“I’ll keep that in mind,” Helen said, then headed for the kitchen.
When she pushed open the door and stepped in, she saw Dana Sue at the huge gas stove. Face flushed from the heat, Dana Sue juggled half a dozen different sauté pans, then slid the contents onto waiting plates, added the decorative sauces and spicy salsas, and moved them to a pickup area for the waitstaff.
Her expression filled with relief when she spotted Helen. “Grab an apron,” she ordered. “We need you. It’s nuts in here.”
“Looks to me like what you need is more trained help. Where’s Erik?” Helen asked as she whipped off her suit jacket, hung it on a peg in the pantry, then found an apron and put it on over her two-hundred-dollar designer silk blouse.
“Right behind you,” a deep voice rumbled. “Watch your step. I’m loaded down.”
She turned and found him carrying a tray laden with pies fresh from the oven. She could smell the heady aromas of peaches, cinnamon and vanilla.
“If you’ll give me a slice of that, I’ll be your slave for the rest of the night,” she said.
Erik grinned at her. “I’ll save you a whole pie, but you don’t have time to eat it now. I need you to mix up another batch of the mango-papaya chutney for the fish.” His gaze skimmed her outfit and he shook his head. “You realize that blouse is heading straight for the dry cleaner’s after this, don’t you?”
Helen shrugged. She had a dozen more in her closet. It wouldn’t be a huge loss. “Not a problem.”
His dark eyes warmed. “That’s what I love about you. No pretensions. Underneath that icy courtroom demeanor that I hear you possess lies the soul of a woman ruled by a passion for food and a willingness to help out a friend in distress, no matter the personal cost.”
The compliment caught her off guard. When the usually taciturn Erik popped out with something unexpected or insightful, as he occasionally did, it made her wonder what his story was. She winked at him. “I’m only this cavalier because I figure with the size of tonight’s crowd, Dana Sue’s good for the cost of another blouse.”
“Don’t,” he protested. “You’re ruining my illusions. Do you remember how to make the chutney?”
Helen shook her head. “But don’t worry. I know where the recipes are. I’ll get that one and find the supplies in the storeroom. I’ll have another batch whipped up in no time. You don’t need to supervise.”
“As if,” Dana Sue called out from her station by the stove. “Erik is so thrilled to have someone to supervise for once, he’s not going to pass up the chance.”
Within moments, Helen had fallen into the frantic rhythm of the kitchen. When she could, she snatched glances at Erik, admiring the efficiency with which he moved almost as much as she craved the desserts, which he excelled at making. Though he’d been hired primarily as a pastry chef right after graduating from the Atlanta Culinary Institute—which he’d attended after apparently leaving some other career he never mentioned—his role in Sullivan’s kitchen had been expanded over time. Dana Sue relied on him as her backup and had officially named him as assistant manager just a few weeks earlier.
In his late thirties or early forties, he had a wry wit, a gentle demeanor and was fiercely loyal to and protective of Dana Sue. Helen liked that about him, almost as much as she liked his pastries and occasionally lusted after his six-pack abs and competent hands. That she lusted after him at all was a surprise, because she’d always preferred polished, executive types over the strong, silent, athletic types.
Helen was relegated to the most basic duties for the next two hours, but she liked being part of the hustle and bustle of the kitchen. The aromas were delectable, the excitement and stress palpable. If cooking at home were half this much fun, she might do it more often. Instead her culinary endeavors ran to scrambled eggs, when she remembered to buy any, and the occasional baked potato. She did make a damn fine margarita, though, if she did say so herself. That was the result of a few summers in Hilton Head working as a bartender during law school. She’d made great tips, great contacts and learned a lot about human nature.
By the time the last meal had been served and only a few customers were lingering over coffee and dessert, she was exhausted from being on her feet for so long, to say nothing of being half-starved.
“Okay, you two, that’s it,” Erik said, hustling them toward the door to the dining room. “Get in there and sit down. I’ll bring you both dinner in a few minutes.”
Dana Sue shook her head. “Only if you’re going to join us,” she told him. “You haven’t had a break all night, either.”
“Sure,” Erik said. “But you need to eat now and Helen needs to kick off those ridiculous heels she insists on wearing.”
Vaguely miffed by the comment, Helen stuck out her foot in its sexy high-heeled sandal, her most extravagant indulgence. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”
Erik’s gaze lingered on her foot with its perfectly manicured pink toenails, then traveled slowly up her leg to the hem of her skirt, now hitched up to show a couple of inches of thigh. “Speaking as a man, there is nothing wrong with those shoes,” he told her, regarding her with amusement. “Speaking as someone who’s watched you hobbling around in here for the past couple of hours, I’d say they’re inappropriate for being on your feet for very long.”
Mollified, she grinned. “You may have a point.”
Copyright © 2015 by Sherryl Woods
Keep reading for an excerpt from DOGWOOD HILL by Sherryl Woods.
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