Chapter Eight

Somehow, the budget spreadsheets had acquired even more red than they'd had yesterday. How did that even happen? Garlan had clearly hooked the books up to some kind of automated billing system—more than one, had to be—but Dev still hadn't figured out where all the transactions were coming from. They all hit the check register, but from where?

The low-key panic that simmered in his belly whenever the numbers danced on the screen in front of him was back again. Because what if he missed something? What if there was a critical bill—like that mysterious Maintenance: DO NOT SKIP thing that showed up every month from somewhere Dev still hadn't tracked down?

Banks. Fuck, don't get me started.They wouldn't talk about their accounts with you, even whether or not an account existed. Garlan had put him down as a transfer-on-death beneficiary, so at least he was able to access the accounts he knew of. But the ones he didn't? After eighteen months, things were still popping up.

He sighed and picked up the empty water bottle from this morning's run, not bothering to suppress the smile as he set it on the credenza behind the desk with the others. Thirteen empty water bottles. He shouldn't be sentimental about freaking plastic bottles, and in fact should recycle them right now. But Casey had presented each of them to him, the first one on the day after Ty had found the abandoned kittens. Somehow, Casey had been at the Market again when Dev finished his run. Then Kat had mentioned casually that Casey had told her that since he started classes every day at eight he'd arranged his schedule so he could get one of Kat's lattes every morning at 7:30, and after that Dev had timed his runs so he arrived at the Market at exactly 7:35.

They'd met there every morning since. Walking back to Harrison House with Casey gave Dev the fortitude to face another day attempting to save Home.

He scowled at the monitor and brought up the records for the antique fair, the reddest of the red pages, since many of the expenses—damn Port-a-Potties—had to be paid before vendor registration fee balances were due. A couple of the dealers who never missed Antiques at Home had already paid in full, but most of the money wouldn't arrive until the deadline at the end of June. Dev couldn't blame them. They had cash flow issues just like he did, but understanding the delay didn't make staring at that ever-growing red bottom line any easier.

Was it too soon to head over to the summer kitchen with the shelf unit? Sure, he could go more than an hour without seeing Casey, but if he didn't have to? Didn't he deserve something good—really good—to balance the financial bad news? Besides, installing the shelf was a totally legit excuse. Maybe if he—

An ear-piercing klaxon shrilled from outside, sending Dev's heart directly into his throat: the summer kitchen smoke alarm.

Casey.

Dev leaped out of his chair, sending it crashing against the credenza and toppling the empty bottles like ninepins. He sprinted out of his office and down the hall toward the kitchen. When he burst out the back door, he sucked in a breath. At least flames weren't licking out the windows or dancing along the roof.

When he yanked the door open, though, smoke billowed out, sending him into a coughing fit.

"Casey!" he called between coughs. "Are you"—cough—"okay?"

The strrsssh of a fire extinguisher answered him, and his pulse dialed down a notch. At least he's ambulatory.

The smoke cleared enough that he spotted Casey at the Avocado station, his T-shirt pulled up over his nose, just setting the canister by his feet. At the Tomato station, a metal pan dulled with the extinguisher's potassium acetate mist burped sullen black smoke, a cocktail of burned sugar and something indefinable but acrid that caught in his throat and made him cough again. But Dev didn't spot any actual flames, so he threw open all the windows and switched on the exhaust fans at each of the other stations.

After the smoke alarms stopped shrieking, Dev pulled out his cell phone and speed dialed the firehouse. "Hey, Cap. It's me. False alarm at the summer kitchen. You can stand down."

She chuckled. "Thanks, Dev. Casey again?"

"Yeah."

"You sound a little hoarse. Need me to come by with the oxygen?"

"I think we're good, but I'll let you know if Casey's in need of assistance." Dev disconnected the call and turned to face Casey, whose eyes were red-rimmed and mournful above the T-shirt collar still stretched across his nose.

"I'm a menace," he said, voice muffled by the cotton. "I turned my back on the stupid caramel for literally seconds—"

"Seconds?"

Casey's shoulders drooped. "Well, I intended it to be seconds, but the yolks in half my eggs refused to be parted from their whites, so I had to get more eggs, but then"—he flung out a hand at the Tomato counter which was littered with the shells of at least two dozen eggs under the fire extinguisher residue—"they had separation anxiety, too."

Although a laugh threatened to climb up his throat, Dev pushed it down, because he didn't want to make it seem like he was belittling Casey's obvious distress. His own heart had resumed its usual spot, but since residual adrenaline was still making his muscles twitch, Casey had to be experiencing something similar.

"Don't worry about the eggs."

"Are you kidding?" Casey's voice squeaked on the last word. "I'll probably be targeted by vigilante hens out for vengeance."

"I'm pretty sure we don't have any of those in Home," Dev said, his voice strangled.

"Not only that, but I've destroyed this pan and wrecked the summer kitchen." He nudged the extinguisher canister with his toe. "And now the fire extinguisher has to be replaced, too."

"Hey." Dev sidestepped the canister and gripped Casey's shoulders. "Extinguishers are intended to be used and replaced. That's what they're for. The fire damage looks like it's restricted to the pan. Tomato's countertop isn't even singed, and since it's at the end of the room, all the stations past Avocado are totally clear."

Casey glanced to the side. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. A little cleanup, and even Tomato and Avocado will be good as new." Dev made himself release Casey, although he wanted more than anything to pull him in for a hug. "Better to replace the pan and the fire extinguisher than the whole building or, you know, you."

Casey's smile was wan. "Thanks." His gaze traveled from the blackened pan to Tomato's cluttered bench, all of it coated in residue. "I'm never going to manage this. Not in three months. Not in three years. Not in three freaking decades."

