Nothing is working. I’ve attempted four new recipes tonight and they’ve all been hopeless disasters. The groceries I had delivered? They’re gone, besides the ones I purchased to stock Kai’s lacking pantry and fridge. Not even a stunning, state-of-the-art kitchen can bring out my creativity. My last hope is the crème fraiche cheesecake I’ve been working on, but even that is feeling bleak.
“What the hell happened?” Kai’s voice drips with panic.
Turning, I attempt to wipe off some of the flour from my apron but it’s no use. I’m covered. “How’d your game go?”
“It was fine.” Kai doesn’t make eye contact with me; instead, his attention continues to wander over his disaster of a kitchen.
The long exhale that leaves me blows a strand of hair from in front of my eyes, but it falls right back onto my face. “I suck at my job.”
He pauses his confused perusal, his face softening. “Well, my son is alive and you haven’t burnt the house down . . . yet. I’d say you’re doing okay.”
“That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, but no. Not this job. Not watching Max, but my real job. I suck at it.”
Just then, the oven’s timer beeps. Using the dish towel thrown over my shoulder, I pull out the cookie sheet to find my garnish burnt to a crisp.
“Fuck my life. This is supposed to be a black sesame crumb.”
“Looks like you nailed it. It’s definitely black.”
My eyes narrow at the giant baseball player who looks far too good leaning a shoulder on the fridge and watching me.
“It’s not even the main dessert. It’s just a garnish. I can’t even get the garnish right. What is wrong with me?” I toss the cookie sheet onto the counter.
I’m not a crier. I don’t get attached enough to cry, but I had an attachment forming to what I thought was going to be the recipe to pull me out of my rut. Head falling back, I close my eyes, attempting to swallow down my disappointment.
That is, until I feel two long arms, corded with muscles, swallow me whole in a hug. My eyes pop open to find a gray T-shirt pulled taut over a chest that my face is buried in.
“You’re okay,” he says, soothingly. It’s spoken in a way he might say those words to his son if he fell and bumped his head. It’s gentle and steady, and works far too well on my chaotic brain.
I melt into him, my arms sliding around his lean waist. “You smell good.”
His chest rumbles against my cheek. “I showered after the game this time.”
“Does that mean you trust me with your son?”
“Don’t ask me that, Montgomery. You’re in a fragile state, and I’d have to lie to you so I don’t feel bad.”
“Kai?”
“Hmm?”
“Why are you hugging me?”
He exhales, my body moving against his with the movement. “I don’t know. You seemed like you needed one. I’ve been told I’m a fixer so I guess it was instinct.”
He might be onto something because I have a feeling if there were something that could fix me, it’d be the deep timbre of his voice accompanied by his stable hold.
“What’s going on?” he gently asks, rubbing a hand over my bare back.
“I’m a joke. No one is going to hire me again. They’re going to pull me from the cover, all because I can’t make a goddamn garnish for a goat milk fromage blanc which is basically just a garnish in and of itself. I can’t even make a garnish for the garnish! I hadn’t even gotten to the cheesecake yet.”
He pauses, clearly lost for words. When he finally finds them, he hits me with, “Well, if we’re being candid here, who the hell wants goat cheese as a dessert anyway?”
I chuckle into his chest. “It’s so hot that you somewhat understood that.”
“Want to explain to me why the tattooed nanny without a filter is speaking like she owns a Michelin star restaurant?”
Pulling away from his hold, I instantly miss the reassurance. With just that simple hug, I understand a bit of what it is about Kai that my dad likes so much. He’s solid. He’s stable.
“Sorry.” I gesture to his shirt that’s now as covered in flour as I am. “I don’t own a Michelin star restaurant, but I do help kitchens earn them.”
Behind his glasses, I can see the confusion.
“I’m hired out as a contract employee. Chefs hire me for three months at a time to come into their kitchens and fix their dessert programs, typically in hopes of earning a star. Some chefs are excellent at both their dinner and dessert menus, and some just don’t have the knack for the sweets. That’s where I come in.”