Freedom's Kiss Page 3

  “Yes, you need me.” She pinched the seams of her pants that ran along the outside of her thigh, reminding herself not to show her antsiness, her need for perpetual motion. “You’re practically in the weeds the moment you prop up your window for business.”

  His brows dipped over his eyes. “In the weeds?”

  A chef who didn’t speak the language? Interesting, but not enough to pull her off course. “You know, falling behind in serving the customers. Not able to catch up.”

  “Right. The weeds. I seem to live there, don’t I?”

  Yes, but she wouldn’t insult him. “Your food is great, and the word is going to spread. Lines are only going to get longer, but if you can’t meet the demand, you’re going to lose business.”

  “Which is where you come in.”

  She let her legs unlock as her face relaxed. The door was opening, not slamming and locking in her face. “Exactly. I can run ahead and take orders. Help with expediting.” Dare she push it? “Maybe even assist in the kitchen with prep work or anything else you need done.” Maybe even add her own items to the menu. People other than her friends and family tasting her creations. But she’d bide her time. He needed to hire her first.

  He rubbed his palm against his jaw, and she held her breath. She’d take consideration over a flat-out no. “I can give you references if you need them, but I promise I’m a hard worker. Always punctual. You can depend on me—I swear.”

  If that didn’t reek of desperation, she didn’t know what did. What happened to the confident facade she’d had going?

  “It’s not that. Here, hold on.” He moved toward the fridge and pulled out the pitcher of tea. Lifting two paper cups from their stack, he nodded to the side entrance of the truck. “I need to get out of this box. Can we talk over there by the picnic table?”

  She followed him out of the truck, the vehicle creaking and swaying with their weight. A park picnic table sat by a palm tree a few yards away, illuminated by the lamps that lined the street. A slight breeze picked up from the beach a few blocks over, and Olivia stuck her elbows out just a little for the air to move over the hot, damp places of her skin.

  Adam sat on the bench facing out and leaned his back on the edge of the tabletop. He poured tea into the cups and handed her one as he downed the other. Closing his eyes, he looked relaxed, the stress and energy of the night draining away from him before her eyes.

  “Sit.” He motioned the bench beside him with a sweep of his hand. “You’ve been going a hundred miles a minute since you busted into my place. Rest.”

  She perched on the end of the bench and crossed her legs, burying her fingers where her thighs met and rubbing her fingertips along the stitching of her ripped jeans.

  “Where are you a waitress at?” Adam asked as he poured himself another cup of tea.

  She sat up straighter. “How’d you know I was a server?”

  He shrugged off her question. “You carried a real order book in your back pocket.”

  Oh. Right. “I work at Seaside.”

  A low whistle punctuated the air. “Fancy. Slumming here then, hmm?”

  “No! That’s not what I—”

  He chuckled beside her. “Relax. I’m teasing.”

  Something he did a lot, she noticed.

  “But seriously. You already have a nice job at one of the best restaurants in town. Why do you want to help me out with my truck?”

  Her shoulders lifted a fraction before falling. “What can I say? I have extra time on my hands, and you need the help. Plus, I love working with food. Win-win-win, right?”

  He pivoted his hip on the bench so he faced her. “I used to be a lawyer. I know when someone is handing out BS.”

  She turned to match his posture. Strategy: deflection. “You used to be a lawyer?”

  “Nice try, but I know that one too. Real answer now. Why do you want a job at my truck?”

  He regarded her with sincere interest. Head tilted and temple resting on a closed fist, he patiently waited for her response. She studied him, a little nonplussed that she could read him so easily. And he her. The rhythm they’d fallen into as they’d worked swirled around her. Music, cadence, melody…the steps to a dance of which she was unfamiliar but her body by instinct recognized.

  Before a muscle even twitched in the man beside her, she knew he was about to touch her. To reach out and place his warm hand on her knee. Effusive family, he’d said. The recognition of her struggle flashed in his eyes, followed by the need to comfort. His hand lowered and covered the bent part of her leg, his skin touching hers through the rip in the denim.