Dev took Casey's arm. "Come on. Let's head outside and let the smoke dissipate a little more." Casey nodded and let Dev lead him outdoors. Once they were on the lawn by the lilac bushes, Dev turned Casey to face him. "If you don't mind my asking, what exactly do you expect to accomplish in three months?"

Casey gave him a surly glare, which, on his open, freckled face, was fucking adorable. "Clearly nothing. Unless you count untold egg death and fire extinguisher destruction."

"I'm serious. Why are you here? Sylvia said she's offering a curriculum tailored to your needs, but what are they?"

"I told you before. I'm supposed to be able to step into my father's shoes. Headline the restaurant. Recreate Chez Donatien for a new generation."

"Do you want to do that?" When Casey pressed his lips together and turned away, Dev gently rested his palms on Casey's shoulders again. "Casey. Come on. Tell me. Do you want to do that?"

He heaved a sigh that lifted Dev's hands. "I want to make my uncle happy."

"That wasn't my question."

"Maybe not. But it's the only answer I've got. The gala opening is set for September twentieth, the anniversary of the day my father opened it, and I'm expected to be in the kitchen, turning out Dad's signature dishes." He gestured to the summer kitchen's open door. "At this rate, the only thing that'll turn out is Hook Ladder Company 8."

Dev bit the inside of his cheek to bury his smile. "What were you making this morning?"

"I was trying to make Marjolaine Donatien, one of his desserts that people used to come all the way from Philadelphia for. Since it's complicated, I figured I'd need extra practice, so best start on it early."

"Don't you think it would make more sense to work up to it gradually?"

"I don't have time for gradual. It's the middle of June, Dev, and I haven't managed to make anything that wasn't singed, raw, bitter, or consumed in actual flame."

"Why do you suppose that is? Is it because the recipes are too complex?"

"That doesn't help. But mostly I don't see the point." Casey's arms flopped at his sides. "I mean why spend hours concocting some showstopper that people will spend at most ten minutes demolishing, or maybe leave most of it on the plate because they've spent the last thirty minutes scarfing down half a dozen other dishes that also took hours to make. The ROI between cooking and eating has just never made sense to me."

Dev chuckled at Casey's bewildered tone. "Haven't you ever enjoyed a leisurely meal with family? Spent a fun afternoon making holiday cookies with friends? Relaxed over drinks and appetizers after a hectic day?"

Casey's glare could have peeled onions. "There was no such thing as enjoyment at any of my family meals, and they were sure as hell never relaxing. And as for fun in the kitchen?" He scoffed. "My father treated our kitchen at home the same as one of his restaurants. He barely let me do more than make a sandwich and even then, it was never fun."

If Donald Friel hadn't already been dead, Dev would have been tempted to punch his lights out. The man had obviously been a bully who should never have been trusted with a child. If the only reinforcement Casey had ever had with regard to cooking and food was negative, no wonder he was having trouble.

"Tell me, Case. Is it that important for you to make Marjolaine Donatien today?"

Casey looked a little startled at Dev shortening his name, but he didn't pull away. "At this point, I'd settle for anything that's marginally edible."

Dev released Casey's shoulders and grabbed his hand. "Then come on. We'll clean up first, but I spotted some peaches in there that were way out of the line of fire. We're gonna make rustic fruit tarts."

"We?" Casey let Dev draw him back into the summer kitchen. "You mean you'll help?"

"Why not? I'm not exactly a Michelin-starred chef, but I can put together a decent meal when I have to."

"But if I don't make it myself, does it count?"

"Do you enjoy cooking by yourself?"

Casey shuddered. "No."

Placing a finger under Casey's chin, Dev lifted his face enough to gaze into those hazel eyes that were nearly amber in this light. "Do you think you'd like doing it with me?"

Casey"s pupils dilated. "D-doing it with you?"

Dev leaned closer and murmured into Casey's ear. "Cooking, Casey. I'm talking about cooking."

That delectable flush painted Casey's cheeks. "Oh. Right." He stepped back. "If I must cook, I'd rather do it with somebody else, I guess. As long as you go into this with your eyes open." He pointed to the Armageddon on his workstation. "Don't say you weren't warned."

Dev grinned. "You don't scare me. I run the monthly town meetings. Nothing could produce more carnage than Kat and Sylvia snarking at each other over the coffee urn. Besides, you're not the first student whose work required fire extinguisher intervention. Follow me."

After a half hour's work with rubber gloves and a bucket of hot soapy water, Tomato and Avocado were back in fighting trim. Nevertheless, after he'd set the bucket outside for safe disposal of the tainted water, Dev headed for Peach, at the opposite end of the room.

"How are your food processor skills?"

"Food processor?" Casey sidled nearer. "For what?"

"For the tart crust."

Casey's brows drew together. "Isn't that cheating? Aren't you supposed to"—he made pinching motions with his fingers—"work the cold butter into the flour with your hands?"

"In my book, if you've got a tool that'll do the job faster and easier, why not use it?"

Casey snorted. "Said my father precisely never."

Dev paused with the flour canister in his hands. "Casey. Your father's gone. Whatever he told you in the past, however he made you feel, none of that is relevant anymore. We're making rustic fruit tarts. They're not going to be perfect. They're not going to be fancy. But trust me when I say that they'll be delicious, and that's all that really matters right now." He plonked the flour on the counter. "Now, measure out a cup and a half of that into the food processor bowl."

Casey frowned. "Shouldn't we do it by weight to be more precise?"

"Rustic, remember? Just fluff the flour with a fork, scoop it into the measuring cup, level it off, and call it good."

"Okay." The way Casey drew out the word made his skepticism clear. "If you say so. But on your head be it."