teasing as he could, but somehow she knew she’d just challenged him, and he wasn’t going to back down.
Vincent went and grabbed all the ingredients, and she tried to listen and pay attention as he measured flour, sugar, eggs, milk, baking powder, and fresh vanilla. There was more added, but she’d stopped paying attention as the aroma filled her nostrils.
“Did you get all that?”
“Hmm? Oh, yes. I got it.” She was lying, but had no plans on ever needing to make a cake from scratch again.
“So tell me what do you smell?”
“Cake batter?” She didn’t know what else to say. But it was a logical answer as far as she was concerned. Can’t be wrong there.
“Renita, you weren’t paying attention. But I refuse to let you fail at this.” He turned away and barked, “Everyone out. Now.”
She heard the utensils being put down and footsteps hustling out of the kitchen. This was not his kitchen or his staff, yet no one questioned his order. Can’t blame them. He can be pretty damn intimidating. But it was her job to remind him who was in charge here, and it wasn’t him. “You can’t—”
“I just did. Now we continue with your lesson. Okay close your eyes and give me your arm.”
She looked at him. “Why?”
“You think cooking or baking comes from some paper. It doesn’t. You need to use your other senses as well. Now give me your arm and close your eyes.”
