“WOO! Dr. Gennari!”
Her cheeks went a deep crimson until other voices joined in.
“There’s our favorite doctor!” Sorrento belted out somewhere across the room.
“That’s our brainiac!” Mara, Leroy’s wife, shouted so loud that Leroy cowered next to her.
A feminine whoop sounded. “Go, Dr. Violet!”
My head snapped toward that voice.
It was Chef. Of course she was friends with my teammates’ partners. Because I bet if you were nice to her, she was nice back. I’d just never done myself the service of finding out.
And our little banter thing pushed all my right buttons.
Despite everyone’s encouragement, Violet’s knees were almost knocking. Colton’s support for her hadn’t wavered, not only showing up for her, but being front and center.
“I guess everyone’s really excited to hear about our research efforts,” she said breathlessly into the microphone.
Cheers came from around the room, the fans joining us in pumping Violet up. She launched into her discussion and it was over my head within seconds. Colt first dated Violet in college, and they went to an Ivy League. Her intelligence shouldn’t have been a surprise.
Violet was doing world-changing cancer research. Chef was making soup for people who needed it. What was I doing with my life? How could I leave the world a better place?
My life needed to change, and I’d start by registering for that cooking class I’d been eyeballing for months.
I sidled over to grab a piece of king cake off the dessert table while Violet carried on. I bit into it and hit something plastic.
I got the baby.
FIVE
EMMA
FEBRUARY
“You’ve gota new one tonight, Em.”
My knife roll was tucked into my forearm like a football. I slowed after swiping my badge at the culinary school’s entryway. I was reporting for another night of teaching a sixteen-week course designed to level up decent home cooks. “Oh yeah?”
Grace, the welcome desk attendant, giggled. “Yeah, he’s a real character. He was up here cracking jokes when he got his name badge. Had us all in stitches.”
“And,” Belinda, the school’s admin chimed in, “he had a motorcycle helmet.”
“Ooh, bad boy,” I joked, then let that sink in. “Also, it’s freezing outside?”
“Guess he’s a tough guy,” Grace said with a wiggle of her shoulders.
“As long as he paid, I can handle him. See ya, ladies.”
I strutted off down the hall, peeking into the other cooking hall as I went by. Students stood behind their work benches,while sizzling and chopping sounds filled the air. Home sweet home.
I stopped in the staff lounge and hung up my coat and purse.
I was thrilled when Cindy asked if I wanted to take over her position at the culinary school. She’d gotten too busy at her restaurant to be able to handle the night gig, and my work with the Rusties gave me a lot of nights off. Ideally, I’d use those nights to go to Liam’s games, and I did. But his dad, Jeff, and I had practical things to consider. Liam was at a crossroads. He was a senior in high school, and we’d been lucky that he was selected for a Tier I junior hockey program based in Columbus. That way, Jeff and I still got our weeks with him and didn’t have to ship him off to live with a billet family at the tender age of sixteen. Liam had to choose to continue playing junior hockey after graduation in the hopes of getting picked up by a D1 school’s hockey team, or give up hockey altogether and go on to college. If Liam didn’t get a scholarship to his college of choice, we’d need more money to fund his education. Picking up a second job just made sense.
Culinary school money was decent, and it gave me a chance to get back into a more advanced cooking setting. Though I loved working for the Rusties, I missed fine dining, the thrill of running a kitchen with surgical precision and getting to flex my creative muscles with different ingredients. I also enjoyed teaching and seeing what combinations students came up with.
I turned into my classroom and found a tall form standing at the front row work bench. A motorcycle helmet sat on the stool with a leather jacket draped under it. I walked through the rows to quiet salutes of “Chef” on my way. That head of jet black hair looked awfully familiar, along with the slope of his toned, muscular shoulders. A folded bandana tied his hair back from his face at his hairline. When I got to his side, I took the restof him in: bear paw-sized hands, a perfectly groomed mustache, and a smirk that never fully went away.