Reckless Page 7

  “Well, let’s get you started, then.” The idea launched itself on a direct route from her chest to her mouth, completely bypassing the blast of bad plan pumping from her brain. Working in her kitchen clearly wasn’t going to change Alex’s stance on how to live his life or do his job. But at the very least, she could teach him something of value while they were stuck here together.

  And knowing how to feed people was the most valuable thing Zoe had.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” he said, taking a step back from the prep table as if it had suddenly grown a forked tongue and fangs. “I already told you, I can’t cook.”

  “You can, you just won’t.” Without waiting for a reply, Zoe bent down low to grab an oversized metal mixing bowl from the shelf beside the storage drawers, and how about that. The king of fast talk was actually speechless.

  “You think you can dare me into learning how to cook?” Alex’s eyes were the only thing that moved, traveling over her in an impenetrable blue stare, but she refused to give in to the clatter behind her sternum. She scooped up the vegetable peeler from the table in front of her, a strange thread of hope uncurling in her belly as she extended it just out of Alex’s reach.

  “First of all, it’s salad, not advanced biochemistry. Secondly, I don’t think you’re going to learn good kitchen skills any other way, so yeah. I dare you to learn to cook.”

  For a second, then ten, then sixty, Zoe simply stood there in front of him, with the white noise hum of the walk-in and the waterlogged groan of the dishwasher serving as the background for her heartbeat in her ears. Finally, just when she was about to open her mouth to renege on the whole stupid, impulsive idea—what had she been thinking, shooting her mouth off like a two-dollar pistol, anyway?—Alex smashed the silence between them into bits.

  “Fine. It’s your kitchen, Gorgeous. Just do me a favor, and be careful what you wish for.”

  Chapter Six

  How the hell Alex had gone from his rote and remote post at the dishwasher to a red-carpet spot in the heart of the kitchen, he had no freaking clue. But somewhere between the sexy-sweet smile Zoe had let slip in the pantry and the chin-up sizzle she’d dished out along with her cooking dare, Alex had taken his eye off his who-cares kitchen mantra for just a second.

  And now he was hanging proper with the carrots and the cutlery. He might have saved his job from imminent doom with a little bit of hard work and a whole lot of quick thinking, but all this domestic goodness was a crash and burn just waiting to go down.

  Not that Zoe seemed to notice. “Okay. We’ve only got a few ingredients here, so this shouldn’t be too tough. Like I said before, planning and prep are really the foundation, and we’ve already got the planning done.”

  Sliding the box she’d pulled from the walk-in to the neutral zone on the table between them, she popped it open with one hand while unloading the leafy green contents with the other. Alex eyeballed the full heads of lettuce, his trepidation growing to a full squeeze in his gut. He didn’t have much experience with roughage to begin with—salad was one of those things that tended to stand in the way of the main event, as far as he was concerned—but this stuff was a far cry from the neat little bags of greens all prettied up and ready to go at the grocery store.

  He readjusted the threadbare dish towel over his shoulder, finally giving up as he asked, “So if next up is prep, we just what? Ginsu these into pieces and call it a day?”

  Okay, so it had probably been a question straight from the stupid file, especially with her cream-of-the-crop training and experience. But Zoe had made it wildly clear that the ingredients she’d cobbled together to round out this meal were at a premium. While looking clueless wasn’t on his list of favorite pastimes, it was better than screwing up what little stuff she had left for lunch. He’d just gotten his ass out of that sling, thank you very much.

  Zoe tilted her head, the tiny gold hoops in her ears glinting in the bright fluorescent kitchen light, and if she was unimpressed with his simple question, she hid it like a champ. “Well, we’ve got to core these heads of lettuce and run them through the spinner a couple of times to make sure they’re good and clean first, but yeah. That’s the idea.”

  “Core them,” he said, certain he’d heard her incorrectly. But then she flipped one of the heads of lettuce between her palms, turning it over to reveal the rough, pale brown disk in the center.

  “Mmm-hmm. There’s a small part right here in the middle that’s too fibrous to eat, so it’s gotta go before we can get to chopping.”

