Only You by K.T. Quinn

16

Molly

The Day With Pie

“The kitchen!” Donovan shouted. “We can get into the kitchen!”

After putting on fresh clothes, Donovan ran inside the unlocked kitchen like a kid on Christmas morning. He gazed in all directions, running his fingers along the stainless steel counters and appliances.

“They have a twenty-range industrial stove. And a flat-top for burgers and other grilled items. That’s what I used at the diner. Oh! A deep fryer!”

“I realized the keys unlock the kitchen when you were already at the store,” I told him. “I’m sorry you made the trip for nothing.”

“Why did I make the trip for nothing?” he asked, confused.

I opened the door to the giant industrial fridge. “This is why.”

His eyes widened as he stared inside. The fridge was full of food: eggs, chicken, beef, pork, fish, milk. All the supplies needed to run the hotel restaurant during a normal week.

“There’s a lot more in the pantry,” I said. “Like, a lot more. I think they bake their own bread.”

“Ovens!” Donovan suddenly exclaimed. He ran across the kitchen, where an industrial-sized oven covered the entire wall. “This is the big kind used by bakeries.”

“Does this mean you’ll be making me cookies?”

He gave me a perfectly-sweet smile. “Feisty, I’ll bake you whatever you want.”

It was cute how giddy he was while examining the kitchen. He told me it was so much nicer than the diner he cooked at, which was basically just a single flat-top with a grease trap.

“I could cook for the entire hotel in a kitchen like this,” he said.

“That’s good, because right now the entire hotel is me. What’s for lunch, Chef Russo?”

He grinned harder than I had ever seen him smile. “First we need to know what we have, and how long it’s been here.”

We spent the afternoon taking inventory of all the food. I called out the item and the expiration date, which Donovan then wrote down in a notebook. The expiration date was important because it gave us an idea of what food we should cook first, and which we could save for later. Since we didn’t know how long we would be stuck here, we needed to plan.

“First the pool, then the kitchen?” Donovan said while we worked. “I’m impressed. You’re breaking all sorts of rules.”

“Nothing says we’re not allowed in the kitchen,” I argued carefully. “We used a key to unlock the door, but it doesn’t say employees only. No rules have been broken.”

He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t buy it. You’ve clearly turned to a life of crime. Next thing I know you’ll be sneaking into my room to cuddle.”

“That would definitely be breaking a rule. The concierge said not to allow anyone into our rooms. For our own safety.”

“Oh, well if the concierge said so…” Donovan chuckled. “So if I hear you choking on a pasta shell in your room, you wouldn’t want me to rush over and save you?”

“Hmm.” I made a show of stroking my chin and considering it. “Maybe it would be okay then. But only if it’s a life and death situation.”

Once the fridge was inventoried, we went into the pantry and started counting the dry items. “Five sacks of black beans,” I called out.

Donovan was sitting on a crate full of olives. “How big are the bags?”

“Five pounds. No, five kilograms,” I said. “So, twenty-five kilos of black beans.”

“Got it.” He made a note on his sheet.

“This reminds me of taking inventory at the boutique,” I said while moving the beans out of the way. “Mom always recruited me to help her. I hated it at the time. It was boring, and I just wanted to go outside and play. But she made me do it at the end of every month. It’s kind of funny, thinking about it now.”

He looked up from his notebook. “Funny how?”

“Doing inventory was my least favorite thing in the world, at the time,” I explained. “But now? I would give anything to do inventory with her one last time.”

“I can’t imagine losing my parents.” He lowered his notebook. “Did your mom have any special recipes?”

“Special?” I asked.

“Something she would make on special occasions. A type of cake, or homemade brownies. Something that reminds you of her. I could make it for you.”

He smiled hopefully. He was so eager to do something sweet for me, and the gesture made my throat tighten.

“Mom wasn’t much of a baker,” I said. “She bought those pre-made rolls of cookie dough and made cookies that way. That’s about it.”

“Ah, okay.” He looked disappointed for a moment, then suddenly jumped to his feet. “If you don’t have a family recipe, then I’ll share one of mine. It’s a special pie recipe that’s been in my family for generations. Russo Pie. It’s deceptively simple.”

