Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) Page 6

  “Demo’s right,” she said finally.

  “Oh, thank—” I did a double take. “Say what?”

  Yiayia tilted her head at me. “I don’t share my recipes with anyone who isn’t family.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders drooped, deflated. I could practically hear Demo grinning next to me, but didn’t look up at him to check. “Not even for dolmades?”

  “But don’t you worry.” She pointed an arthritic finger at me. “It’ll happen soon enough. And when you’re family, I’ll give you the recipe.”

  Chapter Six

  I carefully placed a sprig of fresh dill on top of the last lobster stuffed mushroom on the tray and stood back to admire my work. It looked pretty damn good, if I did say so myself, but I’d relied on Lexie’s taste test to confirm it. I’d eaten four pieces of homemade baklava with Yiayia, and judging by its rich goodness, they’d been about two hundred and twenty calories apiece.

  (Now, usually I enjoyed a good butt kicking by my hot trainer, but the one I had coming was going to be rough.)

  “Hey, Mar, are those ‘shrooms about ready?” Lexie called, coming into the kitchen with an empty tray propped on her shoulder. “These small business owners are ruthless. I went through all those shrimp canapés in less than three minutes.”

  “Yikes.” I pushed the mushrooms towards her. “I hope the fact that they’re all starving isn’t an indication of how their businesses are doing.”

  “Hey, we’re a small business, and we’re doing all right.” Lexie popped one of the mushrooms into her mouth, then washed her hands in a nearby sink. “Don’t be a snob.”

  My cheeks heated, as I realized who I sounded like. For years I’d thrown out comments and digs, all in an attempt to appear funny and confident, when in actuality I sounded like I’d poured pretention into my coffee in the morning.

  “You’re right.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “I’m sorry.”

  Lexie stopped what she was doing, and her eyes widened. “I, uh, okay.”

  We stared at each other for a beat, unsure what to say to each other next. Apologies weren’t my forte, and I’d never dealt them out very easily. Finally I waved my hand. “Argh. Don’t make such a big deal out of it, or I’ll never say it again.” I plucked some breadbaskets off the counter. “Come on. Let’s get these people fed, before I break down and eat all these appetizers myself.”

  “Whatever you say.” A smile teased the corners of Lexie’s mouth as we pushed through the swinging door into the bed and breakfast dining room where the Manito Small Business Association was holding their latest meet and greet.

  We’d gotten this event for the first time this year, after a tight bidding war between us and two much larger catering companies. I liked to brag that the fact I’d worn a low cut sweater to the tasting was the reason, but the truth was, Lexie’s cedar smoked salmon pate had driven it home.

  We entered the dining room. “So tell me,” she said through the corner of her mouth. A woman approached, plucking a mushroom from the tray, and Lexie waited until she’d meandered off before she finished her thought. “Are you gonna get the recipe for dolmades, or what? You said you hit it off with the grandma today.”

  “I certainly did.” I smiled widely as a man grabbed a roll out of one of the baskets. “She asked me to call her Yiayia.”

  Lexie giggled. “What does that mean? You’re not calling her a bad name in Spanish, are you?”

  “That was Greek.” I handed a roll and a napkin to an old man passing by. “It means Grandma. And I have not yet scored the recipe. But don’t worry. I will.”

  “Is there seafood in those mushrooms?” a man with a beard asked Lexie.

  “Yes, sir. Pacific lobster.” She pointed to one of the other waitresses we’d hired for the evening. “There are cheese stuffed mushrooms just over that way.”

  “Thank you,” he said, setting off on his mission.

  Lexie turned to me. “So how come you didn’t get the recipe?”

  I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. My conversation with Yiayia had stuck with me for most of the day, and I’d replayed it about a thousand times. She’d clearly assumed that Demo and I were going to wind up together, thus making me ‘family’ and someday worthy of her recipes. But then again, some senior citizens thought their dead relatives were in the room. My guess was that as sharp as Yiayia was, she didn’t see the deep-rooted distaste her grandson and I had for each other.

