Swing (Landry Family #2)(6)

“I like salt.”

“It’s a knock on the cook to season your food without tasting it first.”

Shaker in hand, paused midair, I look at her through the steam.

“Go ahead and salt the shit out of it,” she sighs, flipping her long, dark locks behind her. “I just spent two hours concocting that dish to perfection. Go on and fuck it up.”

“Pepper!” I laugh, sitting the shaker down. “Geez, settle down. What has you all fired up today?”

Her dark eyes roll around in one of the most dramatic displays I’ve seen from her since I started coming to this little bakery near the hospital.

“My husband, if you must know,” she snorts. “He wants me to take on an extra pair of hands so I can spend more time with him at home. I mean, I love the man. I do. I’d love to see him more. But I can’t afford another person on payroll! We’d be in the red within two months.”

“Yikes,” I say, lifting a spoonful of the creamy soup to my lips. “Sounds like trouble.”

“It is.” She watches me like a hawk as I sample the latest Smitten Kitten creation. “So?”

“So what?”

“Is it good?” she laughs. “Damn it. I need feedback, you know that. Don’t hold out on me. You’re the first person to try it.”

“What are we calling it?” I ask, dabbing my mouth with a napkin.

“Kitten Cup.”

“Sounds like cat food,” I giggle.

“But is it good?’

“No,” I say, keeping my face as blank as possible. She holds her breath and it’s all I can do not to burst out laughing. “It’s probably, um,” I say, tilting my head back and forth, prolonging her anguish, “probably my favorite soup yet.”

“Score!” she says, standing and pumping a fist. “I knew it! I knew this would be the one! I’m going to enter it in the city cook-off next month. It’s a winner, right? I mean, if it’s not, tell me. I have time to tweak it.”

“It’s an absolute winner,” I grin, knowing she’ll create something else in a few days and will forget all about the Kitten Cup. This is a process that’s never ending, and it certainly won’t end with this dish.

She starts to reply, but stops. Narrowing her eyes, she wags a finger in my face. “What are you not telling me?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. You’re hiding something from me.”

Rolling my eyes, I start to lie to her, but know it’s useless. “I had a visitor today.” I proceed to give her all the details about my afternoon and find myself getting wrapped up in the dropping of her jaw, the way she hangs on every word. When I finish, she falls back like she’s run a mile.

“Did you at least give him your number?” she asks.

“No.” I shrug, like it’s a silly question, but my shoulders don’t fall before she’s squawking at me.

“Why? Why would you not give him your card or something? Danielle, sometimes I feel like I don’t even know you. You refused Weston Brinkmann—”

My hand flies up, silencing her. “Stop. You know why I turned Weston down.”

“I do. You’re right. Because you’re ignorant!”

I can’t help but laugh. “I’m in my late twenties, Pepper,” I remind her. “I need to start thinking long-term.”

“Yeah,” she nods enthusiastically. “I bet Lincoln has excellent long-term power. I bet that guy can get you off—”

“Stop!” I giggle. “That’s not what I mean.”

Pepper doesn’t bother to respond. She just looks at me, totally unconvinced. “Weston was gorgeous,” she says finally.

I nod. “And he loved baseball far more than he’ll ever love a human being.”

This sobers my friend. She knows where I’m coming from. “I get what you’re saying.”

“Yeah.” Swirling my cappuccino around, I watch the foam twist and turn. “Besides,” I say, “Lincoln is way better looking than Weston. And funny and charming and . . .”

The door chimes and she fastens her apron. “Hold that thought,” she says before jogging to the counter.

Watching Pepper and her customer, an old friend of hers that comes in here a lot. I can’t help the pang of jealousy in my stomach. I don’t know what it’s like to have that kind of friendship with someone, a deep connection to another person that spans time and locations. The closest thing I have is Macie. We met during Freshman Orientation in college and hit it off over our mutual love for kids, although our reasons for it are completely different. Macie does it because she feels like she’s giving back to the world. I find that working with them helps heal a part of my soul.

“I don’t know what I did to be cursed with a daughter. For the love of God, Ryan Danielle, do not embarrass me.”

I shiver as my father’s voice booms through my memory, the coolness of his eyes only adding to the pain in my heart. I used to think the hurt would ease, that the longer I was out of his house, away from the mother that could have loved me but loved his wealth more, it would alleviate. Years on my own and the sting is still there.

My father always wanted a son. It’s no secret that he feels cheated by the universe for getting a daughter, so much so that he named me Ryan Danielle. A boy’s name. A constant reminder of the failure I was from birth. Since I failed him, I also failed my mother, a woman that’s probably capable of love, but is so poisoned by her obsession with my father that her capacity has diminished. There’s no room for me in her life in any measurable quantity—just for the occasional photo or to make sure I’m not doing something that would blow back on my father and taint his prestigious image somehow.