Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“Yeah. A little…okay, a lot,” I conceded with a heavy sigh. “The day I got injured, I used orange tape ’cause it was Wednesday, but at the end of the roll the color was tinted yellow and boom!—everything went sideways.”
“Because Wednesdays are orange, not orange with a hint of yellow?”
“Exactly. Now I’m hiding out in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere Vermont, hoping to get my mojo back, but the headaches are killing me. The glare on ice, the glare off windows, the glare on the water…it’s bad. I have to wear these glasses during the day, and I’d be okay with that if I felt like it was working. Maybe it is, but—”
“Wait, wait, wait.” He squinted and took a leisurely sip of his latte. “Superstition is normal in your profession. I understand it. I like to use the same burners on the stove, the same spatula, the same knives, so I’m a little superstitious too. But what does tuna salad have to do with anything?”
I spotted two kids on bikes, pointing at me from the other side of the street, and waved before replying. “The days I’ve eaten your tuna on rye for lunch, my head doesn’t ache in the afternoon.”
“Okay?”
“It’s like magic. I want to test my new theory and see if eating tuna in the morning will keep headaches away all day. I tried to do it myself. I bought canned tuna at the store and even added bits of celery and onion like you do, but…it didn’t work. Yours might work, though.”
Jean-Claude had a great poker face. He sipped his latte and casually sized me up. And fuck, he was intimidating—big and burly with shrewd green eyes and short reddish-blond hair. We were roughly the same height and we were both broad-shouldered, but I was leaner by a long shot. He looked like what he was…a badass chef who thoroughly enjoyed his job.
And I probably looked like a man on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Also accurate.
“I don’t think your doctor would advise you to eat tuna all day,” he said after what felt like twenty minutes. “But…I will make you some if you think it might help.”
Relief flooded through me. Later, when logic returned, I’d be mortified that I’d revealed my phobia so spectacularly, but for now… “Thank you. I appreciate it. I know it’s a long shot, but…I’m desperate.”
“I feel like a dealer,” he joked. “Look at us conspiring—on a street corner, no less.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, it’s pretty ridiculous. Thanks for not laughing outright. So…how do you want to handle this? Should I pay you directly or pay the diner?”
Jean-Claude shrugged. “I don’t know how to charge for random tuna salad requests. You’re asking for a container to last you two days, yes?”
“A week if possible.”
“No, no. Like a visit from your family, fish is no good after three days. What else will you eat? What about vegetables? Have you considered that the salad or the french fries were responsible for your lack of headaches?”
“Tuna is high in proteins, rich in vitamins and minerals like complex-B vitamins, vitamins A and D, iron, selenium, and omega-three. It’s definitely the fish.”
“And now you are a doctor,” he teased without heat.
“Well, no,” I sputtered.
“I’m kidding. Teasing you is helping me think, and I think…I need your phone number. I can’t run a contraband tuna ring out of the diner’s kitchen. I will make a batch at my house and you can pick it up, but if you really are set on eating tuna as a remedy, it is better if I teach you how to make it yourself.”
“I can’t cook. I’m like…not capable of it. Seriously. I’m the guy who leaves eggs boiling so long they explode and my kitchen smells like dog farts for days.”
“Thank you for that image,” he snarked.
“Sorry, but it’s true. I can handle toast and cereal—after that, I’m all about takeout.”
“Making tuna salad is not cooking,” he huffed. “It’s assembly. My recipes require careful assembly, but—”
I threw my hands in the air. “I’m doomed.”
Jean-Claude’s eyebrows shot to his hairline. A slight grin tugged at the corner of his mouth before he burst out laughing. “You are very dramatic.”
“Not usually. I swear I’m normally pragmatic and much more chill. I’ll be better when I’m back on the ice.”
“Of course.” He pulled his cell from his pocket and handed it over. “Put your number in. I’ll text you later with a pickup time. You’re in luck. I’m off today and after I finish my latte with the mushroom art, I will be on my way to the market.”
“Oh, that’s awesome. Thank you.” I typed my contact info, pushing Send so I’d have his too.
He smiled as I returned his phone, and stepped around me. “Bonjour, Monsieur Thoreau.”
And then he was gone.