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Spotting her, Jean froze immediately. His hands were a

floury mess. It appeared that he’d been making some sort of

bread, given the state of the countertops. There was flour all

over the place. On the cupboards and the floor. Butter smeared

on half the surfaces. Grated cheese and herbs sitting out in

dishes, but one had tipped over and painted the white kitchen

tiles.

Behind Jean, Haley flushed a feverish red, her eyes flying to

Claire’s face. She didn’t wince or back down from Claire’s

unkind, unrelenting stare.

“It’s my fault,” Haley said, angling herself in front of Jean,

who was a good foot taller than Haley’s five-six or five-seven

frame. As wiry and thin as Jean was, Haley was so much

smaller than him. Her curves weren’t the voluptuous kind.

They were the gentle ones that drove a person into madness.

Stop. Madness? Really? The only madness is that thought.

“I asked him for pointers,” Haley continued. “I want to

learn how to cook. I thought if I’m here, it would be a good

time to learn, seeing as I have lots of free time now.” She was

annoyingly cheerful.

Claire gaped at her, unable to keep the surprise from

showing on her face. “You’re the daughter of a chef. What do

you mean pointers?”

The color in Haley’s cheeks deepened to a dark pink. She

was mortified, as she should be. The very idea of having a

father like hers and not knowing how to make a damn thing

should be embarrassing. “Well…Dad never taught me how to

cook anything. I learned the basics from my grandpa and

grandma, but Dad would rather do the cooking than explain

what he’s doing. I’m not talking about making mac and cheese