  Huh. Guess that’s what he got for dodging his greens. “All right, so how do you do that?”

  “Well, most people do it the old-fashioned way by using a paring knife, right here around where the stem used to be. But I’m kind of a fan of the shortcut.” Turning the head of lettuce sunny side down, she lifted it over the tabletop, pausing for only the briefest of seconds before slamming it into the stainless steel surface.

  “Jeez!” A shocked bark of laughter catapulted past his lips, but it was chased quickly by a ripple of surprise as Zoe crooked her thumb and forefinger to pluck a small, Christmas tree–shaped core from inside the ball of leafy greens.

  “See? If you hit it just right, you don’t need to bother with the slice and dice.” She swapped the head of lettuce for one of its uncored counterparts, passing it off to Alex with a no-nonsense smile. “Go ahead and give it a shot.”

  He paused, but only for a breath as the effect of her smile slipped away in his bloodstream. If tossing around produce was her idea of cooking, he had this in the bag, no problem. Alex brushed his fingers over the soft, tightly packed leaves, bringing the lettuce down over the flat of the counter with a bang. Rolling it over with a confident I got this tacked firmly to his face, he reached out to pop the core free and move on to victim number two.

  Cue a whole lot of nothing happening.

  “Seriously?” he said, stepping back to lift his brows at the undisturbed cone still nestled tight inside the head of greens. Alex tightened his grip on the base of the lettuce core, a frown taking over his mouth as he went to dig that sucker out come hell or high tide. But then Zoe let loose with a deep-bellied laugh, and the sheer, reckless abandon of the sound jammed his irritation to an abrupt halt.

  “Don’t worry,” she said, the lean muscles in her forearms flexing as she motioned for him to rotate the head of lettuce back to its original position. “Every once in a while a stubborn one pops up. The good news is you can try again without hurting anything.”

  “I suspect you mean other than my pride.” Alex flipped the lettuce back between his palms, determined not to be bested by a head of freaking salad greens. Luckily for both him and the produce, the second time was the charm, or at least mostly. After some awkward and not-gentle coaxing, he managed to maneuver the core free with a soft snap, and okay. This kitchen thing wasn’t so bad.

  “So, I have a question.” Zoe didn’t look up from the pile of carrots she’d just amassed next to the scuffed white cutting board in front of her, but despite her obvious concentration on the food, Alex felt certain she had a metaphorical eye on him and an ear on his answer, besides.

  “Shoot.”

  “Why would you jump out of a perfectly functional airplane?”

  Oookay. Talk about something he hadn’t been expecting. Still, the answer was a total no-brainer, so he said, “Because I can. Life’s too short to ask why.”

  “I’d imagine life becomes drastically shorter if you’re prone to doing things as insane as skydiving.” She picked up a carrot, sliding the peeler over its surface with a brisk snick snick snick, but oh no. No way was he going to let her pin one of his favorite pastimes with the crazy flag just because she had a thing for too much caution.

  “I don’t go without a parachute, Zoe. Anyway, it’s stuff like skydiving that lets you know you’re really living.”

  A soft snort crossed her lips, but the glint of curiosity on her pixie face gave her away. “How does risking imminent death
make you feel alive?”

  “Because the rush is the best way to live in the moment, and it’s a hell of a lot better than walking around saying ‘someday,’ or worse yet, having regrets when your time runs out. Anyway, skydiving isn’t as risky as you think.” He held up a hand to quell the not-so-soft counterpart to the snort she’d given a second ago, and to his surprise, she conceded. “Yes, it’s an extreme sport, but first of all, you’ve got a statistically greater chance of being struck by lightning than dying in a skydiving accident. Secondly, it’s not as if they just strap a parachute to your back, slap you on the shoulder, and say good luck as they toss you from the plane. There’s a lot more to a jump than that.”

  “Hmph.” The rasp of the peeler and the intermittent bang of lettuce to countertop filled the quiet between them, and for a minute, Alex thought she might not bite. But then Zoe tilted her head, the thread of bold curiosity making a repeat appearance in her eyes as she said, “Like what?” and ha! He had her.

