“What are they saying?” I asked.
She hesitated. “It’s... well, it’s not very nice. I mean, it’s likely to just be talk, and nothing will actually happen. But I’ve told Mason, and he’s going to monitor the feed. He also said you should try to be more aware of your surroundings for a while, just in case.”
I swallowed, trying not to panic. “Okay.”
“Sorry, Nat, I have to go. Things are getting heated.” Sure enough, I could hear some shouts in the background.
“Okay. Talk later.”
When I hung up, I looked skyward. “What if I’m getting death threats and Lottie didn’t want to tell me?” I asked aloud, as though Mom could hear me.
Talking about Mom always made my heart heavy with missing her. If she were here, I was pretty sure I knew what she’d say.
Though Mom had always wanted to be a real painter, the closest she’d gotten was volunteering to help with sets at the community theater. So when Dad’s circulation had gotten so bad he’d lost the feeling in his feet, she hadn’t wanted me to quit work and come back to San Dante to help with the café. She’d been afraid I’d end up like her, stuck doing a job I didn’t want.
She made me promise I wouldn’t stay here long. But then she’d died, and here I still was.
Stuck, just like Mom.
So if she were here, she’d probably tell me to announce to the world I wasn’t engaged to Kade, close down the café, and get my butt back to Chicago.
That’s if the Tribune would even employ me again. Though I’d hoped Gigi and Butch would be the answer to my prayers, my old boss must have given the job I wanted to someone else by now.
Maybe I was kidding myself, and my career was already over.
Chapter Ten
Kade
“How many recipes do you need now?” asked Nat.
It was the following morning, and I was at the café getting ready for the day. I’d mixed up a batch of muffins and was sliding them into the hot oven. Ten minutes and they’d be done.
Nat was in the kitchen with me, emptying the dishwasher. She looked sleek and put-together, with her hair so neat my hands itched to tug it loose, and her lip gloss begging to be kissed off.
“Twenty-four recipes.” After closing the oven, I grabbed some plates from the dishwasher rack, both to help her, and to keep my hands out of trouble.
“That still sounds like a lot.”
I stacked the plates on the shelf. “The worst part is not having a theme to tie them together.”
“What kind of theme?”
“Usually after I come up with a few recipes, I’ll figure out what makes them similar. Then, once I’ve chosen the theme, it inspires the rest of the recipes. Only not this time.”
“You have no ideas at all?”
“Nothing good.”
She closed the empty dishwasher and leaned against the counter with her arms folded and her head tilted. “Talk me through what you have.”
I leaned on the opposite counter, mimicking her pose. “The recipes are variations on what I’ve been making in the café. I’ve been thinking along the lines of cooking for a crowd, or new takes on traditional favorites.” I grimaced. “Saying them out loud makes them sound even worse than they did in my head.”
“So, we need to figure out how to describe the food you’ve been cooking in the café?” She lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “Um. Not deep fried? Yummy? A million times better than Lee’s?” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had time to watch how you make any of your dishes. All I know is they taste good.”
I quirked an eyebrow. “That reminds me. How come you’re still such a bad cook?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I get flustered. I start thinking about other things and forget what I’m supposed to be doing. I burn things, or undercook them.” She shrugged with her arms still folded. “I missed out on the cooking gene.”
With her arms pushing her breasts up, a considerable amount of smooth, tempting cleavage emerged from her scoop-necked T-shirt. Being a gentleman, I tried very hard not to look.
Okay, so I tried reasonably hard.
All right, fine. I let my eyes feast as though her cleavage was an all-you-can-eat buffet. Happy now?
“…and I seem to attract grease.” Nat was saying. “Somehow, even when I don’t cook, I end up with food on my clothes. It happens just by walking in the door. How is that even possible?”
I tried not to grin. Her ability to attract stains was endearing, though she clearly didn’t agree.
“You can learn to cook if you really want to,” I said. “And if you do, you won’t need to hire a chef.”
“But it might mean I get stuck in the café forever. Dad asked Mom to help him in the café when he first opened it.” She unfolded her arms, finally allowing me to tear my gaze from her breasts. “Four decades later, she was still working here.”
“She didn’t have to work in the café all that time.”
“But you know what Dad’s like, how much he loves this place. He’s so enthusiastic, it’s easy to be caught up in it.”
“Is that why you’re still here?”
She shrugged. “Dad thought he’d get to leave me the café as a kind of legacy. Mom warned me not to let anything stop me from doing what I want, but it’s hard to say no to Dad. I hate disappointing him, and so did she.”
I was about to tell her she shouldn’t let Mack pressure her into staying, when my phone rang. The screen said Billy.
“Hi,” I said to my agent, walking toward the door that led to the café's dining area.
“Hey,” said Billy. “I’m calling to let you know that Mona wants to change the interview.”
“What? I thought Mona was already talking about it on the Morning Show. Don’t tell me she wants to postpone?”
“It’s still on for Saturday. But she’s done her research on Natalie, and wants to do the