  Apparently she hadn’t picked up on the fact that I’d come to Triple D’s this morning to make him want me… only so I could drop him on his face later, too.

  Thank goodness.

  I sighed. “She said she only gives her recipes to family.”

  Lexie snorted. “So when’s the big day?”

  “Don’t get carried away,” I warned her with a scowl. “But don’t you worry, either.” I nodded at a woman who was biting into her roll. “I’ll get it.”

  Lexie chuckled. “I can Google another recipe—”

  “No!” I yelped, making an old man with a mushroom jump. “Sorry, sir.” When he walked away, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You don’t understand, this woman’s cooking is amazing. The baklava made my toes curl.”

  “You said that about my baklava,” she hissed.

  “Well, this is even better.” I widened my eyes at her. “It was better than sex, Lexie.”

  One of her auburn eyebrows rose. “That’s a bold statement, coming from you.”

  It was true. I’d spent the bulk of my adulthood—thus far—with a fairly liberal sense of sexuality. When done properly, sex could be a lot of fun. And in an attempt to reject my mother’s warped sense of marriage and its fiscal benefits, I’d supported myself financially and scoffed at any use of the “R” word (relationship). I used sex as a really cool way to pass the time and cure boredom. No commitments, no strings, just safe, consensual humping amongst friends. It was a win/win, right?

  Wrong. Needless to say, my friends—both of whom were happily married with kids—were mortified by my lackadaisical attitude about the horizontal boom-boom. They seemed to think I’d been so scarred by my mother’s seven marriages and my father’s inability to commit to anything that I was completely disconnected from what mattered most in life.

  Marriage. Home. Family. Whatever.

  “Orgasmic baklava?” Lexie sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s something I’d like to try someday.”

  “Well, you will, if I have anything to say about it.” I muttered as a woman took two rolls, then scurried away like a rat. “I’m working on this problem and intend to fix it sooner rather than later.”

  “So you are marrying the mechanic?”

  “No. But I will date him.”

  Lexie rolled her eyes back at me. “Okay, yesterday you were going to date him just so you could dump him. Now you’re going to date him for his grandmother’s recipes?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Don’t say I never did anything for our business.”

  Lexie shook her head and laughed. “This is a new low even for you, Mar.”

  I lowered my voice as a group of people passed. “Oh, don’t make it sound so dirty. I’m not going to sleep with him for the recipes. Though it is tempting. He’s really quite beautiful, in a greasy, gritty, he-might-punch-me-in-the-face sort of way.” I jutted out my hip and laughed.

  “Ugh.” Lexie wrinkled her nose. “You have such a way with words.”

  I smoothed down the front of my apron. “Thank you.”

  “So you’re not going to sleep with him?”

  “No.”

  “Even though he’s kind of hot?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re Marisol, queen of hooking up with gorgeous men.”

  Giving her a pointed look, I thrust the basket of rolls into another person’s face. “Fresh sourdough rolls with brie centers. Made this morning.”

  A woman with a giant nose ring squealed with delight. “Oh, my! Sounds delicious. Thank you.”

  “I t
old you the brie center was genius,” I whispered to Lexie. As soon as nose ring lady walked away, I added, “Scoring those recipes will be worth abstaining from sex with Demo-the-mechanic. Because his grandmother’s baklava recipe alone could make his prowess in the bedroom seem wanting.”

  My friend’s eyes widened as she scanned the room. “Um, are you sure about that?”

  I plucked a mushroom off of her tray, and popped it into my mouth. “Positive,” I said around my mouthful. “Knocking the dickhead off of his high horse will be an added bonus.” When I finished chewing, I swallowed and blinked at Lexie. Her face had gotten almost as red as her hair. “What’s up with you?”

  “Well, I don’t know about Demo the dickhead,” she said lowly, her eyes bugging out of her head. “But you’ve got a tasty pastry staring at you over there. And oh… oh, my.”

  “What? Who?” Brushing crumbs off of the front of my shirt, I looked over my shoulder. Sweat instantly pricked at my hairline. “Holy crap! It’s him.”

