Pinpoint (Point #4) (21 page)

Oscar calling.

When the phone began to buzz with vibration, I could hardly contain my confusion. Thanksgiving came and went with no contact from Oscar, other than a passing greeting during the Mentoring Chicago sessions. It’s the second week in December, and I don’t have the full details to share with my students for the night at Mariposa. Time’s getting tight because next week will be the last session with my students. I’m depressed at the notion of saying good-bye to the teenagers who have wormed their way into my heart. Mostly likely, I won’t see any of them again unless they choose to visit.

“Hello,” I say tentatively.

“Hello, Iris.” His voice sends delicious tingles all over my body.

“How are you?” I ask politely.

“Thrilled that Mariquita will be open in three months,” he says wryly. “That’s why I haven’t been able to give my full attention to our event. Come over to my house tonight. We’ll cook dinner and finalize everything.”

“C-come over for dinner?” I hate the tremor in my voice, but I’m immediately thrown back to the last time I went to his house. Sinful memories burn behind my eyelids.

Oscar clears his throat. “Yes, I’d like to see your skills in the kitchen.” As if he senses my hesitation, he continues. “That’s all. A friendly dinner. Are you free?”

Reassured that Oscar means nothing more than a nonromantic gathering, my eyes open and I survey my sweatpants and ancient t-shirt. Yep. Definitely free tonight. “No other plans,” I admit without shame. “When would you like me?”

“Let’s say six. Any allergies?” The brusque tone is back in his voice, giving me whiplash.

“No. I was in the middle of trying a recipe for Whoopie Pies. Have you had them?”

“I can’t say I’ve had the pleasure. Bring them over. We’ll need something sweet.”

“Okay, Oscar. I’ll see you at six.”

Violet’s not home to ask what my plans are for the evening—she traveled to Detroit with Stella to watch Cameron play. I could spend the next few hours fretting over what Oscar might expect from me, but I don’t allow myself to do that. I turn up the music, the oldies as my students tell me, and twirl around my apartment while I bake. The sooner I acknowledge to myself that this is nothing more than two friends-slash-sort of colleagues, the better.

Oscar

She makes me nervous. Gentle Iris Harper has me thrown off kilter. For weeks after our outing to the Art Institute, I’ve been avoiding her. That afternoon was one of the best I’d had in a long time, showing me what it might be like to date this woman. That vision of my future shook me to the soles of my feet. I exaggerated the urgency of the business call, but really, I left her alone at the museum café because I realized what was terrifying about Iris. If I gave into my desire to make her mine, completely, then she would own me. Wholeheartedly. With that power, she’d have the ability to hurt me, and because that’s the way life is, she would hurt me. Destroy me. Irrevocably.

There it is. The spot I can pinpoint my resistance to enter into a relationship with Iris. Or any woman for that matter. I refuse to give anyone that power over me.

Abandoned at church when I was four years old by my prostitute mother, I was old enough to know that neither she nor my father loved me; they didn’t want me. From what I’ve seen, my parents’ pure, undying love is an anomaly. Most people leave. Most people are selfish. Most people want more than they’re willing to give. If I relent with Iris, just one inch, she’ll have the power to squash me when she leaves. And she will leave. They always do.

When Mom called to tell me she had run into the lovely Iris at the Gratitude Dinner, I had nearly cracked my cell phone with my bare hands. Of course, my mother is pushing me toward Iris. How could she not? Iris is intelligent, thoughtful, giving, not to mention gorgeous . . .

There I go again. Lost in her.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I invited her to my house tonight. We could have just as easily discussed whatever we needed to over the phone. I wasn’t lying when I told her that Mariquita has been consuming all of my time, but I’d had a few moments to talk to her.

Like I said, scared to the soles of my feet.

Yet she’ll be here any minute. In my house again. I could hear the indecision when I invited her here, the uncertainty. She’s coming over because I need to prove to myself that I can keep things platonic between us. She’s coming over because I want her company. I want to hear the sound of her musical laughter and to try her Whoopie Pies. Whatever the hell those are. I find myself thinking of Iris moving around her kitchen, scraps of sugar and flour on the tip of her dainty nose and smeared across her apron. Damn, that woman makes an apron look good.

