deep in her right cheek. “I can smell things sometimes, like an aroma of cooking food. I smelled latkes around your dad, and bananas around you.”
Portia looked wary. “Are you making that up?”
“No. I know how it sounds.” She took a sip of coffee, raised a hand as if swearing before a jury. “I swear it’s true.”
“That’s weird,” Portia said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “But kind of cool.”
Elena nodded. “So, banana pancakes?”
“Sounds great.” She swirled off the stool. “I’m going to go brush my teeth.”
Elena smiled after her, an expression of softness around her eyes. After a moment, she stood and looked around. “Where is everything? I see bananas. Any chance there are chocolate chips or bittersweet chocolate or something in here?”
Julian wiggled his brows and reached into his stash in the cupboard. “How about Dove chocolate?” he asked, bringing out a bag of small bars.
“That will do very nicely.” She put them on the counter next to a bowl she found, and opened drawers, cupboards, familiarizing herself with the kitchen. “Hmmm. I don’t see measuring spoons.”
Something was different about her this morning, and Julian finally put his finger on it. “You’re not limping.”
She scowled. “Do I limp a lot? Ivan said that last night, too. I wasn’t aware of it.”
“Not really. Just a little, when you’re tired or something. Still”—he inclined his head frankly—“you’re moving a lot more freely than usual.”
“That’s the tequila. If I wanted to be a drunk, I’d never have any pain at all.”
“Speaking of drunks, how was Ivan last night?”
“Fine.” She pulled open a drawer and crowed, pulling out a set of measuring spoons and cups. “He wasn’t drinking the way I expected. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf.”
“Was that a test?”
She met his eyes. “Partly. Mainly, it was just to show the kitchen I’m in charge.”
He nodded. “How’d you do?”
“I won. And we cooked for a good portion of the kitchens in town, so the respect ratio will be high.”
“Excellent.”
“Hand me the flour,” she said, pointing, and he passed it over. “And now we have our big week, huh?”
“Yeah. How are you feeling about it?”
“Good, honestly. We’re going to have a tamale party tomorrow, making tons of them. And Mia was getting on a plane the last time I spoke to her, so Patrick should be bringing her here any time.”
“Good.”
“The staff tasting is tomorrow night, your party is Thursday, right?—we need to hammer down that menu, by the way—and the soft opening is Saturday.
“Pretty exciting.”
She touched her lower ribs. Smiled up at him. “It is.”
Her cell phone rang on the counter and she frowned at it. “Do you mind? It’s Patrick. He went to get Mia.”
“Go ahead.”
Her body angled away, and Julian stood up, walked to the window to give her some privacy. The new snow made the air so bright and clean it was like a glass of fresh cold water. He crossed his arms, thinking of Portia’s resistance to skiing, wondering how to get around it. Maybe they could go snowshoeing, get her feeling excited about it all again.
When did the tide turn toward such skinniness, anyway? It seemed to him that there used to be lots of lean, lanky girls, but also girls with lush breasts and lots of gorgeous ass, and still others with the supple squareness of athletes.
Then one day, they all showed up to casting calls looking like coat hangers.
Behind him, Elena said, “It’s your call, Patrick. I trust your judgment.”
He turned. His gaze caught on the white skin over her collarbone, on the line of her throat. Traveled over her delicate wrists and battered hands, and her breasts, too, more evident here than at the restaurant, where she camouflaged her body beneath chef’s coats or loose T-shirts. Very nice breasts, full and natural.
Her mouth was tight when she hung up the phone.
“Problem?” he asked.
“Mia’s not coming. She’s in love and her man doesn’t want her to leave. So, I’m without a pastry chef. Patrick is going to see if he can find anyone appropriate in Denver. He has some connections.”
Julian shrugged. “Not such a big deal. The menu is in great shape.”
She nodded, staring into the distance with one hand on her hip. “I’m in love with Ivan’s baklava,” she said. As if in memory, she licked her lower lip. “He’s amazingly talented.”
The unmistakable thrust of jealousy twisted through his gut, and Julian squashed it. “That’s why I wanted to keep him.”
Portia came back into the room. “What can I do to help?”
Julian