Kissing Cousins Page 9

  “He’s in the office,” Uncle Robert said. “I’ll let him know. And you need to take your break.”

  “Ten minutes,” Poppy said. “I promise.”

  “Okay,” he said as he left.

  “Whew!” Whitney breathed. “It’s crazy in here!”

  “I know!” Poppy agreed.

  “I’ve got a bottled water in my bag, Poppy,” Whitney said. “Next time you’re near the alcove, will you grab it for me, please?”

  “You bet,” Poppy said.

  “Rhonda—party of two?” Whitney called as she handed Poppy two menus.

  Poppy smiled as a familiar, forty-something, short brunette stepped up to the podium.

  “I’m Rhonda,” the woman said. Another short brunette stepped up beside her.

  “Great! Poppy will be seating you today,” Whitney said.

  “If you’ll just follow me,” Poppy said, smiling at the two women.

  “It’s really jumping in here today,” Rhonda said as she sat down at table four.

  “It is!” Poppy agreed, handing her a menu. She handed the other menu to her friend.

  “Can I start you off with anything to drink?” Poppy asked.

  Rhonda smiled and lowered her voice. “How about that tall drink of water you all keep in the back here?”

  “What?” Poppy asked. The woman was so approachable and cute, and her smile was utterly contagious. Yet Poppy wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “Well, let’s just say I always order the Chef’s Choice here—just so I can get a look at that handsome cook you all have,” Rhonda explained. “Wait ’til you see him, Venessa,” she said to her friend. “He’s reason enough to come here.”

  “Oooh,” Poppy giggled. “So you’ve seen Swaggart before, have you?”

  “Oh, yes!” Rhonda said. “That’s why I always order the Chef’s Choice!”

  Poppy smiled, delighted by the woman’s admiration of Swaggart. Though she worried a bit that two more Chef’s Choices might put a little too much stress on Swaggart to keep him happy.

  “He’s a fabulous chef,” Poppy said.

  “He’s a fabulous man!” Rhonda exclaimed. “What’s his last name again?”

  “Moretti,” Poppy answered. For a moment she wondered if she should have kept Swaggart’s last name to herself. What if the woman was some weird stalker sort?

  “Oh, yes, that’s right,” Rhonda said. “I knew it was something unusual. I wonder how he came to be named ‘Swaggart’ with such an obviously Italian last name?”

  “I guess you’ll have to ask him when he comes out to see how you liked your Chef’s Choice,” Poppy said, winking at the woman.

  “I don’t know how you keep your hands off him,” Rhonda said, wagging an index finger at Poppy.

  “She doesn’t.”

  The sudden smile of pure delight spreading across Rhonda’s face coupled with the sound of his voice from behind her were Poppy’s first indications that Swaggart was standing behind her.

  “You scared me,” Poppy scolded, twisting an elbow into Swaggart’s solid stomach.

  “And how are you today, Ms. Andrews?” Swaggart asked Rhonda. “Are you in for the Chef’s Choice today?”

  “We’re in for the chef today, Mr. Moretti,” the older woman flirted. “This is my friend Venessa Lions.”

  Swaggart nodded at Venessa and said, “It’s nice to meet you.” The woman blushed so red Poppy couldn’t help but smile. Looking from Swaggart to Rhonda and back, she giggled, delighted with the effect his charm had on them.

  “If you ladies will excuse me a moment,” Swaggart began, taking hold of Poppy’s elbow, “I need to consult Poppy about an order.”

  As he turned her to face him, she asked, “Is something wrong?” Had she made a mistake? Oh, his eyes were tired—gorgeous, but tired.

  “Don’t be mad, but I can’t remember—on that second Chef’s Choice a minute ago…did you say ‘with asparagus’ or ‘no asparagus’? It’s not on the ticket.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Swaggart,” she said. “It was no asparagus.”

  “And which table was it?” he asked.

  “This one—table three,” Poppy said, pointing to the couple sitting at the table behind Rhonda and Venessa’s. He looked so tired! It worried her.

  Reaching out, she placed a hand on his chest and whispered, “You need a break, Swaggart. We have hours and hours left tonight.”

  “I know,” he said. “I’ll get all these special orders finished and take a break.” He grinned at her and reached out, tweaking her nose as he said, “You’re sweet to worry about me.”

  Poppy felt a pleasant shiver quickly travel through her body as he brushed something from her forehead and winked at her.

  Looking past her, he said, “I’ll see you ladies in about twenty minutes, all right?”

  “We’ll be waiting,” Rhonda flirted.

  Poppy watched Swaggart pause at table three and greet the couple there before heading back to the kitchen. She sighed as she watched him go. Even his walk was attractive, entirely cool.

  Turning back to the two women at table four, she said, “Now, where were we?”

  “We were all drooling over that cook of yours,” Venessa said.

  “It’s hard not to, isn’t it?” Poppy said. “What did you want to drink?”

  “Just water for me,” Rhonda said.

  “Me too,” Venessa said.

  “And are we having two Chef’s Choices this evening?” Poppy asked.

  “We are,” Rhonda answered. “I’ll have chicken and any vegetables.”

  “I’ll try pork and any vegetables,” Venessa said.

  “Any appetizers?” Poppy asked, scribbling two Chef’s Choices on her tablet.

  “Oh, no,” Rhonda said. “He was just here.”

  Poppy nodded and giggled. What a couple of fun women!

  “I’ll get that order in then, ladies, and be right back with your water,” Poppy said.

