Read Online Love On The Line by Kimberly Kincaid - Free Book Online
Authors: Kimberly Kincaid
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from the counter. “So you never did say what we’re making today.”
A thousand questions burned through her like a mouthful of Habanero peppers, but she tamped them down. He was so straight-to-it, of course he didn’t want to trade stories about anything so private. He’d probably just told her because she’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. No wonder he’d changed the subject so abruptly.
And she shouldn’t be getting personal with him, anyway.
Violet shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. “How do chicken and dumplings sound?” She reached in to grab her knife roll, the motions of being in the kitchen taking her down a notch.
“Like I’m going to be spoiled when I go back to real food in a couple weeks.”
This time, she caught the unmistakable hint of his lips quirking up, and whoa. Even at half-mast, Noah’s smile shot right to her belly.
She scooped in a breath and scrambled for her om . Jeez, this was so much easier in yoga class! “Hate to break it to you, but this is real food. And anyway, cooking isn’t as hard as most people make it out to be. I can teach you the basics, if you want. I mean, it’s what I do for a living.”
“You cook with all your clients like this?” Although his expression was stoic as usual, a stab of interest flicked over his face.
“Yup.” Violet turned back to the counter, chopping vegetables as she talked. “Some of them prefer to be more hands-on than others, but that’s the deal. I don’t believe in cranking out bunches of meals just to drop them off at clients’ houses. I’d rather cook with them, so they get the full experience of the meal from start to finish.”
“Sort of like that adage about teaching a guy to fish rather than just giving him one, right?” Noah’s gray eyes missed nothing, and she angled herself to make sure he had the best possible view of the cutting board.
“Exactly. If my clients take part in preparing their food, it heightens their appreciation. Plus, so many people don’t slow down and really appreciate their meals anymore. But if they make it, they have a stake in it. The food becomes more personal.”
Noah’s forehead creased, the warmth from his body sifting over her as he leaned in closer to watch her hands. “Is that why you don’t work in a restaurant?”
“It’s the main reason, yes.” She canted her head toward the stock pot, taking a few minutes to show Noah how to warm the oil in the bottom before adding the mushrooms and onions in a slow slide. When he got the hang of it and started to stir, she continued. “You know Coco’s, on Eighth Street?”
The twitch of Noah’s lips suggested another shot of dark-edged humor. “I’m a cop, Morgan.”
Her cheeks flushed at belated realization of how stupid the question was. Of course he knew downtown like he knew his own apartment. Any cop worth his salt would.
“Right.” She let out a small chuckle. “I was the sous chef there for two years.”
Noah stepped back from the burner just as she arrived with more ingredients. “But you didn’t like it.”
“Not really. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. It’s just that working in a kitchen is so fast-paced, and everything’s about the bottom line. I get that it’s a business, I do.” She sprinkled flour over the heat-softened veggies in the pot, moving back so Noah could resume stirring. “But the food should be the most important thing, and when you rush it just to turn tables, the beauty falls to the wayside. And after working my way up to sous chef just to keep plowing through every step…”
“You wanted to do things your own way.” Noah finished her sentence with his dark brows raised, but it really wasn’t a question, nor was he off the mark.
“Exactly. So now that I’m a personal chef, I can make things more...well, personal.” She held up a container of chicken stock. “Ready to deglaze?”
“It looks more fun with beer,” he deadpanned,
A thousand questions burned through her like a mouthful of Habanero peppers, but she tamped them down. He was so straight-to-it, of course he didn’t want to trade stories about anything so private. He’d probably just told her because she’d been the one to bring it up in the first place. No wonder he’d changed the subject so abruptly.
And she shouldn’t be getting personal with him, anyway.
Violet shifted her weight from one foot to the other and back again. “How do chicken and dumplings sound?” She reached in to grab her knife roll, the motions of being in the kitchen taking her down a notch.
“Like I’m going to be spoiled when I go back to real food in a couple weeks.”
This time, she caught the unmistakable hint of his lips quirking up, and whoa. Even at half-mast, Noah’s smile shot right to her belly.
She scooped in a breath and scrambled for her om . Jeez, this was so much easier in yoga class! “Hate to break it to you, but this is real food. And anyway, cooking isn’t as hard as most people make it out to be. I can teach you the basics, if you want. I mean, it’s what I do for a living.”
“You cook with all your clients like this?” Although his expression was stoic as usual, a stab of interest flicked over his face.
“Yup.” Violet turned back to the counter, chopping vegetables as she talked. “Some of them prefer to be more hands-on than others, but that’s the deal. I don’t believe in cranking out bunches of meals just to drop them off at clients’ houses. I’d rather cook with them, so they get the full experience of the meal from start to finish.”
“Sort of like that adage about teaching a guy to fish rather than just giving him one, right?” Noah’s gray eyes missed nothing, and she angled herself to make sure he had the best possible view of the cutting board.
“Exactly. If my clients take part in preparing their food, it heightens their appreciation. Plus, so many people don’t slow down and really appreciate their meals anymore. But if they make it, they have a stake in it. The food becomes more personal.”
Noah’s forehead creased, the warmth from his body sifting over her as he leaned in closer to watch her hands. “Is that why you don’t work in a restaurant?”
“It’s the main reason, yes.” She canted her head toward the stock pot, taking a few minutes to show Noah how to warm the oil in the bottom before adding the mushrooms and onions in a slow slide. When he got the hang of it and started to stir, she continued. “You know Coco’s, on Eighth Street?”
The twitch of Noah’s lips suggested another shot of dark-edged humor. “I’m a cop, Morgan.”
Her cheeks flushed at belated realization of how stupid the question was. Of course he knew downtown like he knew his own apartment. Any cop worth his salt would.
“Right.” She let out a small chuckle. “I was the sous chef there for two years.”
Noah stepped back from the burner just as she arrived with more ingredients. “But you didn’t like it.”
“Not really. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t bad. It’s just that working in a kitchen is so fast-paced, and everything’s about the bottom line. I get that it’s a business, I do.” She sprinkled flour over the heat-softened veggies in the pot, moving back so Noah could resume stirring. “But the food should be the most important thing, and when you rush it just to turn tables, the beauty falls to the wayside. And after working my way up to sous chef just to keep plowing through every step…”
“You wanted to do things your own way.” Noah finished her sentence with his dark brows raised, but it really wasn’t a question, nor was he off the mark.
“Exactly. So now that I’m a personal chef, I can make things more...well, personal.” She held up a container of chicken stock. “Ready to deglaze?”
“It looks more fun with beer,” he deadpanned,
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