Three sharp knocks pull me from my fantasies of Iris in an apron and nothing else. Hustling down the stairs, I run a hair through my unmanageable hair. I am past due for a haircut but haven’t had the time to arrange a trim.

A piece of sunshine stands on the other side of my door. Blond tresses loose around her shoulders, legs clad in leggings, boots, and a thigh-length heavy sweater jacket cover her body. A colorful scarf twines her neck. A rosy hew flushes her cheeks—whether caused by the chilly late fall temperatures or a bout of shyness, I’m not sure. The tentative smile she offers nearly makes me wince. God, I’ve put her through the wringer.

“Come in.” Gruffness textures my voice. I step back to allow her to enter as sugary sweetness teases my nostrils. She smells good enough to eat, and I know just how delicious her skin tastes. “Let me take your coat.”

“Thank you,” she says almost breathlessly. I take the glass container from her, extending a hand for the heavy, draped jacket. The urge to check out what’s underneath is too much for me to fight, and I steal a look at the loose gray tank top and dark red cardigan covering her body. Nothing sexy and still, I’m teeming with interest.

Irrevocable damage,
I remind myself harshly.

“What are we making?” Iris asks pleasantly, following me from a pause at the coat closet to the kitchen. The architect designed this first floor with high ceilings and little to enclose the different spaces. Still, the kitchen is claustrophobic with Iris inhabiting it.

“Lemon chicken, orzo, and an arugula salad. The meal will table in an hour. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Water’s fine for me.”

“A Chianti pairs well with the chicken. Can I pour you a glass?”

Iris’ melodic laughter fills the kitchen. “Oscar, no means no. I’m driving, and even one glass of one will impair my judgment. I’m a lightweight.”

“Suit yourself.” I’m annoyed she turned down the drink. What, does she think I’ll take advantage of her? No, that’s not right. She’s not the type of woman to think the worst of others. After all, she came here with only a small hesitation. Iris doesn’t trust herself to drink and be around me.

Interesting.

Before I grab a bottle from the clear-walled wine closet, I use my phone to start the music system and select a mellow, jazzy station. From behind the tower of wine, I’m able to study Iris as she fiddles with her purse strap. Her gaze darts around the kitchen, as though seeing it for the first time.

You rushed her in and out of here; what do you expect?

Ignoring the voice of reason, I yank the bottle of choice from its location on the wall and return to the kitchen. “Set your bag down. We’ve got work to do.” Iris jumps at my voice and then flashes her unknowingly beguiling smile my way. She loses the bag and washes her hands. Before I see to my own drink, I pour her a glass of ice water, slice a lemon, and place a wedge on the rim of the glass. Only then do I uncork the bottle, pour myself a glass, and gulp down a swallow without letting the wine breathe.

“Do we have a recipe?”

I give her an affronted look. “What do you take me for, Iris, a novice chef?”

Iris giggles and rolls her eyes. “Forgive me, Master Chef, but as I told my students, bakers must follow the word of the recipe. I understand cooks use instructions as mere suggestions. Show me your inspired ways.”

“Preheat the oven to four fifty.” Without trying, she makes my lips twitch upward, the tension of the day melting away. Under my direction, she floats around the kitchen while I cut the whole chicken into smaller pieces. We move in an effortless synchronicity, coming together to toss the chicken, garlic, lemon, and seasoning together. Iris shrugs off her cardigan when it’s time to mix the ingredients together, not complaining about how the oil and dill cling to her fingers.

A low moan comes from the back of her throat, and I nearly groan at the indecent images that flash in my mind. “We haven’t put this in the oven, and it smells heavenly.”

I can’t resist her. It’s too damn hard. I dip closer to her, my lips brushing the shell of her ear when I speak. “Wait twenty minutes.” A tense silence fills the room. Iris goes still, her breathing short, shallow. Abruptly, I take a step backward.

I’m an ass.

Space.

I need space.

Roughly, I clear my throat then grab the tray and move to transfer it into the heated oven. “There’s risotto in the pantry. Grab it on the second shelf.” Iris does as I ask, not responding. Judging by her erect posture, my flirtation does not amuse her. She has every right to be pissed at me; I’ve told her how many times I want to be ‘just friends.’ And we both know she’s not the type of woman to add benefits to the friendship.

