Taste (Take It Off #9)(37)
Author: Cambria Hebert

I couldn’t sleep. Not because I didn’t feel safe and not because I wasn’t in my own bed. I couldn’t help but think about what Spencer said. How he refused to use me as bait.

I wondered if he would have a choice.

20

Being back in the kitchen felt good. I was in my element here. The sound of meat searing in a pan, the process of chopping fresh vegetables for a perfectly seasoned medley, and the usual chaos of the kitchen environment were all music to my ears.

Most creative types were thought of as singers, writers, painters. But I was an artist in my own right. I designed dishes that not only pleased the eye, but the palate as well.

One of the reasons I liked cooking so much was because I didn’t have to play by the rules. Sure, there was always a recipe to follow. But I could add a dash of this and a dash of that and experiment. Sometimes the results were awesome, and sometimes they were horrible. But it was okay. I could always dump out the awful and try again.

I also loved to watch other people enjoy the food I made. It was like serving them a little piece of myself and them loving it. It gave me a deep satisfaction to know I was good at something, something I worked so hard for.

The last couple years hadn’t been easy—going to school, holding down sometimes two jobs at a time. I worked in kitchens all over D.C. I waited tables. I washed dishes. I did every job there was to have in a kitchen. When I was pregnant with Jack, I had horrible morning sickness and the sight of food made me want to puke all the time.

But I made it through.

I prepared the dishes. I experimented with new flavors and menus. I earned a reputation for being a young master with cuisine.

When I got a callback for the position here at the White House, I was stunned. Working for the first family was a high honor, and being considered at such a young age was even better. I worked a lot of long hours those first couple months. I had to prove myself. I had to earn the respect of the others in the kitchen.

I sacrificed some time with Jack, a lot of sleep, and my entire social life. In the end, it was worth it. I got to do what I loved and make good money doing it. Yeah, the hours were long, but not so long that I still didn’t have time with my son.

I missed him.

I missed him every second of every day. I wondered where he was, who he was with. I wondered if he missed me, if he was confused. I wondered if he would look bigger when I saw him again.

And I would see him again.

I hadn’t worked this hard, swam uphill for this long, to lose it all now.

I was nervous about the plan. Some of the details were still being worked out. Very, very few people were being told about this information. Spencer and I barely saw each other during the day. Not like before. He was usually shut up in Walsh’s office, making plans and going over everything a million times.

I missed him, too. Yeah, I saw him daily. I spent my nights in his bed. I can’t say we got much sleep, but when Spence was around, it wasn’t sleep I wanted. My body tingled just thinking about him, and I forced my thoughts away from the bedroom and focused on what I was doing.

Making cookies. Chocolate chip.

The jar needed refilling, and well, if I was totally honest, I hoped Spencer might somehow sense I was making his favorite and come snooping around to steal one.

As I was sliding the last few cookies off a baking sheet and onto the cooling rack, voices drew closer, one that wasn’t familiar to the kitchen staff, so I glanced up.

The vice president’s aide was walking through the kitchen, discussing something with the manager. Both of them had their heads bent over a clipboard and were discussing whatever was on the paper.

As they walked by the island I was working at, Mr. Caroway stopped and smiled. “Elle!” he said. “Those smell divine!”

He was wearing an expensive three-piece suit in navy blue with a gold tie. His salt-and-pepper hair was combed neatly back away from his face, making him appear sophisticated.

“Thank you, Mr. Caroway. Please, help yourself.”

He snatched one up off the counter and bit into it. Melty chocolate clung to his lips as he chewed. Sounds of appreciation came from his throat as he took another bite. “Best cookie I’ve ever had,” he said.

I laughed. “Thank you.”

Clearly, he wasn’t afraid of my cooking. When I first started back in the kitchen, I was afraid everyone would react like Langdon and not want to eat anything I touched. So far, no one said or did anything that made me think they were suspicious. In fact, it seemed no one knew about what was going on at all. The Secret Service was clearly very good at keeping secrets.

“We were just going over the menu for the big dinner coming up,” he said, motioning toward the kitchen manager.

“I hope everything is to the vice president’s liking,” I said.

“Oh yes, everything looks wonderful.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I said, pushing another cookie in his direction.

He grinned and picked it up.

“Elle is the one who created the menu for the dinner,” the manager told Mr. Caroway.

“Is that so?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yep. I plan almost all the dinner party menus here.”

“Well, if the rest of the dishes at the dinner are as good as these cookies, then I declare the night will be a great success!”

“Do you mind if I take just one more?” he asked, reaching for another cookie.

“As long as you leave me some,” Spencer said, stepping into the kitchen. I couldn’t stop the grin from splitting my face. He reached out to shake Mr. Caroway’s hand and winked at me over the man’s shoulder.

“How’s it hanging, Felix?” Spencer asked.

“Buried under paperwork,” Mr. Caroway replied. “Figured I deserved a cookie break.”

“I like your way of thinking,” Spencer said, shoving an entire cookie in his mouth.

I shook my head. You’d think he’d use his manners.

“Well, I better get back to it,” Felix said. The kitchen manager inclined her head. “I look forward to sampling the menu,” he told me before turning away to leave.

When he was gone, Spencer looked at me with raised eyebrows.

“What?” I asked.

“You sharing my cookies with other people?” he asked, coming around to my side of the island.

I laughed. “I didn’t know they were exclusively yours.”

He caught me around the waist and towed me in to him. “Oh, they’re exclusive,” he murmured. “The only man reaching his hand in this cookie jar is me.”