Untitled by Unknown Author Page A

minutes later than the actual time so that customers could be cleared out by closing. Even though I knew that, I also knew the clock was ticking away. And every tick brought me closer to the inevitable start of the night's class.
       "I'd like to talk. Really," I told Kegan. I wasn't sure that was true, but he was right, I did always think about how other people felt. If I was going to disappoint him, I wanted to let him down easy. "But I don't have a lot of time right now. I've got to set up my workstation in the kitchen, and this skirt of mine!" I groaned and plucked my skirt away from my thighs. "I need static spray, and I need it bad."
       With any other guy, I might have been embarrassed, but hey, this was Kegan. When he checked out my skirt, I didn't flinch. He was so sweet and so understanding, I guess I was beginning to think of him as a friend.
       "Aerosols are bad for the ozone," he said. "Try washing your clothes with wild soapwort. That will help with the static. Soapwort is a perennial plant, and you can get some of it over at an herb shop in Fredericksburg. I'll get you the phone number. You stir it into water until it lathers and then—"
       "Thanks. Really, Kegan, I appreciate the advice, and I'll give it a try. It's just that right now—"
       "I know. You're busy. This is a bad time. But really, Annie, you'll be happy with what you can do around here. There are plenty of ways that greener means saving money."
       He had me there. "I need to get ready for class," I said. "And I don't have a lot of time to chat. How about if we schedule some time to sit down and talk about it?"
       How nice of a guy was Kegan? Instead of taking my
    brush-off personally, he fell into step beside me and offered to help. Together we went into the kitchen, and because it looked as if I wasn't going to get to use it anytime soon, I tucked the bag that contained the antistatic spray on a shelf to the left of the stove. I slipped an apron over my head, got one of the trays of chicken wings that Damien had prepared for me out of the cooler, and turned on the oven to preheat.
       With that under control, I checked the night's menus and the list of supplies that Jim had tacked up on a bulletin board. "We're going to need the big wok for the ratatouille," I told Kegan. "It isn't something we use very often. I think it's in the supply closet." I pointed the way and hoped for the best. Though I was the world's most organized person, I had long ago vowed to keep my nose out of Jim's kitchen. For his sake and for mine. The office is my bailiwick, the kitchen is Jim's, and my office, needless to say, is a picture of neatness and order.
       The kitchen supply closet . . .
       When Kegan opened the door, I squeezed my eyes shut, held my breath, and hoped nothing fell out and clunked him on the head.
       Between Jim, Marc, and Damien (each with their own ideas of how things should be done and where things should be kept), a hectic kitchen schedule that didn't include much downtime for sorting and organizing, and the whole cooksas-creative-people-with-artistic-temperaments thing, the closet was Bellywasher's own version of a black hole. I knew that even to start looking for the wok, Kegan would have to pick his way through a minefield of stockpots, chafing dishes, and plastic containers that contained the serving pieces we used for private parties and luncheons. When he disappeared into the closet, I whispered a heartfelt, "Via con Dios," and when he came out again holding the wok, I have to say, I was glad to see he'd sustained no permanent injuries.
       I was grateful that he'd put himself in mortal danger for the sake of my cooking class. And he had mentioned saving money. As I found and arranged the ingredients I'd need to make the wing sauces, I got back to what we'd been talking about earlier.
       "You really stand up for what you believe in when it comes to the environment, don't you?" I asked him.