  There, at the far end of the room talking to a group of men, was Demo—watching me with a half annoyed, half amused expression on his face. He looked a little out of place, with a plaid shirt tucked tucked into a pair of pressed cargo khakis. On his feet he wore scuffed church shoes, and his wild brown hair had been gelled into submission. Everyone else in the room was wearing their best. Suits, dresses, slacks, ties. But not Demo Antonopolous. With his scruffy five o’clock shadow and grease stained fingernails, he looked like he’d stumbled into the wrong party on his way to a Nascar event.

  He kinda looked like hell. The sad part was? He looked good that way.

  “Damn…” It came out half groan, half whimper, and I regretted saying it the second it came out my mouth. A fire had started deep down low in my belly.

  Lexie choked on a snicker. “No time like the present to put this plan into effect, Mar.”

  “Shut up,” I snapped. She just grinned at me, the cocky little brat. “Fine. It’s time for my ten minute break anyway.”

  “I couldn’t agree more.” She handed the nearly empty mushroom tray to me and grabbed the baskets. “Go give him some mushrooms. A way to a man’s heart is through his—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I tried that with your husband and he still rejected me.”

  Her cheeks pinked when she smiled like a lovesick tween. “Okay, then. Good luck.”

  Tugging the elastic out of my hair, I shook it so that it tumbled down over my shoulders, and prayed there wasn’t a health inspector at the meeting tonight. Then, after hoisting the tray up onto my shoulder, I sauntered my way across the room, swaying my hips like a hula dancer. I was pretty sure I looked like a moron, strutting around like a cat in heat, but I could tell by the way Demo’s jaw dropped that it was getting the desired affect.

  “Good evening, gentlemen,” I purred, swirling the tray off of my shoulder and holding it under their noses. “Want to try some of my lobster stuffed white mushroom caps? From what I’ve been told, they’ll melt in your mouth.”

  All of the men in the semi-circle dove into the mushrooms like they’d been in a Turkish prison, but Demo stared at me, his brows pinched together. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  I blinked at him. “I’m the caterer. Why don’t you try a mushroom?”

  “No thanks.” A waiter passed by with a bacon wrapped shrimp, so he grabbed one and popped it in his mouth.

  Anger bubbled in my chest. Nobody rejected my food. “Are you kidding me?”

  Lexie whisked past my back with the breadbaskets. “Tsk, tsk, Marisol,” she whispered.

  Dammit. Taking a deep breath, I tried to cool down. Remember the recipes.

  “How are the shrimp?” I asked casually.

  He swallowed. “Good.”

  “Oh, wonderful. Because I made those, too.” Topping my sentence off with a wink, I put a hand on my hip and smiled at the row of men standing before me, chewing like cattle. “Well, boys, have you tried the cedar smoked salmon pate?”

  “Pate?” One guy who looked like he’d been over served by at least two drinks, maybe more, wrinkled his face. “Isn’t that fish eggs?”

  He breathed on me, and I held my breath until the fog cleared. Make that four drinks.

  “No, that’s caviar.” I touched his arm to steady him as he swayed in place. “Pate is a meat paste served on toast. It sounds peculiar, but it’s really quite good. You should all try it.” The men nodded, and made their way towards the food tables across the room. All except Demo and drunk guy, who was staring down the front of my shirt. “Especially you, cowboy,” I added, releasing his arm. “You need some food in your stomach.”

  “Right. Got it.” He hiccupped. “Salmon paste. I’m on it.”

  Demo and I watched him stumble away. “That’s Greg Thomason,” he said wryly. “He owns the magazine stand in the park.”

  “I see.” Holding out the tray, I offered, “Change your mind about that mushroom?”

  His eyes rolled down to the mushrooms, then back up to my face. “You’re not going to stop until I eat one, are you?”

  I shook my head. “No, sir.”

  Demo grabbed one and jammed it into his mouth. He chewed it furiously, never losing eye contact with me. Once it went down his gullet, he blinked. “There. You happy now?”

  “Maybe.” I narrowed my eyes. “Did you like it?”

