“Your son? Is anything wrong?”
“Andrew. Why the hell are you picking up Ginger's phone? And how the hell do you know my son's name?”
He'd been unable to stop himself from keeping tabs on her all those years while he was in California. But this wasn't the best time to tell her that.
“Never mind,” she continued before he could reply, “I don't have time for this right now. I need to talk to Ginger. ASAP.”
“She's gone. So's Connor. What do you need?”
“I can't believe this is happening,” came first, then “Josh was supposed to be my dishwasher. We're about to be buried under dirty dishes. If I don't get someone on it soon we're done for the day.”
“I'll be right there.”
He hung up before she could argue with him, broke the speed limit the entire way into town.
“You couldn't drive any faster?” she shot at him before jerking her thumb toward the back sink when he walked in the back door. “I'll show you how to work the Hobart.”
After her demonstration of the big silver machine that spray washed and dried the plates, glasses and silverware, she asked, “Any questions?”
“None,” he said, quickly getting to work on the enormous stacks of dirty plates and glasses, so many that they'd overflowed the stainless steel counter to the floor. Side by side they worked in silence, their rhythm as good as if they hadn't spent thirty years apart, until the situation was partially in hand.
And even though he'd never thought the day would come when he'd enjoy doing something like washing dishes, the truth was he hadn't felt this good in years. Simply because he got to be close to Isabel.
Hours later when the last of the customers had gone and he was running the floor mats through the machine, he was surprised to hear her say, “Thanks for your help. I hate to say it, but you completely saved the day. And you don't totally suck at washing dishes either.”
“You know what, I actually enjoyed myself.” He shrugged and said, “I've forgotten how much pleasure there can be in a job well done. Any job, as it turns out.”
Clearing her throat, she said, “I'll just go grab some money out of the till to pay you.”
His laughter rang through the kitchen. “I don't want any of your money, Isabel. I just wanted to lend you a hand.”
Her back stiffened. “I know you've probably got a fancy job-”
“Not anymore.”
She seemed stunned by that.
“They fired me. Called it early retirement, but those are just fancy words.”
“So that's why you're here.”
“Not having a job made it easier to come,” he agreed, “but I already told you why I'm here. My son needed me.”
“Must be nice coming in and playing hero.”
Her words hit too close to home for Andrew's comfort and he opened his mouth to argue, but instead found himself saying, “I haven't done any manual labor in thirty years. My body is killing me. Working out five days a week at the gym does nothing to prepare you to hammer nails for eight hours straight.”
“You used to love hammering nails.”
It struck him, powerfully, that only Isabel knew that about him. “You're right. I did. And I'm learning to again.” He nodded toward the Hobart. “I don't know if dish washing has quite the same magic, but just using my hands again is good. Regardless of what I'm using them for.”
She turned away quickly, but not before he saw the way her skin had started to flush, the way she'd quickly sucked in a breath. God, he wanted so badly to pull her into him. To run his hands through her hair, over her skin.
But it was too soon. He could see the truth of it even through the force of his desire. He needed to leave before he did something stupid, but at the same time he had to make sure he could see her again.
“Do you have anyone lined up for dinner?”
He could tell she didn't want to answer, saw how much she hated saying, “No, I don't.”
“What time should I be here?”
She picked up a knife, ran it under water, then wiped it off with a clean cloth. “Five thirty.”
He took the light glinting off the stainless steel blade as his cue to leave.
“Don't be late. And don't think that just because I'm letting you wash my dishes means I've forgiven you.”
“I won't,” he said to the first, even as he hoped he could change the second.
Three hours later, after running a whole host of errands in town on foot, even though it was another cool and windy day, by the time Isabel got back to the restaurant she couldn't wait to get out of her sweater and coat. If her hot flashes got any worse she'd need to spend the entire afternoon in the walk-in refrigerator.
No, she thought, as she laid out a half-dozen orange and yellow bell peppers, there really was no point in lying to herself.
Andrew had done this to her. He had made her hot all over. That afternoon she'd actually wished for one stupid second that he'd just stop talking, stop letting her tell him to stay the hell away, and take her right there on the stainless steel counter.
It shouldn't have softened her to see him standing at the dishwasher, wearing the thick plastic apron, the big yellow gloves, but it had. And knowing he'd be back any minute now to do it all again — to save her ass — only set her nerves more on edge.
And filled her with sick anticipation.
The only way she could protect herself was to keep being suspicious of his motives, to look for the real meaning behind his smooth words.
Planning to grill the peppers, she turned on the gas on her stove and picked up her lighter, flicking it over the gas. The flames jumped higher than she expected and she was about to take a step back when strong hands wrapped around her waist, hoisting her out of the way.
She'd know Andrew's touch anywhere. She'd never had such an intense reaction to anyone else, been covered in goose bumps at the same time her insides were burning up.
She whirled out of his arms, even though everything in her wanted to lean in closer.
“What the hell are you doing?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You need to be more careful.”
Well, he wasn't the only one who was angry. “This is my f**king restaurant. You don't think I know how to operate my own stove?”
o;Your son? Is anything wrong?”
