Page 12 of Just A Little Joy
“You’re a talker? You seem pretty quiet tonight.”
“That’s because we don’t have time to talk.”
“Meh, the kitchen doesn’t open until after seven anyway, so we’ve got time. Tell me more about this cooking.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’ve worked in a couple of restaurants, and I like to cook. The end,” Casey said as he moved between his gravy and his onions. Somehow, the pile in front of him had grown exponentially. He set it aside and started on a sauce with garlic and mayo.
“Have you ever thought about going back to the kitchen?” I asked.
“Not really. I like my job at Stone and Vine, and the tips are great.”
“Is that why you stay there?”
“I mean, that’s part of it. I wouldn’t stay if I wasn’t making enough to support myself, but the people are amazing. My coworkers are fantastic, and my customers are the best. I don’t think I could ask for more.”
Casey returned his attention to the job in front of him, and we slipped back into working quietly, elbow to elbow. Casey had answered my question with such simplicity that I forced myself to wonder if I had ever been willing to be that comfortable in my own life. The answer was a clear no.
After high school, I went straight into the minors, did a couple of years there before I moved on to the show, and never looked back. I was lucky to spend most of my career in two cities. Most people don’t get that chance. I was never a superstar, but I held my own on the ice. It was enough to set me up for the rest of my life, which was good because the rest of my life came fast. Pro hockey isn’t known for its longevity.
“But it’s obvious you’re an amazing cook.”
“Gravy and some sliced potatoes don’t make a chef. It’s about?—”
“All right, I’m pulling the boss card,” I interrupted. “It’s not just gravy and fries. It’s poutine. It’s my national dish, and you’re creating it out of thin air and saving my ass in the process.”
While I waxed poetic about the dish that was proof the gods had smiled on Canada, Casey started a sauce on the stove that involved cheese, cream, and beer.
“If you’re done with the potatoes, can you grab the pork Gerry smoked yesterday? It’s the only pork in there.”
I cleaned up my area and followed the instructions. It was hard not to notice that every time Casey ordered me around, his cheeks tinged pink like he was embarrassed. Lordy, this man was fucking adorable.
I presented the tray with the slabs like it was a prize I’d captured outside my prehistoric den. There was no explanation for how Casey made me feel equal parts caveman and tongue-tied schoolboy with his first crush. Too damn bad I’d told myself I wasn’t going to act on my Daddy instincts—especially with the whole “he works for me” issue.
Trying not to be Daddy around him was becoming a losing battle, and the worst part was, I didn’t want to win.
“I need you to get the bucket of BBQ sauce while I start shredding this and get it on the stove. Use that pan,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the stack of warming pans. “We’ll heat them up together, and they’ll go further.”
“All right, gentlemen, what did you manage to pull together?” Myla asked when she breezed into the back. “It’s starting to pick up out there.”
“This is the Casey show tonight,” I said. “I’ll let him tell you.”
“We’re doing Beecher’s cheese poutine, onion rings with beer cheese and garlic aioli, and naan pork sliders. Crap, I need to get the onion soaking. Ugh.”
“How the hell did you pull this off?”
“Most of it was already here, and we just threw it together,” Casey said with a shrug, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with the modesty.
“Nope, he’s a fucking genius who’s going to save our kitchen sales tonight. Tell anyone who bitches about how long it takes that no worries, you’ll be happy to cancel it for them. We’re shorthanded, and the food will take as long as it takes. No one is coming back here to complain because we’re going to do the best we can.”
Myla’s smirk and glances between Casey and me had me thinking she knew something, but there was nothing to know. I hadn’t shared that I’d been having the best fucking dreams of my life since I’d met him, so I had no idea what she thought she knew. Regardless, she gave a small nod.
“No one is gonna say shit to my little boo baby back here.” She crossed the room to pat Casey’s cheek, and his instant grin both melted my heart and forced me to squelch the ridiculous pang of jealousy that she could touch him and I couldn’t.
“Aww, if only I were into girls.” What? I thought I’d been lusting after a straight guy. Well, damn.
“Dude, if only I were into guys. My boy says there’s small choice in rotten apples.”
“Is your boy Bill also known as Shakespeare?” Casey asked.