To Catch A Player

Kill me now. “Great. Let’s finish this, then, because I have a lot of work to do.” And I had to find a way to work with Jackson for the next few weeks without killing him. He was a detective after all, and the law tended to frown on things like that.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” he whispered so only I could hear him.

“Lucky me.”

Thirty minutes later, Janey carried her photography equipment to her car, an almost apologetic smile on her face. Almost, because she’d gotten her way. Again.

“It’s just you and me now, kid. You can’t avoid me.”

“I’m not avoiding you, Detective.” Maybe I made sure I wasn’t where he would be, but that was smart. It was self-preservation, not avoidance. “Come on.” I could feel his gaze on me but I refused to turn around, to acknowledge any of the tension between us.

“This kitchen is bigger that I imagined.”

I smiled and looked around. This was my pride and joy, my favorite part of the business. “Plenty of room for the creative juices to flow.” At least that’s what Aunt Bette used to say about her own giant kitchen.

“They must overflow, because I’ve never eaten so much barbecue in all my life as I have since moving to Tulip.”

“Thanks.” It was, admittedly, the best compliment I’d heard in a while.

“Is it so bad to have me here, Reese?”

This was it. I could tell him that, yes, it would be awful, and he would go away. Or I could let him stay and work through this particular challenge, and when it was over, there wouldn’t even be weirdness. Just a cool, detached civility. That sounded… nice.

“It’s not bad, no. But this was just sprung on me this morning and today is my day, where I catch up on the business side of things and test out new recipes.” It was time just for me, and now I had to share it. For charity, I had to remind myself.

“All right. What would Maven be doing if she were here instead of me?”

“Prep work.” At his frown, I explained. “Any of the preparations needed for a dish. Today, she would have spent the morning chopping vegetables.”

“I can do that,” he insisted with the confidence of a man who had never chopped a dozen onions in one go.“Or you can go enjoy your morning and if anyone asks, I’ll tell them you were an excellent sous chef.”

Jackson folded his arms over his chest and stared at me. “We’re back to that again?”

“Nope. We’re not.”

“Then I’m helping.” He was more stubborn than I’d given him credit for, which impressed me.

“Fine. I need ten diced onions to start with. Then garlic and bell peppers.” I turned and found him a pair of latex gloves. “You’ll need these for the chili peppers.”

“Cool. Show me how you want them.”

I did and he picked it up quickly, allowing me to get back to my work, which was scattered across one of the tables in the kitchen instead of my office because I had anticipated having the place to myself today. A mistake I wouldn’t make again. “If you have any questions, ask.”

He nodded and started to chop, and we worked in a peaceful silence for a full ten minutes before Jackson started talking. “Why did you choose to open a restaurant?”

“Instead of just work at one, you mean?” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d gotten that question, but it usually came from older women—like my aunt, who worried my focus on business would interfere with my finding a husband.

“I mean, instead of a food truck or catering. I knew a guy who was a private chef, even.”

Oh. “I liked the idea of cooking for people and creating new takes on old favorites.”

“Like barbecue?”

That made me smile. “Some of my best memories are with my bare feet in the grass beside my Aunt Bette as she painted different homemade sauces on ribs and burgers for the neighborhood. The smell of meat on the grill, the blend of sauces—I loved it.” Living in a place where you could barbecue most of the year meant those memories were just a weekend away on any given day.

“Nice memory.”

“There weren’t a lot, but it was enough. Is that why you became a detective?”

“Because of some really good barbecue? No. I like solving puzzles and punishing bad dudes.” His words had the ring of truth to them, which only made laugh. “Something funny about that?”

“I believe you, but it sounds like it came from a cheesy cop movie. A B-movie, at that.” More laughter erupted from me and the more he frowned, the louder and more energetic my laughter grew.

“Very funny.”

“Sorry. You were saying?”

“Nothing,” he said, now upset. “It’s the truth.”

“I believe you, really. It’s just funny you said it that way. I didn’t peg you for the sensitive type.” And I didn’t want to think about him having actual feelings. “Why did you come to Tulip?”