  It seemed part of his makeup, his DNA. One that embarrassed him, if the quick flush of color in his neck and his receding hand were any indication. But he wasn’t coming on to her. And she knew. Every woman, it seemed, knew the type, which was why the #MeToo hashtag had gone viral. But even if the actions of the man beside her could fit into that category—what with a hug and a leg squeeze after barely hours of introduction—the motives didn’t. Anyone who looked into his clear eyes could see that. No guile. No hidden agendas. Just empathy and kindness.

  “Look, I know we just met and you have no obligation to tell me anything, but you really did help me out big time tonight, and if I can repay the favor, I’d like to.” No vocal apology sprang from his mouth this time about the physical contact, just a quirk of the lips and a tiny shake of the head that said oops as he shimmied his palm under his leg.

  Olivia’s lips twitched. She kind of wanted to press him to see if sitting on his hand would be enough to deter his nature and personality. He’d teased her, and she had the itch to return the favor. If she laid it on thick, his hands would no doubt find their way to her. A squeeze on the shoulder or a press to her elbow. Even if the experiment would be fun, perhaps now wasn’t the time. Not when she still needed something from him.

  Man, that sounded manipulative.

  She massaged her forehead and heaved out a sigh, hating where her train of thought had led her. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself with a one-way ticket to a person she didn’t recognize. Carpe diem was all well and good, but not if it meant turning into someone she wasn’t. And as much as she wanted this opportunity, she wasn’t an opportunist. Not one that would twist a situation for her own gain, no holds barred.

  “Have you ever had a dream?” It was a bit strange, having such an intimate conversation with someone she’d just met. She didn’t even get this personal on first dates, of which this definitely couldn’t be considered. “I mean, a passion for something that burned so hot inside you that no matter how many times you or other people have tried to douse it, it won’t be put out. It’s become a real part of your identity until you wouldn’t be able to recognize yourself without that dream as well?”

  Adam shifted, his movement bringing Olivia’s gaze from the distant horizon back to his face. His very pinched, uncomfortable face. Uh-oh. She’d said something wrong. Heat flushed her skin, and her stomach dipped. “I’m sorry. That was out of line. I just meant—”

  He held up a hand. “Don’t apologize.” This time his smile looked forced. “You didn’t say anything wrong.” He worked a frog out of his throat. “So, your dream. It’s a food truck?”

  Her fingers spiraled together. “Food in general. Cooking. I want to go to culinary school or learn in a kitchen, but I don’t have the money for the first and can’t seem to find a chef willing for the second.”

  He nodded. “Food is a bit of a passion of mine as well. Which is why I opened the truck in the first place. My brothers like to tease me that I’m a bit of a snob, but…well, have you seen Ratatouille?”

  “The Disney movie about the rat?”

  “Right. So my brothers are like Remy’s family. I mean, Michael, he’s the ex-fighter pilot, ate MREs without gagging, and Trent is happy running through a fast-food joint. Doesn’t have time to let any type of flavors develop.”

  Olivia leaned her elbow against the tabletop, the pinging of
energy in her body slowing with the background noise of summer cicadas and the smooth cadence of Adam’s rich timbre talking about his family. “And your palette is more refined.”

  He gave an exaggerated shudder. “Is there a manlier word than refined? Michael and Trent already give me enough flak about wearing an apron all day now.”

  “Don’t they realize the industry is male dominated?”

  “They don’t care. All they know is, I exchanged power suits for an apron, the courtroom for the kitchen. An opportunity to razz a sibling if ever one presented itself.”

  A tic of his jaw had Olivia suspecting there was more to the story.

  “Why’d you quit being a lawyer?”

  His face shuttered, a curtain being drawn across the smoothness of his clean-shaven cheek and blocking out the brilliance that had been shinning in his eyes. Even his body tensed, his broad shoulders bunching under the thin fabric of his T-shirt. “Passion. Like you said.”