  “Well, the first bunch of times you jump, you have to go tandem with an instructor, who’s literally strapped to your back. He’s in charge of getting you out of the plane at the right time, pulling the cord for the chute . . . pretty much the only thing you get to do is go along for the ride.”

  Her brows furrowed into a V over her doubtful stare. God, she was going to be a tough nut to crack. “I suppose that would cut back on rookie mistakes somewhat. But you’re still jumping out of the airplane at what . . . ?”

  He grinned, halfway to a hard-on just thinking about it. “Thirteen thousand feet.”

  The vegetable peeler hit the countertop with a clatter. “You’re serious.”

  “Sugarcoating isn’t my thing,” he reminded her, placing the last head of lettuce on the worktable with a shrug. “You have to go up pretty high if you want enough time for the instructor to pull the cord so the parachute works its magic, so yeah. Thirteen K is about average for a good run.”

  “I don’t suppose you can have the guy pull the cord before your feet leave the ground,” Zoe said, her tone strongly suggesting she was half joking at best.

  “No, but you can have him walk you through about four hours of training before you’re allowed on the airplane the first time. In fact, it’s required.”

  “Really?” A different sort of disbelief flickered over her features, lighting her pretty brown eyes with genuine surprise rather than sharp-edged doubt, and the shift triggered a memory, lodged deep and barely touched, from his brain. That same stare, brimming with heat and brash intentions, as they’d bumped into each other on the semi-wooded path connecting Fairview’s park pavilion to the open fields where the FFD held their annual barbecue. The way he’d innocently tried to help her untangle an errant strand of hair from one of her dangly gold earrings, and the way she’d not-so-innocently reached up to wrap her fingers around his.

  “You know what I think, Alex Donovan? I think you should kiss me.”

  Christ. He really should fork over a neat one- or two-word answer to be polite and just get on with assembling the rabbit food. Zoe was the walking, talking epitome of off-limits, and anyway, he didn’t need any comfort in her kitchen. No, what Alex needed was to shut his cake trap and be on his merry, salad-making, community-service-fulfilling way.

  So of course, he didn’t.

  “Being reckless isn’t the same as being stupid,” he said, letting the thin thread of curiosity on Zoe’s face dare him close enough to watch her lashes fan up into a honey-colored arc. “While I can’t lie and say I’ve ever met an adrenaline high I didn’t like, I’m not interested in becoming finger paint, either. So yes, I like to jump out of airplanes. In fact, I like it a lot. But there are guidelines, and I follow them every time I jump.”

  “Oh.” Zoe blinked twice, her breath sliding in on an audible inhale as she opened one of the drawers beneath the island, unearthing a flat, rectangular carrying case. “So, um, the instructor guy has a lot of experience then?”

  Alex watched as she freed the zipper rimming the edge of the bright red nylon, revealing a set of flawlessly gleaming kitchen knives. His own curiosity popped like a campfire over dry kindling, but he stuffed it back and stuck to the topic. “Kyle—the instructor I went with before I got my solo certification—he jumps a lot, yeah.”

  “Okay,” she said, handing him a five-gallon bucket with a weird, plastic insert inside that looked like a widely-woven basket. “Define a lot.”

  He bit back a chuckle. It figured Zoe would want a concrete measurement like a number. “Last time I checked I think he was at nine thousand something.”

  Her chin jacked upward, hands stilling over the polished black knife handles. “Oh my God, he’s not a skydiving instructor. He’s a career lunatic,” she breathed, realization filtering across her face in slow motion. “Wait . . . how many times have you gone?”

  Alex’s smile tasted way better than it should, but he let it take control of his mouth all the same. “Twenty-nine.”

  “You do realize that’s deranged.”

  “And yet still a far cry from nine thousand.”

  “I think we’re going to have to agree to disagree,” Zoe said, and although the unyielding line of her spine backed up all the no way in her affirmation, her lips curled just enough to put a mostly playful spin on the words. She slid a knife from one of the reinforced pouches sewn into the case she’d propped open over the countertop, and despite the fact that the thing looked menacing enough to belong on the set of a horror movie, she palmed the handle with obvious ease. Sliding over to the cutting board, she sank the blade into the first bunch of lettuce with a crunch, her hands becoming a blur of fluid motion as she made quick work of chopping each section into tidy pieces.

