“I’ll leave you guys to it, then.” Frankie headed out of the workroom into the kitchen, where she found Roman. He’d been pretty much there ever since they’d returned the Cocoon Club home. “Is it finally assembly time?” When her stomach growled, she pulled open the fridge and grabbed an apple. She stifled a yawn, gave herself a good shake to wake herself up. “I’ve never seen anyone take such precise care when it comes to lasagna.”
“Not just lasagna, but sauce. And perfection takes time.” Roman dipped a spoon into the pot and held it out for her. “Case in point?”
“You’re finally going to let me taste it?” She hurried over before he changed his mind. The second the tomato sauce hit her tongue, she nearly swooned. “That’s...” She caught a drop on her lip. “Okay, I fully admit to being wrong. That tastes amazing.” She grabbed for the spoon, but he held it out of reach.
“Nope. Gotta wait for dinner. Speaking of which.” He glanced at the clock that had just ticked to 10:00 a.m. “Shouldn’t you be cooking by now?”
“Relax, Chief. I’ve got it under control.” But he was right. Time to start putting her spin on Thanksgiving with her father’s special and most favorite meal to fix for the number of people bound to drop by today. She unloaded the fridge of all the ingredients she’d bought over the past week, including the already-cooked rotisserie turkey breast that would feature prominently.
A while later, while she was wrist-deep in chopped celery, onions and fresh thyme, Ozzy and Jasper joined them.
“You going to Calliope’s today, Ozzy?” Frankie asked.
“Haven’t decided yet.” Ozzy snagged a celery stick. “What are you guys making?”
“Well, master chef over there is making lasagna.”
Roman looked up from arranging layers of cooked noodles and grinned.
Jasper balked. “For Thanksgiving?”
“Family tradition,” Roman explained as he slathered the noodles with some cheese mixture he was loath to reveal. Who kept this many secrets about food? Personally, Frankie was grateful to be focused on something other than the tall, dark and handsome fireman standing at the stove. She found herself thinking about him far too often for her liking. “And speaking of knocking...” He angled a look at the mess Frankie was making.
“Turkey pot pie.” She beamed. “My dad made this every year he worked here. One big Thanksgiving in one pot. Oh, that reminds me, I have to get the puff pastry out of the freezer.”
“So.” The triumph in Roman’s voice had her grinding her teeth. “Another family tradition.”
“This has got to be the strangest Thanksgiving I’ve ever witnessed,” Ozzy said. “But yeah, count me in. Want me to bring anything?”
“I’ve got a pumpkin pie on order with Holly. Can you pick that up on your way? Say about...” She glanced at Roman.
“Two?”
Frankie nodded. “That’ll work.”
“I’ll see you then. Come on, Jasper.”
“We’re going to Calliope’s,” Jasper said on his way out. “But if there are any leftovers tomorrow?”
“I can guarantee there will be. Happy Thanksgiving, guys,” Roman said. “Chief Granger told me your father was the one who hired him,” he said when they were alone again.
That pang of loss still chimed belly-deep. “So the story goes. Before my time.” She dumped the chopped carrots into a bowl. She’d been forcing herself not to dwell on the way things used to be. It hurt too much to think it had all been forgotten in less than a week. “It’s harder than I thought it would be. Coming in every day and not seeing Bud here.” Almost as difficult as when her father had died. She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I’m not sure it’s as hard on Monty, but then, he’s usually out on the water.”
“Your brother.”
“Yeah. I guess you two haven’t met, have you?”
“Nope.”
“He’ll be popping in at some point today. He does a lot of hopping today, mostly because he can’t cook anything other than canned spaghetti.”
“I look forward to meeting him. What does he do?”
“He owns a boat charter business. WindWalkers. Whale watching, snorkeling, coastal tours, that kind of stuff.”
“I’ve seen the signs. Sounds great. My father and I used to go boating together.”
“Do you still?” She glanced up and noticed his stirring slowed.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “No. My father passed away a few years ago. Massive stroke. No warning. He was only fifty-two.”