The New Hope Cafe by Dawn Atkins Page B

the recipe from her before she leaves.”
    Jonah shrugged.
    “You set for New York,” Evan said. “It’s soon, right?”
    “Six weeks. End of June. I’ve got a couple pieces to finish
still.”
    “Rosie said someone wants to mass-produce your furniture.”
    “The gallery owner set up a meeting with a manufacturer while
I’m there. We’ll see. Think about coming with me, Evan. I mean it.”
    “Your grill’s smoking.”
    Jonah turned back to the stove and saw the French toast would
be a pinch too brown, as CJ put it. He flipped it over. He
should stick with what he could control—the food on his grill and the wood in
his shop.
    People were too damned difficult.
    He kept his focus all day until he found himself cleaning up
with CJ, just the two of them. She’d sent Ernesto home early for some family
deal. “I’ve almost got him talked into waiting tables,” she said to Jonah,
shoving plates into the dishwasher.
    “How’d you manage that?”
    “I found out the reason he didn’t want to. His sisters told him
his accent was bad and people would think he was illegal. Can you believe
that?”
    “That’s why?”
    “So I told him his English is as good as mine, which it is, and
that his sisters were messing with him the way siblings do. Anyway, did you know
he cooks?”
    “He does?”
    “Yeah. I sent him home so he can make the tamales for his
cousin’s quinceañera tomorrow. He makes his own
tortillas, too. You should use him more.”
    “Yeah.” The woman had been in his kitchen three days and found
out more about Ernesto than he’d learned in eight months.
    “Your brother was nice,” she said. “Easy to talk to.”
    “He’s everybody’s best friend, all right.”
    “There’s nothing wrong with being friendly.”
    “There is if you’re a drunk. His best friends are drinking
buddies, okay?” He did not want to get into this with her. Already, he had a
knot in his gut. “Look, could we just…work?”
    “Sorry. Just making conversation.”
    He turned away to wipe down the front of the oven. He’d been
harsh.
    When he turned to apologize, though, she was happily bobbing
her head, dancing as she carried pots to the sink, earbud cord leading to her
back pocket. Guess she’d gotten over her hurt.
    Damn, could she move.
    He forced himself back to work, scraping the French toast
crusts off his grill. That was her fault, too. She’d done nothing but make more
work for him and—
    She shimmied past him and his hand slipped and he jabbed his
thumb with the scraper, drawing blood. “Dammit!” He shook the injured hand.
    She whirled, her eyes huge. “Did I bump you? I’m so sorry. Is
it bad?” She reached for his hand.
    “I’ve got it.” He squeezed the cut to stop the blood.
“Just…don’t be so…disruptive.”
    “Disruptive?” She stared at him.
    “All that…” He made two fingers dance. What the hell was he
saying?
    “Hold it.” She put her hands on her hips. “You’re saying my dancing made you cut yourself?”
    He cleared his throat, his face hotter than it got when he had
every inch of grill firing up beef. “You distracted me, okay?” he said in a low
voice.
    “Well, you distract me, too, but I don’t blame you when I goof
up.”
    “I distract you?”
    Their eyes met and held. “You do.” Her blue eyes sparkled, her
lips parted and she heaved a sigh.
    The hot pop of oil in his chest became a splash. In the steamy
kitchen, he wanted to shove the soup-crusted pots to the floor and pull her onto
the steel table and kiss her senseless.
    What the hell? He shook his head to break the trance.
    She stepped back, watching him. “Sorry you got hurt.”
    “No big deal.”
    “About your brother, I know how hard it is when someone you
love has demons to fight and you’re stuck on the sidelines.”
    Exactly. A connection snapped
between them like a flicked switch. It wasn’t sexual. It was personal. He felt
less alone. Damn. “Yeah. Anyway, I need to finish up.”
    “I’ll