  The ridge of her shoulders, normally set in firm determination, loosened beneath the softly edged neckline of her shirt, and the wisps of hair that had broken free from her high ponytail did nothing to scale back on the surprisingly wide-open vibe suddenly pouring off her. She repeated the process with each head of lettuce, sending the curiosity in Alex’s gut into comeback mode and the words spilling right out of his mouth.

  “Okay, so it’s my turn in the question department.”

  Zoe motioned him forward, scooping the now-chopped lettuce into the plastic container he still held between his palms. “Go for it, although if you’re looking for something bold and daring, you’re probably not going to find it in my wheelhouse.”

  “Actually, I beg to differ,” Alex said, but before she could translate the shock on her face to an actual, out-loud protest, he asked, “Clearly, this kitchen means a lot to you. If you didn’t think I was going to come through with fixing the mess in the pantry, why did you give me a second chance this morning?”

  She gripped the lid to the container, her knuckles blanching to match the shiny white plastic. But rather than back down from his straight-up candor the way most people normally did, Zoe lifted her shoulders into a shrug and answered. “I figured you’d either fumble the job and then I’d cut you loose, or you’d manage to pull enough out of your hat to earn the chance to stick around, for now at least. Seemed like kind of a win-win considering the circumstances.”

  “But it was still a chance you didn’t have to take, especially since you’re so down on the idea of my being here anyway.” Alex put the container full of lettuce on the counter at his hip. He measured Zoe with a sidelong glance, and fuck it. No sense in pretending that decorum was anywhere in his batch files. “Speaking of which, why is that? I mean, I get that I screwed up yesterday’s delivery, but you haven’t wanted me here from the word go, and it’s clear you need the hands. So tell me . . .” He took the lid from her fingers, putting it on the counter and closing the resulting gap until only mere inches stood between them. “Why don’t you want me in your kitchen?”

  “Because everything about you is a risk,” she said, her voice just a notch above a whisper even though her tone was bedrock firm. “Fifty bucks says you’re so stuck in the shoot-first-
ask-questions-later habits that landed you here that you’re not going to be anything other than a huge problem in my kitchen.”

  Alex’s defenses uncurled in his belly, low and hot, like the first few flames of a brush fire jumping to life. “Those habits happen to make me a good firefighter. The kind who saves lives.”

  But Zoe shook her head, ruffling the loose strands of hair around her face. “Not for the next four weeks they don’t.”

  His molars went on lockdown, with barely enough room for his words to escape. “I don’t need a reminder, Gorgeous.”

  “Don’t call me that.” Zoe’s eyes glittered with high-octane emotion at the same time her cheeks flushed a dark, sexy pink, and Alex would’ve been shocked if he wasn’t so busy being turned on from his brain to his balls.

  “Why not?”

  “Because.” Her ripe-cherry mouth pressed into a thin line. “You’re already not taking me or anything else about this placement seriously. I don’t need you to make fun of me on top of it.”

  Alex’s gaze traveled the length of her, from the crown of her honey-blond head to the provocative swell of cleavage peeking up from the V of her shirt, lowering still to the matching flare of her sweet, sinful hips, and his words grated up from the darkest part of his chest.

  “And what if I’m not making fun of you?”

  Zoe paused, her pupils dilating enough to darken her stare to a deep, chocolate brown despite the harsh fluorescent lights overhead. For a bare fragment of a second, she tipped her chin toward him, just enough to reveal the wild flutter of the pulse point where her neck sloped into her shoulder. But then she snapped to attention, as if her spine had suddenly discovered it was made of triple-reinforced titanium, and the molten heat in her eyes morphed into cool determination.

  “You’re not going to flirt your way into my good graces, Donovan. Your reputation and your recklessness are written all over your résumé. Feeding these people is important, and there’s no room for your brand of risk-taking in my kitchen, period.”