“Yes, Chef!” The class responded on cue, the sudden burst of voices startling Atlas. “That’s what control sounds like. Consistent. Even. No hesitation.”
Atlas’s face grew redder, his lip trembled, and he fisted both hands.
Ruh-roh.This was the classic pre-launch window before the full ignition of a cry that could be heard in adjacent counties.
Jonah bounced faster and pressed his lips against the baby’s head.Please, buddy. Twenty more minutes and we’re clear.
Twenty more seconds and Atlas let out the full-throated, glass-rattling, turn-every-head wail of an infant who had decided, with absolute conviction, that this moment was unacceptable.
Broussard’s knife stopped mid-cut.
The room went silent except for Atlas, who took a breath, then made up for the silence with impressive volume and genuine commitment.
Twenty faces, ranging from amused to horrified to deeply sympathetic, turned to Jonah. A guy down the row cracked up. Another one muttered something rude. One girl in the second row looked like she might cry on his behalf.
Broussard set his knife down slowly. He looked at Jonah with an expression that was impossible to fully read—part exasperation, part something Jonah didn’t expect. Understanding, maybe. Or recognition.
“Lawson.”
“Yes, Chef.” Jonah was already standing, one hand on Atlas’s back, the other grabbing the diaper bag. “I’m sorry, Chef. I’ll?—”
“Go to my office.” Broussard’s voice was firm but not unkind. “Take your son. Settle him. Come back when you can.”
“Yes, Chef.”
Not able to fathom the reprieve, he was out the door in seconds, dragging the open backpack, leaving the lost pacifier, hearing the chuckles and giggles and one very sharp rap of a chef’s knife.
“Consistency is critical,” Broussard carried on. “Even when everything around you is falling apart.”
In the hallway, the acoustics amplified Atlas’s cries, no doubt interrupting the classes in every room he passed.
Perfect.
“That,” he said into Atlas’s ear, “was the opposite of what we discussed.”
Atlas screamed louder, mocking him until Jonah’s own eyes stung with tears of frustration.
“Me and my big ideas,” he muttered, standing outside the door to the faculty office.
This could have cost him the internship, his degree, and certainly his pride.
Jonah didn’t botherto knock on Broussard’s door—he’d been in the small office before and if the occupant was teaching, the room was empty.
He stopped short when he stepped inside, meeting the most unexpected set of big brown eyes with lashes so long they nearly reached her brows.
“Oh—” He drew back at the sight of the young woman sitting behind the chef’s desk with her feet propped on the open bottom drawer, a takeout coffee in one hand and a paperback in the other. Mid-to-late twenties, maybe. Dark hair pulled into a messy knot on top of her head, a few loose strands framing a face that was?—
Well. That was a face. That was a very pretty face.
In addition to the dreamy eyes, she had a smattering of freckles across her nose, a beautiful slope of cheekbones, right down to one of those upside-down heart-shaped chins he always liked.
Atlas hit another octave as if to remind Jonah that this was no time for even the most cursory glance at a woman.
“Oh,” she said, setting down her book. “That’s a loud baby.”
“That’s an understatement.” He stepped inside, bouncing Atlas, who’d either taken a life-saving breath or had entered Phase Three—the hitching, hiccupping aftermath of a serious disaster. “Sorry. Chef Broussard sent me here to?—”
“Settle the baby. I know.” She smiled, and it did something annoying to his pulse. “I’m guessing you’re the one who disrupted the knife skills lecture?”