  “A little.”

  “You’re only saying that to be a jerk.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “All right, knock it off, you two.” Lexie took hold of the now empty mushroom tray away from me as she passed by again.

  “Okay, let’s call a truce.” I cleared my throat. “Why don’t we start over?”

  Demo’s eyebrows pinched together. “What?” he asked, as if this was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard.

  Hell, maybe it was. Maybe he didn’t hear too many ideas.

  “Hush.” I stuck out my hand. “Hi. My name’s Marisol Vargas.”

  “Knock it off.” He shook his head. “You’re so weird. We’re total opposites, you know that? Like apples and oranges.”

  I sighed. “I said the same thing yesterday.”

  “Then why are you doing this?” He raised an eyebrow at me.

  My hand dropped. “Because I’m coming back to Triple D’s as soon as those recalled parts come in. We may as well be friends, since you’re my mechanic now.”

  His expression softened, just a touch. “You’re not going to the dealership?”

  I let my shoulders rise and drop. “Nah. You’ll do the work for cheaper, anyway.”

  “Money is no object to you, remember?” He took a pull off his beer and watched me process his words.

  I sucked in a sharp breath. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you enjoy ticking me off.”

  “It’s a safe bet.” One side of Demo’s mouth tugged upward, and he took another drink. “Well, for what it’s worth, thanks for the business. We can use it.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He leaned forward and bumped my arm with his elbow. “And thank you for indulging my Yiayia today. She loves talking to the customers.”

  My face heated when our bodies touched. Why did my face heat? What’s wrong with me?

  “Oh, uh, you’re welcome,” I said. “It was my pleasure, though. Really. I had fun listening to her stories. She said your father died a few years ago. I’m very sorry.”

  Demo looked down. “You didn’t do it.”

  Yikes, not the response I was expecting. I pressed my lips together, refusing to lose my temper. Again. “No, but it’s never easy to lose a parent.”

  “Nope.” Demo looked me up and down. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Now we were getting somewhere. I smiled and tossed my hair. “Sure.”

  “What’s a girl like you working as a catere
r for?” he asked. “You don’t seem the type.”

  Part of me wanted to call him something offensive in Spanish, but the other part of me understood where Demo was coming from. I got comments like that all the time—most of all from Annalise.

  But, when I looked up at him, and felt a rush of… honesty. Well, that was strange. “When I was a kid, my mother was obsessed with weight. She tried every diet and procedure under the sun to keep her figure. She’s had four tummy tucks, and the woman’s never been over a size four.” Demo shook his head, and I explained, “That’s very small. So when I was about five or six, she decided that I was getting too chubby, so she put me on a diet, too.”

  His dark eyes widened. “She put you on a diet when you were five?”

  “Uh huh.” I shook my head. “Slim Fast was the first one. My parents called it chocolate milk, but I wasn’t stupid. Then I did the grapefruit diet. Then the cabbage soup diet, that one was my least favorite. We went through them all. By the time I was a teenager, I was obsessed with food. But I had to sneak it. The chef snuck me plates of food when my mother wasn’t looking, and I became a closet foodie.” I laughed at my own joke, but after a beat or two, I realized Demo wasn’t laughing with me. “What?”

  His frown returned. “You had a chef?”

  Ignoring his question, I went on. “When I went off to school, I had no idea what my major would be, but then I stumbled upon the culinary arts class one afternoon as they were all learning how to dice onions. The whole hallway reeked, and there were tears running down my face, but I knew I’d found where I was supposed to be. My degree is a Bachelor’s of Culinary Arts, and I get to cook every day. Plus, it really torqued my mom off. It was a classic two birds with one stone scenario.”

  “I see.” Demo smiled—just the briefest flashes of happiness on an otherwise cantankerous face—and it was one of the most glorious things I’d ever seen.

  He. Was. Gorgeous.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again. What was my deal? Never once in the existence of men had I ever been at a loss for words around a guy. The only time I ever got this goofy around a man was when I was crazy about him. And there was no way in hell I was crazy about Demo Antonopolous.