  Definitely more to the story. While he was without question gifted with food, that wasn’t the singular factor behind his career move.

  “What about you? Any siblings?”

  Change of subject. Got it. “Only child.”

  But he didn’t seem to hear her as he pinched the sides of his watch, illuminating the face. He looked back up at her. “I’m not gonna lie and say having you work in the truck tonight didn’t make service go a whole lot smoother. But how are you going to juggle the hours between the two jobs, especially since our peak periods will be the same? Also, I’m not sure how I could pay you. I could give you a percentage of the profits each night, but that doesn’t seem fair, as those will vary night to night depending on business.”

  “I work brunch at Seaside, so I’m off by three. Which means I can make it here by four and can stay until either the food is gone or you don’t need me anymore. As far as wages…” Should she readily accept the pay as a percentage or try for more? “Whatever you think is fair is fine.” She held up a finger. “Provided I can add an item to the menu of my own creation. It doesn’t have to be the daily special or anything, and you can even write it in tiny letters at the bottom of the chalkboard. Most of your customers probably won’t even see it.”

  The flat line of his mouth relaxed as his eyes retook their telltale twinkle. “Your arguments need some work, counselor.”

  Her arms folded across her chest as she pushed up her chin.

  He leaned in. “Basically, you want me to buy ingredients that might go to waste because no one will even see that they’re being offered on the menu.”

  “But I thought if it was something small…” She thrust back her shoulders. “What if I buy the ingredients myself?”

  “No.”

  No? Her spine arched in deflation. They weren’t even going to discuss it? He owned the truck… They had only just met…

  But…

  But it felt like they were already friends. She’d shared her dream, and he’d talked about his family. Those were very friend-ish conversations. And it wasn’t like she was asking for a main course. She’d do a side. Hush puppies would be nice. Everyone loved those little balls of fried cornmeal, buttermilk, and thinly minced scallions. Especially since her recipe contained bits of whole corn kernels, which added a hint of sweetness. No great risk whatsoever.

  “No,” Adam said again. “This is your dream, right? You mentioned specials, which I hadn’t even thought of. I had planned to have a rotating menu, keep the hot sellers on longer but switch with seasons and which ingredients were the freshest at the farmer’s market. We can still do that, but specials…” He drummed his fingers on the picnic table, a broad grin in place. “Think you can come up with a few to show me? I mean, I’m going to have to taste the dishes before I sign off on them, but…”

  Olivia blinked slowly, processing the we and everything that came after. “You’re going to let me do the daily specials?”

  Adam shrugged. “Sure. Why not? As long as they go with the theme of the truck, good southern comfort–type food, and they hold to a Remy standard of taste”—he winked—“I don’t see a problem.”

  “That’s just…I don’t know what to…” Exuberance and gratitude swelled inside her, and she nearly flung her arms around his neck, but she held herself in check even though she was fairly certain if the roles had been reversed, he wouldn’t have. Instead she folded her hands in her lap and took a deep breath before meeting his eyes. “Thank you.”

  His shoulder flinched, the slight movement walking down his arm where it stopped at the pinky finger, which had escaped its prison under his leg. Her lips twitched. He wanted to reach out and touch her again. Second nature, the act of physical touch for him. In celebration, in comfort, probably in any range of emotion and situation. His no forethought go-to. She wondered how often that instinct got him in trouble.

  “Tomorrow then?”

  His rich voice broke through her introspection, and her head snapped up. “What?”

  “There’s a farmer’s market on the east side of town tomorrow. Unless that’s too soon to come up with a few ideas for the menu?”

  Ideas already poured through her brain in a steady stream. And if that dried up, she had about five two-inch three-ring binders full of recipes she’d concocted since she was a tweener playing around in her mom’s kitchen. “No. No, I can have some ideas ready by tomorrow.”

  He smiled, a bit smug, like he was pleased with himself for some reason. “Great. I’ll pick you up at six.”

  “In the morning?” Her voice cracked.

