Burn for You
He looked at me, looked down at the menu, heaved a sigh that sounded like he was deflating, and then raked both hands through his hair.
“Christ,” he muttered, lacing his hands behind his head, “would my father love you.”
That sounded distinctly like an insult, but I sensed a chink in his armor, so I forged ahead. “With the passed hors d’oeuvres, we’ll start with a sparkling prosecco-based cocktail featuring the silver-label bourbon. It’s called an Old Cuban . . . you’ll love it.”
When his brows lowered, indicating he doubted very much that he would love it, I hurried on.
“And we’ll have a classic mojito using Boudreaux Special Select white rum, which will pair wonderfully with the first course. The main course features braised beef, which will be delicious with the black label—all that smoky, muscular character will really bring out the flavors in the meat—and for dessert we can make a Honey-Hattan with the honey bourbon to pair with the ginger-orange cheesecake. My mouth is watering just thinking of it!”
Jackson stared at me for so long I thought I might have fallen asleep and missed something. Then he said, “You actually do love my family’s bourbon, don’t you?”
He said it like that made me really strange, which was confusing. “Don’t you?”
That angry muscle in his jaw made its reappearance, flexing like mad. “Sure, the same way I love getting a root canal.”
The amount of family drama contained in that sentence could choke an elephant.
I noticed that sometime during our meeting, Rayford had disappeared.
“Mr. Boudreaux, I know what I’m doing. It’s really difficult to pair cocktails with food, especially through an entire meal, which is another thing that’s going to make it so special. I’ll bet good money that none of your guests has ever had a curated bourbon pairing with a four-course dinner. Trust me. It’s going to be fantastic. And the better they think it is, the bigger they’ll open their wallets. Which is really the whole point, right?”
His look was intense and unwavering, with that gripping sense of concentrated attention that was so heavy and intimate it was almost like a touch.
It was almost sexual.
“Call me Jackson,” he said abruptly.
Gently, with a smile, I replied, “If I wanted to call you Jackson, I would have, Mr. Boudreaux.”
His intense look turned burning. “I suppose I deserve that,” he said gruffly. “In my defense, I’d had a terrible day when we first met. I might have been a little more blunt than usual.”
I laughed. “Blunt? Try tactless! Try rude! And by the way, other people have bad days all the time and don’t turn into high-and-mighty mood monsters and start insulting everyone in sight. It’s called common courtesy.”
He didn’t move. He didn’t so much as bat a lash. He simply said, “If you were mine, I’d take you over my knee for that little speech.”
I nearly fell off the stool.
Before I could recover my wits, a towheaded child about three or four years old burst into the kitchen, singing “Jingle Bells” at the top of his lungs.
And then a miracle occurred. Jackson “the Beast” Boudreaux’s face split into a huge, genuine smile.
“Cody!” He leapt from the stool and picked up the child in a bear hug.
I watched in six different kinds of shock as the child put his little arms around Jackson’s neck and screamed in glee while Jackson spun him around and around, that happy grin still plastered on his face.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreaux, he just got away from me!”
A harried, fiftyish blonde woman ran into the kitchen, panting. She had food stains on her blouse, hair escaping in every direction from her ponytail, and looked as if she hadn’t slept in about a year. Immediately I felt sorry for her.
“It’s all right, Charlie. Have a seat. I’ll take him.”
Jackson kissed Cody on the cheek and then lifted him straight up in the air, making the boy scream in delight again.
Not that I was about to ask, but the boy’s fair coloring indicated Jackson was most likely not his father. And his distinctive facial features indicated he had Down syndrome.
Charlie, who I guessed was Cody’s nanny, glanced at me. “Oh, no, sir, I can see you’re busy.”
Jackson growled, “I said sit.”
Without further argument, Charlie gratefully collapsed onto the stool next to mine. “Good morning,” she said, brushing a few stray blonde wisps from her face. “I’m Charlotte Harris.”
I shook her extended hand. “Bianca Hardwick. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Charlie’s face brightened. “You’re the new chef! Oh, thank heavens. I’m afraid my repertoire goes about as far as scrambled eggs and toast. Poor Mr. Boudreaux has been surviving on scraps since Gregory quit, and I—”
“She’s only helping with the benefit, Charlie,” said Jackson, casually tossing Cody over his shoulder. He stood holding him with one strong arm wound around the boy’s back and one hand propped on his hip, like a proud lumberjack bringing in his haul of wood.
It was adorable.
A word I never in a million years would’ve thought I’d use to describe Jackson Boudreaux.
For his part, Cody loved it. He hadn’t stopped singing, laughing, or screaming happily since he’d come into the room. He bubbled with energy. I could see why Charlie was so tired.
I said, “Well, since I’m here, would you like me to make something for lunch?”
Charlie looked like I’d just told her she’d won a million dollars. “Oh, no, I couldn’t ask you to do that,” she said, her eyes begging me to contradict her.
I smiled and squeezed her shoulder. “Sure you could. Sit a spell and let me see what’s in that airplane hangar of a refrigerator.”
I stood. Jackson and I locked eyes, and something deep in my belly fluttered. Is he angry? What’s that look he’s giving me?
I froze, uncertain if I’d just crossed a line. “I mean . . . unless you’d rather I didn’t.”
Jackson carefully set Cody on his feet. As soon as his little shoes touched the ground, he launched himself at me, arms held out, fingers grasping.
“Lady!” he shouted. “Hi, lady!”
He slammed into my leg, hooked his chubby arms around it, tilted his head back, and smiled up at me. I smiled back at him.
“Hi, Cody. I’m Bianca.” I reached down and ruffled his hair, fine as chick fluff.
Cody shouted, “Jingle bells!” and laughed.
Jackson said quietly, “Yes, Miss Hardwick. I think we would all like that very much.”
I realized he’d just let Cody decide whether or not I should stay and make them lunch. Whoever this boy was to him, Jackson obviously loved him.
Why that affected me I don’t know, but it did, deeply. I looked up at Jackson and said impulsively, “Please, call me Bianca.”
His lips twitched. His eyes burned. He sent me a small, curt nod. I turned away before he could see how my face flamed with heat.
Then I set about making lunch, trying all the while not to recall the way his eyes had looked when he’d said If you were mine.
BIANCA’S OLD CUBAN
Makes 1 serving
2 ounces prosecco
1½ ounces bourbon
1 ounce simple syrup
¾ ounce fresh lime juice
2 dashes Angostura bitters