Cooking Up Love by Cynthia Hickey Page A

“I’m going to find a temporary chef. Hopefully Mrs. Mayer can fill in on a more permanent basis than just Sundays.” He leaned closer, his mouth inches from her ear. “Would you like to accompany me? I’m confident the restaurant can do without your services for an hour or two.”
    Tabby froze. Was he suggesting what she thought he was? After all, contacting their Sunday chef to fill in during Adam’s absence wouldn’t require a lot of time. No more than fifteen minutes or so. Planting her fists on her hips, she stepped back. “You, sir, are overstepping your boundaries. If you don’t wish for the heel of my boot on your foot, I suggest you change your way of thinking.” With that, she whirled and stomped to the kitchen.
    How would she manage without her champion? Adam was the one person she could go to when she needed to vent her frustrations. He would listen, sometimes offering wise counsel. With Abigail also gone, she had no one. She couldn’t go to Miss O’Connor, especially not with the rumors floating around about her and the manager. There was no one to tell about Mr. Hastings’s lecherous comments or inappropriate actions.
    Tabby kicked the garbage pail as she passed, ignoring the stunned looks on the faces of the kitchen help, and watched with satisfaction as the can wobbled, then righted itself. Continuing her temper tantrum, she marched outside and glared at the tree line. She envisioned Adam kissing her, and in her mind, she threw caution to the wind and returned his kiss with all the emotion she had in her. The type of kiss a woman gave the man she loved.
    Would the world end if she gave in and welcomed his attention? Allowed him to court her? He seemed as far from Pa in his way of acting as the Atlantic Ocean was from the Pacific. And maybe he could accept her background and not reject her as others had. But she wasn’t ready to take that chance yet. Wounds from childhood pains ran too deep, leaving emotional scars. She sighed and turned back to the kitchen.
    How could they be prepared for the lunch crowd? Even if Mr. Hastings brought Mrs. Mayer back immediately, getting lunch prepared would be a miraculous feat. Tabby glanced at the stove. No, it was better she stay out of the kitchen unless it was for something easy such as washing dishes. Nothing she prepared would be palatable, much less suitable for the high standards of a Harvey restaurant, although she did know what good food tasted like.
    “Mr. Foster’s absence is going to cause a great deal of distress.” Miss O’Connor bustled through the kitchen and into the pantry. She reemerged with a sack of coffee beans, which she thrust at one of the kitchen helpers. “We need these ground as soon as possible.”
    “He didn’t choose for his mother to become ill.” The head waitress couldn’t be so cold as to not care about an ailing woman.
    “You’re right, of course.” Miss O’Connor waved a hand. “Forgive me for seeming so unfeeling. I need you to help Mrs. Mayer with the kitchen staff.” She glanced at the clock. “If the woman ever gets here. Where is Mr. Hastings?”
    “What about my trainee?”
    “She’ll have to make do on her own. She seems to be doing fine, and everyone is going to have to pitch in where they’re needed.” She stormed from the room, muttering something about the manager most likely imbibing in a drink or two.
    Tabby scratched her nose. Now what? She hadn’t the faintest idea how to run a kitchen. She glanced at the clock. Less than an hour before the lunch crowd would arrive. Fingers of dread snaked through her veins. Oh, where was Mrs. Mayer?
    Five faces turned in her direction. One tall, plump girl stepped forward. “I can cook. Not a lot, but there is the beginnings of stew simmering on the stove. If you can slice bread, I’ll take over that.”
    “Oh, bless you.” Slicing bread, Tabby could do. Within seconds, the helpers scattered to do their assigned jobs and make sure lunch was on time.