“What about inventory?” I said. “We still have most of the pantry left.”

“The dry goods can wait until later,” he insisted. “Come on.”

He led me back into the main kitchen and started throwing open cabinets to search for mixing bowls and measuring cups. Donovan gave me instructions on how to make the filling: beaten eggs, melted butter, flour, sugar, and chocolate chips. While I mixed all of that together in the bowl, Donovan rolled out the pie crust.

“Pour it in,” he instructed, standing behind me with a gentle hand on my back. “Spread it around so that it fills the crust evenly. Good. See the batter at the bottom? Make sure you scoop that out too.”

It was similar to our pool game when he stood behind me and showed me what to do: his voice was a soft rumble in my ear, and his breath tickled the back of my neck and stirred my hair. But it wasn’t purely sexual. It felt more intimate than just grinding our private parts together.

Donovan’s hand lingered on my shoulder, then he opened the oven and gestured. I picked up the pie and slid it inside. He closed the door and wiped his hands together.

“In thirty minutes we’ll have a delicious Russo Pie.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“That’s it. I told you it was deceptively simple. The homemade crust is the hardest part.”

“There were pre-made crusts in the fridge,” I said.

Donovan’s face twisted in disgust. “I’m going to pretend that was a joke.”

We finished the rest of our inventory while the pie baked. There were a lot of dry goods in the pantry. Especially basics like flour, sugar, and boxes of dry pasta. We could live here at the hotel for months if we had to. And as long as I was with Donovan, that didn’t seem like such a bad prospect.

A sweet and chocolaty smell filled the kitchen when Donovan pulled out the pie. The crust was golden brown, and my mouth watered at the sight of it.

“It needs to cool,” Donovan said. “But it will be ready by the time dinner is done.”

Out of all the food items in the fridge, the ground beef and cream had the most recent expiration dates, so Donovan made spaghetti bolognese for dinner. Even though we had boxes upon boxes of dry pasta in the pantry he insisted on making the pasta from scratch.

“Can you watch the garlic bread for me?” he asked when everything was almost ready. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched the bread through the oven door, pulling it out when it was toasted to a perfect golden brown. Donovan returned moments later with two plates.

“Perfect timing,” he said while spooning bolognese onto each plate.

“Want to eat this in the lobby?” I asked. “We can watch Italian Seinfeld.”

“I have something else planned.” He carried both plates out of the kitchen.

I followed behind him, wondering what he meant.

The restaurant was dark, as it had been all week. All the chairs were still stacked on their tables except for one table where they had been pulled down. A cluster of candles were glowing softly in the middle of the table, casting flickering shadows across the room. A bottle of wine and two glasses waited.

Donovan placed both plates on the table and then held a chair for me.

“Donovan,” I said while sitting down. “This is wonderful.”

He pushed my chair in and sat across the table. “I wanted a special night with you,” he said. “To take your mind off things. The way this trip should have gone.”

I didn’t know what to say. I reached across the table and squeezed his hand.

He popped the cork on the wine and began filling my glass. “This isn’t from your room. This is a nice bottle. From the dusty section of the wine closet.”

“You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for opening it?” I asked.

“Who’s to say we opened it?” he replied with a sly grin. “The security cameras are all off.”

“It was probably the daily delivery guy,” I agreed. “He’s been known to steal wine, after all.”

We laughed together and enjoyed our candlelight dinner. The bolognese was tangy, and creamy, and absolutely delicious. And the garlic bread was crispy on the outside and soft on the inside.

Donovan served Russo Pie for dessert. I made a soft moan when I tasted the first bite.

He nodded smugly. “What did I tell you?”

“It’s all gooey on the inside!” I said as I took another bite.

“That’s why it’s been a family recipe for generations,” he said. “It’s easy and delicious.”

My plate was empty less than a minute later. I looked at it sadly.

“Want seconds?” he asked.

I glanced up at him. “You won’t judge me?”

“You’re on vacation, Feisty,” he said while taking my plate. “You can do whatever the hell you want.”

I grinned and admired his sexy shape as he went back into the kitchen to get me another slice.