my burning car and donate lots of money to good causes?”
I smile. “We’re not officially together or anything.”
She scoffs. “Well, unofficially, that man has it bad for you. And you deserve it. Good things happen to good people. I always say that.”
“It is pretty amazing that he managed all of this so quickly,” I murmur.
“Well, he had help. You know he owns Madeleine, right?”
I lower my brows in confusion. “No, what’s that?”
“The shelter for women and children on the South Side. It has that restaurant attached to it, Madeleine. I think the shelter is called The Madeleine Durand Home, after his mother.”
A light comes on. How could I have forgotten the name of that shelter, and made the connection to him? And why hasn’t he ever mentioned it?
“I didn’t know that, actually,” I admit to Marla.
“They train homeless people for food service work there. The restaurant does pretty well, I think, but I’ve heard there’s still a deficit because of the shelter, and Durand covers all of that.”
A few people walk into the storage room, all of them oohing and ahhing over the fully stocked shelves.
“Is this for real?” a man asks, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen so much food at once.”
I smile and take part in the conversation, but inside, I’m reeling over Marla’s revelation about Olivier. The first time we met, he could have told me he was the benefactor for Madeleine, and it would have impressed me. So why didn’t he?
The storage room gets louder as a new group of people comes in. It’s a bunch of men, several women and a few kids.
“Hi, I’m Anton Petrov,” one of the men says to Marla. “We’re all together, from the Blaze. Here to help with whatever we can for the next couple of hours.”
“Oh!” Marla’s face lights up. “Welcome, all of you. We’re so grateful you’re here. There are boxes to pack, chickens to cook, potatoes to peel and pie crusts to make.”
I look around at the faces in the Blaze group, not recognizing anyone but still feeling a connection to them through Olivier. The men are all tall and built, and they seem to have a strong bond, joking with each other and smiling.
“Hey there,” a deep voice says in my ear as an arm slides around my waist.
My heart rate kicks up as I turn, taking in the light, woodsy scent of Olivier’s cologne, which is becoming familiar to me in a very good way. I half expect him to kiss me, feeling a twinge of disappointment when he doesn’t. But he keeps his arm around my waist as Marla gives everyone directions on box packing.
“How are you at peeling potatoes?” I ask Olivier, turning to look up at him.
“Expert level.”
I lower my brows, skeptical. “How many potatoes have you peeled?”
“You mean ever?”
“Yes.”
“I peeled a lot of them as a kid. Probably more than you did.”
He has a point. I give him a sheepish look. “Probably.”
“Mr. Durand!”
Marla is rushing toward us, her arms outstretched.
“Olivier, please,” he says just before she crashes into him with a hug, squeezing him and rocking back and forth as she talks.
“You’re an angel,” she says. “I can’t tell you how much your generosity means to all of us. And you smell real good, too.”
She pulls away and gives me an appreciative look. “I suppose the two of you want to work at a station together?”
“Whatever you need us to do,” I say.
“Want to cook and bone chickens? It’s not the most glamorous job, but it needs to be done.”
“Sure, we’ll do that,” Olivier says.
We’re walking toward the kitchen when a tall man with dark hair and a dark beard stops Olivier, saying, “Hey, boss,” and extending his hand for a handshake.
“Knox, how’s it going?”
“Not bad. Did you catch the game last night?”
“I never miss a chance to see you guys hand Nashville their asses.” Olivier gestures at me. “Knox, this is Daphne Barrington. Daph, this is Knox Deveraux, one of the Blaze players.”
“Nice to meet you,” Knox says, shaking my hand and then looking over his shoulder. “My wife Reese is here somewhere. Probably in the kitchen.”
“We’re heading in there to cook chicken. We’ll find her,” Olivier says.
“Okay, see you tonight,” Knox says with a wave.
“You want to come to a hockey game tonight?” Olivier asks me as we walk to the kitchen.
“I’m babysitting my nephews.”
“That’s right. You told me that at lunch the other day, I just forgot.”
Marla opens the door to a walk-in refrigerator. “We’re serving chicken potpie