  “The early bird…”

  “I assure you worms will not be the source of protein in your specials.” She shuddered, not sure if the involuntary movement rooted from the idea of waking up before the crack of dawn on her only day off or eating wiggly-squiggly worms.

  “Good to know. Still, six is when I hit the booths. All the good produce is still available. I promise I’ll come bearing coffee.”

  An early morning was a small price to pay for this opportunity. “Make it a chai latte and we’re on.”

  Chapter 4

  Georgia, 1816

  Exhaustion pulled at Winnie until she felt her limbs were made not of flesh and bone but of Mae’s famous rhubarb jelly. The unforgiving rock at her back bit into her skin, but she couldn’t manage to care even a little. If the cave they’d found shelter in decided to hide them for eternity, to become a permanent resting place of their souls, so be it. Temperance’s fate awaited them all anyhow. Poor, sweet Temperance.

  The tip of a boot lightly kicked at the sole of Winnie’s shoe. “Up, girl. We need to get farther back. We ain’t safe yet.”

  They’d never be safe. She groaned and turned her head away, the small movement all she could manage, though a hot streak of rebellion threaded through her chest. She loved her pa dearly, but what had he been thinking? No one ever escaped Master Rowlings. Hadn’t Pa learned that lesson last year when he’d been whipped to the edge of his life simply because he hadn’t made it back to the plantation before nightfall?

  Footfalls sounded past her head and drifted behind her.

  Her brother, Isaac, stopped at her shoulder and leaned down. “Come on, Winnie.” He scooped his hands under her shoulders and hooked them around her arms, lifting until she stood once again on her tired feet. They shuffled together a few more yards, then both collapsed in a heap.

  Asa had already managed to build a small fire, the flames dancing light across the limestone walls. He’d shucked off the sack from his shoulder and withdrawn a small portion of their provisions. A lump of stale bread fell into Winnie’s cupped palms, but she wasn’t sure she had the energy or the fortitude to gnaw away at the morsel. Though her body sat warm and dry in the cave, her mind hadn’t left the river’s shore. Screams unrent pierced the forest air, silent of human voices that should have shouted with grief and loss.

  “Don’t think on it, Winnie.” Asa’s deep voice echoed slightly off the cave walls. “Put your mind to somethin’ el
se. To freedom.”

  Her lips thinned as she pressed them tightly together. Though her body had shut down, her mind refused to let go. And why should she? She was not an unfeeling thing, not a being less than, like the white folks were fond of justifying. Her heart bled, torn apart with the loss of her sister and the callousness of her father. Did he not feel it? Did he not reel in dizziness and fairly suffocate from stuffing down the keen anguish that demanded to rip from the throat?

  “How can you?” Though she wanted to scream and rail, she whispered the question. “She was your daughter.”

  “Is.” The one word tore across the distance separating them and slapped her face. “Temperance is and always will be my daughter, and I’ll not have you speakin’ any different.”

  Her cheeks stung. “We should’ve looked for her. Helped her and William.”

  “Only the Almighty can help them now.” Isaac spoke, though his face paralleled the ground.

  “And the Almighty is more powerful than even Asa.” Her father’s voice descended as a benediction, a thread of hope that the two carried along by the current had an end other than death.

  That glimmer did little to stop the pain spreading through Winnie like a disease.

  “We shoulda gone north.” Isaac still hadn’t raised his head. At a year older than her own ten and seven, he was not man enough to meet Asa’s eyes when contradicting him.

  Asa huffed. “We’d never made it to the freedman barber in Savanah, and you know it.”

  “What do I know? Nuthin’, right?”

  As always, Asa ignored his son. But Winnie wondered the same. People were lined up to help runaways like them get to freedom in the north. But Asa had turned them south. To Florida. To the Spanish and the Seminole.

  “You two heard Mae as well as I. Her repeatin’ what the maasa’d read aloud from the paper.”

  They’d heard all right. Every slave had, what with them huddled around Mae like bugs to a flame. Enchanted by that ray of light only to get burned by flying too close.