Untitled by Unknown Author Page A

for him (not in those words, of course), and I might be able to help Eve and the other women of WOW.
       The thought firmly in mind and my stomach doing backflips, I nodded hello to our students and waited for Brad to show up so I could put my plan in motion.
       By five minutes to seven, he was still nowhere in sight.
       And now that I thought about it, neither was Jim.
       I had just decided to tell Marc and Damien that I was quitting and moving to a state far, far away so that I could not be conscripted into teaching another class when the kitchen door bumped open, and Jim stumbled into the room.
       His hair was a mess. There were dark circles under his eyes. His clothes, usually so neat and clean, looked like they'd been slept in. I recognized the stain on the front of his shirt—fruit punch leaves a telltale sign. I didn't want to alarm the class, so when I hurried over to him, I kept my voice down.
       "What on earth happened to you?" I grabbed his arm and dragged him to the far side of the kitchen, up against the walk-in cooler where no one could hear us. "You look awful!"
       "You're an angel for taking them to the zoo on Saturday." Jim kissed my cheek. "Can they live with you?"
       I would have laughed if he was kidding.
       "No chance of them leaving anytime soon, huh? And no sign of Richard?"
       Jim sighed. "Fi's husband calls. Ten, maybe twelve times a day. She refuses to pick up the phone. Then again, it's a wonder anyone can hear her phone ringing at all. Between her bawling and those horrid children . . ." A shiver snaked over his broad shoulders. "I'm not getting a wink of sleep. If they can't live with you, can I?"
       Time and again over the course of our relationship, I had imagined the knee-melting, heart-pounding, bloodsizzling way Jim might someday ask me about cohabitation. This was not it.
       "Marc and Damien have everything set up," I said instead. I grabbed an apron hanging on a nearby hook and looped it over Jim's head. Before he could object, I reached around him and tied the apron behind his back. While I was at it, I gave him a hug. "Time to get going."
       Just as I expected, nothing gets a chef's mind off his own troubles and back on task like the mention of work.
       One look at the mound of shrimp set up on the worktable along with all the spices for tonight's marinade, and Jim shook off his stupor. Back in full kitchen mode and ready to roll, he looked around the kitchen. "Everyone's here but Brad," he said. "You've got him and Kegan on drinks, right? Would you mind helping the lad? Not that he couldn't handle things on his own, but we're making Bloody Marys tonight, and they can be a bit tricky. He strikes me as a bit of a klutz."
       I'd take mixing Bloody Marys over the chance of getting asked to stand in front of the class and help Jim any day. I didn't wait around long enough for him to change his mind. I hurried over to Kegan's workstation, and he welcomed me with a cautious smile.
       He was dressed in the same wrinkled khakis and a navy sweater that had a hole in one elbow. His dark hair had been trimmed since last I'd seen him. "This is perfect," he said. "I'd much rather work with you than with Brad."
       It's not like I missed Brad or anything, but since I'd screwed up the courage to talk to him about his past and his dirty dealings with the Weasel bashers, I was anxious to get it over with. I glanced at the door, hoping to see him stride into the kitchen. When he didn't, I shrugged. "Maybe he just forgot about class."
       "I don't think so."
       This comment came from Marc, who was handing out the night's recipes. He slid two packets of papers onto the table in front of us. "Brad stopped in Saturday afternoon. He said he forgot what he was supposed to bring to tonight's class. We were slammed, no way anybody had time to help him. I just told him to come into the kitchen and showed him the bulletin board where Jim hangs