Deb Kastner - Meeting Mr. Right

“No, really,” he insisted. “I know it’s my turn. Look,” he said, swinging off his chair with sleek, catlike grace and reaching for a paper grocery bag on the counter. “See? I came prepared.”

Vee peeked skeptically over the rim of the bag. “Cans of chili? What kind of dish are you preparing with that?”

His grin widened. “Chili.”

She snorted and shook her head. “Why did I even ask?”

“Slow cooker chili,” he amended, his brow dancing. “My own secret recipe.”

“What makes it a secret?” She had to ask. She really didn’t want to make small talk with the man, but she had to admit she was curious.

The bronze in his eyes danced with the green. “If I told you, it wouldn’t really be a secret, now would it?”

“Seriously? Do you want me to leave the room while you prepare your secret recipe?”

“I’ll let you in on it,” he acknowledged in a pseudo whisper, “if you promise you won’t breathe a word of it to any of the guys.”

Vee nodded grudgingly. She didn’t like the idea of sharing anything with him—not even a secret—but she couldn’t resist a mystery. She watched carefully, curious to see what Ben would add to canned chili to make it his special recipe, something her fellow firefighters might find especially unique and tasty.

Vee wondered if Ben’s recipe was something his mother had taught him, and then her heart gave a sudden, jagged tug, twisting painfully as she was once again reminded of her own mother’s recent passing, just six months ago.

Would it ever get any easier? She would be fine one minute—or at least she’d convince herself she was all right—and then the next she’d be struck by a sharp-toothed edge of grief that made her nearly double over.

“Need help?” she offered, her voice raspy as she fought to control her emotions. She refused to let what she was feeling show on her face. Busy hands and an engaged mind helped her not to dwell on the unpleasant emotions sparring inside her.

“Nope,” he replied, turning to plug each of the slow cookers into separate outlets.

Vee stared at his back, letting out her breath when she realized he didn’t have a clue that she’d just fought an emotional battle and had barely come out unscathed. This was one time she was thankful for the man’s insensitivity.

“As you so enthusiastically reminded me,” he continued, tossing a glance over his shoulder, “it’s not your day to cook. I’ve got it covered.”

He was right, of course. She had just declared that it wasn’t her turn to cook. In fact, she’d made a big stink about that very issue. But willingly offering her assistance wasn’t the same thing as being expected to do all the work. Besides, it made her antsy to sit around doing nothing.

“At least let me open the cans for you,” she insisted, reaching into the paper bag and grasping a can.

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

She opened several sizeable cans of chili and handed them off to Ben, who scooped the contents into three large olive-green slow cookers that looked like they were throwbacks from the seventies—which they probably were, come to think of it. The men at the firehouse often used the slow cookers to heat their food, allowing them to throw together simple meals that made large portions—the two main requirements in any firehouse kitchen. The boys had hearty appetites, especially after they’d been working out with extra PT—physical training—as they were doing today.

Ben and Vee had been left to cover the firehouse. In case of an emergency, they would be first on call. It was part of their duties as volunteers for the tri-county emergency team. They were each paid a small stipend, but nearly everyone, with the exception of Chief Jenkins, had second jobs to support themselves, Vee included. She worked in the gardening department at Emerson’s Hardware. She knew Ben worked at his uncle’s auto garage as a mechanic, using the paramedic training he’d learned in the National Guard as a volunteer for the county.

Ben stirred the contents briefly, took a whiff, groaned in anticipation and covered each pot with a glass lid.

Vee raised a brow. “I thought you said you have a special recipe.”

“I said I have a secret recipe. That’s not exactly the same thing.”

Vee shook her head. Now she was really confused. “Okay, then...what’s the secret? I didn’t see you add anything to the beans.”

“Exactly.” Ben crossed his arms over the broad muscles of his chest, a movement that highlighted his large biceps—which was probably exactly what he’d intended.

Vee remembered him as being rather scrawny and easily overlooked in high school, but he certainly made up for that now. Women flocked to the man like pigeons to a piece of fresh bread. He had the build of a magnificent sculpture, every plane and muscle clearly defined, flaunting the many hours he’d spent in the gym—but sadly enough, he knew it. It was no wonder he drew attention to his physical assets—especially since he so clearly lacked anything emotional or romantic to offer.

“Come again?” she asked, pulling her gaze away from his upper arms.

“I didn’t add anything. So you see, that’s my secret.”

Vee didn’t want to react. She definitely didn’t want to encourage him in any way. But how could she not laugh at the utter ridiculousness of the situation? “So let me get this straight. Everyone else adds herbs and spices to the chili to doctor it up, and you, by contrast, just serve it right out of the can.”

His grin widened to epic proportions. He certainly looked pleased with himself. “Brilliant, huh? I’m not too keen on onions and tomatoes, anyway,” he informed her, making a face like a five-year-old boy being served brussels sprouts. “Give me good, plain beef steak any day of the week.”

“Or chili?”

“Or chili,” he agreed with a clipped nod. “I told you I’m a horrible cook. I don’t even trust myself to add things to the food that comes out of a can. I wouldn’t want to subject anyone else to what qualifies as my attempt to make homemade food from fresh ingredients. No doubt what I’d cook up would be nothing short of a blooming disaster—food so spicy you’d burn your tongue to a crisp and your eyes would water until you couldn’t see out of them, or on the flip side, food so bland it’d put you to sleep.

“If it doesn’t come out of a can or a bottle, I’m helpless. If I lived in a bigger town I’d order takeout every night. As it is, Cup o’ Jo Café and the deli at Sam’s Grocery get a lot of my business. I actually enjoy my shifts at the firehouse because I get to eat decently, something a little bit closer to home-cooked.”

Vee crinkled her nose. Granted she hadn’t been working here very long, but she wouldn’t classify any of the food she ate at the firehouse as decent. Acceptable at best, and barely palatable at worst. Cans of plain chili might be a promotion from what she was usually subjected to.

“And I visit my mama every Sunday afternoon,” he added, more as an exclamation than an afterthought. “She enjoys cooking for her son, and naturally I’m keen to eat whatever she makes for me.”

“Spoiled,” she quipped, but she nodded in approval just the same. He might be a player with the women he dated, but she knew he took good care of his parents, which Vee had to admit was a small mark in his favor.

Not enough to erase the black smudges, but perhaps a small offset.

“A little,” he admitted. “But mostly I’m just being a dutiful son.”

“I’m sure your parents appreciate that, especially your mother.” Her voice cracked a little on the last word, and she scolded herself for being so transparent in front of him. But she couldn’t help remembering how blessed she had felt to have had the chance to spend time with her own family, before her mother’s recent passing. Now her dad kept to himself, and neither she nor her two brothers could help him get beyond his grief.