“Andrew. Why the hell are you picking up Ginger's phone? And how the hell do you know my son's name?”
He'd been unable to stop himself from keeping tabs on her all those years while he was in California. But this wasn't the best time to tell her that.
“Never mind,” she continued before he could reply, “I don't have time for this right now. I need to talk to Ginger. ASAP.”
“She's gone. So's Connor. What do you need?”
“I can't believe this is happening,” came first, then “Josh was supposed to be my dishwasher. We're about to be buried under dirty dishes. If I don't get someone on it soon we're done for the day.”
“I'll be right there.”
He hung up before she could argue with him, broke the speed limit the entire way into town.
“You couldn't drive any faster?” she shot at him before jerking her thumb toward the back sink when he walked in the back door. “I'll show you how to work the Hobart.”
After her demonstration of the big silver machine that spray washed and dried the plates, glasses and silverware, she asked, “Any questions?”
“None,” he said, quickly getting to work on the enormous stacks of dirty plates and glasses, so many that they'd overflowed the stainless steel counter to the floor. Side by side they worked in silence, their rhythm as good as if they hadn't spent thirty years apart, until the situation was partially in hand.
And even though he'd never thought the day would come when he'd enjoy doing something like washing dishes, the truth was he hadn't felt this good in years. Simply because he got to be close to Isabel.
Hours later when the last of the customers had gone and he was running the floor mats through the machine, he was surprised to hear her say, “Thanks for your help. I hate to say it, but you completely saved the day. And you don't totally suck at washing dishes either.”
“You know what, I actually enjoyed myself.” He shrugged and said, “I've forgotten how much pleasure there can be in a job well done. Any job, as it turns out.”
Clearing her throat, she said, “I'll just go grab some money out of the till to pay you.”
His laughter rang through the kitchen. “I don't want any of your money, Isabel. I just wanted to lend you a hand.”
Her back stiffened. “I know you've probably got a fancy job-”
“Not anymore.”
She seemed stunned by that.
“They fired me. Called it early retirement, but those are just fancy words.”
“So that's why you're here.”
“Not having a job made it easier to come,” he agreed, “but I already told you why I'm here. My son needed me.”
“Must be nice coming in and playing hero.”
Her words hit too close to home for Andrew's comfort and he opened his mouth to argue, but instead found himself saying, “I haven't done any manual labor in thirty years. My body is killing me. Working out five days a week at the gym does nothing to prepare you to hammer nails for eight hours straight.”
“You used to love hammering nails.”
It struck him, powerfully, that only Isabel knew that about him. “You're right. I did. And I'm learning to again.” He nodded toward the Hobart. “I don't know if dish washing has quite the same magic, but just using my hands again is good. Regardless of what I'm using them for.”
She turned away quickly, but not before he saw the way her skin had started to flush, the way she'd quickly sucked in a breath. God, he wanted so badly to pull her into him. To run his hands through her hair, over her skin.
But it was too soon. He could see the truth of it even through the force of his desire. He needed to leave before he did something stupid, but at the same time he had to make sure he could see her again.
“Do you have anyone lined up for dinner?”
He could tell she didn't want to answer, saw how much she hated saying, “No, I don't.”
“What time should I be here?”
She picked up a knife, ran it under water, then wiped it off with a clean cloth. “Five thirty.”
He took the light glinting off the stainless steel blade as his cue to leave.
“Don't be late. And don't think that just because I'm letting you wash my dishes means I've forgiven you.”
“I won't,” he said to the first, even as he hoped he could change the second.
Three hours later, after running a whole host of errands in town on foot, even though it was another cool and windy day, by the time Isabel got back to the restaurant she couldn't wait to get out of her sweater and coat. If her hot flashes got any worse she'd need to spend the entire afternoon in the walk-in refrigerator.
No, she thought, as she laid out a half-dozen orange and yellow bell peppers, there really was no point in lying to herself.
Andrew had done this to her. He had made her hot all over. That afternoon she'd actually wished for one stupid second that he'd just stop talking, stop letting her tell him to stay the hell away, and take her right there on the stainless steel counter.
It shouldn't have softened her to see him standing at the dishwasher, wearing the thick plastic apron, the big yellow gloves, but it had. And knowing he'd be back any minute now to do it all again — to save her ass — only set her nerves more on edge.
And filled her with sick anticipation.
The only way she could protect herself was to keep being suspicious of his motives, to look for the real meaning behind his smooth words.
Planning to grill the peppers, she turned on the gas on her stove and picked up her lighter, flicking it over the gas. The flames jumped higher than she expected and she was about to take a step back when strong hands wrapped around her waist, hoisting her out of the way.
She'd know Andrew's touch anywhere. She'd never had such an intense reaction to anyone else, been covered in goose bumps at the same time her insides were burning up.
She whirled out of his arms, even though everything in her wanted to lean in closer.
“What the hell are you doing?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “You need to be more careful.”
Well, he wasn't the only one who was angry. “This is my f**king restaurant. You don't think I know how to operate my own stove?”