“Has your class decided what they want to make at the dinner?” I return to even speech, hoping she’ll ignore this latest fuck-up on my part. What is it about this woman that reverts me to a gawky, unsure teenager?

“That’s what we have scheduled to talk about during our last class. We’ll have it figured out by then.”

“Give me the recipe and a list of ingredients and tools. Mariposa will cover the cost of those things. You and I can determine a schedule for how we’ll divide kitchen time and space, though it shouldn’t be much of an issue. The executive chefs, kitchen and pastry, will also be there to answer questions.”

Visible tension disappears and Iris’ eyes light with pleasure. “Oh, Oscar. This is going to be a wonderful experience. I cannot thank you enough for including my kids.”

Uncomfortable with her looking at me as if I’m a hero, my words come out gruffly. “It’s nothing, Iris. I’ve been running this program every semester since I started.”

“Okay.” She curls inward, her words feeble. Instantly, I regret snapping at her. I can do no right when it comes to this woman. This only confirms what I think: Iris Harper could do much better than prickly Oscar Alexander.

I make a concerted effort to use a more gentle tone. “The hardest part for you, I imagine, will be staying out of the kitchen. We leave the students to their own devices. Can you handle that?”

“Someone once advised me to treat my students with respect. I wouldn’t dream of intruding on them during their debut. What’s next?”

Together, we finish the dinner, commenting on mundane, safe topics like what we’re cooking and what music is playing. I hate it. I want to listen to Iris’ opinions on strangers in the city, hear funny stories about her students, or tales about the job she refuses to admit she hates. I bite my tongue, knowing I’ve already pushed Iris tonight with my lack of self-control. Hoping she’ll relax again, I remind myself over and over that we are strictly friends—no matter how delectable she smells or how badly I want to press kisses along the curve of her neck.

Iris sets the dining table while I prepare the salad and remove the main dish from the oven. A few minutes later, we’re sitting across from each other at the reclaimed wood table. Before I sit down, I decrease the light because I am a glutton for punishment. In the dim lighting, Iris’ blond locks take on the appearance of a halo. Her navy eyes shimmer. When she looks at me, my body goes rock solid.

My God.

She’s a vision.

“This smells lovely. Although I have to confess, I don’t think Whoopie Pies are the best fit for such a gorgeous dinner.”

“Where did you come up with the recipe?” From the corner of my eye, I watch Iris shut her eyes and inhale the food I served. Before I make another unnecessarily baiting comment, I take a swallow of wine.

“Yum.” Her eyes pop open, and she gives me what she always does—honesty without reservation. “I was watching one of those Travel Channel shows about foods around the country. Apparently, the Whoopie Pies are a Pennsylvania Amish tradition. Eat with caution: this was my first go at a recipe.”

“Thanks for the warning. How do you like the food?”

Iris takes a hearty bite of chicken and orzo, chewing with a thoughtful expression. “Tart.”

“It’s difficult to tell whether that’s a positive or a negative.” For some reason, I hang on every word. I want to please her.

“Oh, Oscar, this is delicious. My favorite recipes are the most simple ones.” Her features twist in mortification. “Not that you are a simple chef. I mean that I don’t like food that throws a zillion ingredients together. The flavors are crisp, and even if I hadn’t made the meal, I’d be able to identify the flavors.”

“Relax, Iris. I happen to agree with you. That’s why I don’t dabble in fusion restaurants. Some flavors are never meant to mix like Sriracha and peanut butter. Jesus, I had a sous chef put those two together during an interview. It was a catastrophe.”

“Is that how you select new employees?”

“That’s part of the process. Internal promotion is typically our preferred method of filling positions, but that isn’t always an option. And we make it a priority to seek out young talent.”

“Why’s that?” Iris cocks her head to the side, blond tresses falling off one shoulder and tickling her upper arm. I remember what it’s like to have the strands of her silky hair wrapped in my fist.

I swallow. Hard. “When I came out of school, most of the restaurants ignored my resume due to lack of experience. But I knew I would blow them away if only they let me in the door. Our restaurant group will not miss out on an applicant based on age or experience.”

Iris nods in understanding. “That makes sense. Talent comes in all ages, genders, and races. I would love to try one of your restaurants. Could I—er—would you help me get a reservation? I hear it’s nearly impossible to get into any of them.”