  “Thank you,” Rhonda said. “And thank you for being a good sport as well.”

  *

  Twenty minutes later, Poppy sat on a bench outside the restaurant. Her feet were sore, and she felt worn to the bone. She wondered how a fifteen-minute break was ever going to revitalize her—help her make it through the rest of the evening until closing.

  The bench sat against a wall at one side of the restaurant, and the warm summer breeze felt soothing on her tired body.

  “What a night,” Swaggart said as he turned the corner.

  He rather collapsed onto the bench beside Poppy, leaning back and stretching for a moment. Poppy looked away, somewhat disturbed by the display of rippling muscles beneath his t-shirt.

  “Where do all these people come from? You’d think there weren’t any other good restaurants in town.”

  “There aren’t,” Poppy said, smiling at him. He looked so tired. Again, it worried her. “You should take more time off,” she told him.

  “Naw,” he said. “I just haven’t been sleeping too well these last few nights.”

  “How come?” she asked.

  He shrugged his broad shoulders, and his arm brushed hers, causing goose bumps to ripple over her body.

  “Just have a lot on my mind, I guess,” he answered.

  “How were your lady admirers at table four?” Poppy asked, smiling at him. “I handed the table over to Brittany just now. Your Grandpa said he would paddle me if I didn’t take a break.”

  Swaggart chuckled. “They’re just fine. I like Ms. Andrews,” he said. “There’s nothing pretentious about her. She just says what she thinks.”

  “She sure likes you,” Poppy said. “She was asking me about your name—how you came to be named ‘Swaggart’ when your last name is so purely Italian.”

  Again he shrugged, and again his arm brushed Poppy’s. Poppy gently rubbed her forearms to dispel the increasing goose bumps.

  “My mom was born in Texas—grew up there before Grandpa moved the family out here,” he said. �
��She says she always liked the name Swaggart. And my dad—well, my last name is Moretti, but the Italian is pretty watered down otherwise.”

  “Same here,” Poppy said. “About the watered-down Italian, that is.”

  “That’s one of the great things about America,” Swaggart said. “You really can’t tell how many nationalities a person is made up of.”

  “That’s true,” Poppy said, smiling at him as he tried to stifle a yawn.

  She watched him for a moment as he closed his eyes and let his head rest on the outer wall of the restaurant. Every part of her wanted to reach out and run her fingers through his hair, press an index finger against one of his pectoral muscles to see if they were really as rock-solid as they looked.

  “So, Whitney says you’re going out with Mr. Joe Perfect-Face again,” he said. His eyes were still closed.

  “Um…yeah,” Poppy said. She realized then she hadn’t thought about Mark for hours. Work had been too demanding.

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed then. “I was supposed to take Whitney’s water bottle to her.” She stood up from the bench, intending to fetch the bottle and take it to her friend, but Swaggart reached out, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to sit back down.

  “It’s all good,” he said. “She told me where it was, and I got it for her.” He opened his tired eyes and looked at her, scowling. “Which reminds me—how do you women get anything done with all that junk you drag around?”

  “What?” Poppy asked.

  “Whitney sends me to the back to get her water—‘It’s in a canvas bag,’ she tells me. That thing was like a suitcase!” he said. “It looked like she had packed for a two-week trip—makeup, an extra shirt, wallet, breath mints, and some big blue binder with pictures of Jon Bon Jovi all over it. And that was just the first level, mind you,” he said. “The water bottle was all the way at the bottom of the—”

  “A blue binder with Jon Bon Jovi all over it?” Poppy gasped.

  “Yeah,” Swaggart said.

  “Oh no!” Poppy breathed. “What on earth would she have that here for?

  “I have no idea,” Swaggart said. “Why? Is it yours?”

  “Yeah! I mean, no—sort of,” Poppy stammered. “Y-you didn’t see anything that was inside the notebook, did you?”

  Swaggart’s eyebrows arched as he said, “No. Why would I care what’s in Whitney’s notebook?”

  “Oh, you wouldn’t. Of course—you wouldn’t,” Poppy stammered. Poppy watched as her hands began to nervously twist her apron in her lap.

  “Have you got any plans for your day off?” she asked, desperate to change the subject—divert his attention.

  “No,” he said, frowning. “Right now all I can think of is a good long nap.”

  “Me, too,” Poppy said, a nervous giggle escaping her lungs. “Well, I suppose I better get back,” she said. All she could think about was getting to Whitney’s bag and hiding the notebook—the notebook that contained her and Whitney’s Dreams to Do lists.

  “You just started your break,” Swaggart said, taking hold of her arm again as she stood. He pulled her to sit back down on the bench and added, “And you better see it through. I’m sure Grandpa’s watching the clock. If you show up early, he’ll have your head on a platter.”

  “That’s true,” she said, more to herself than to Swaggart.

  “Tell me about Mr. Flowers,” Swaggart said, again closing his eyes—this time resting one elbow on the arm of the bench and propping his head on his fist.

  “Mark?” she asked. Somehow she didn’t want to talk to Swaggart about Mark.

  “Yeah,” Swaggart said. “Does he treat you right? I mean—other than strewing flowers in your path?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He’s very nice.”

  “Nice?” Swaggart asked, looking at her through narrowed, tired eyes. “That’s it?”

  “He’s very polite and charming and witty,” she said.

  “That sounds better,” Swaggart said. “You had me worried.”

  “He took me to the Cliff House the other night,” she told him. She wanted him to know another man had taken her to a fancy restaurant—seen her as worthy enough to do so.

  “That’s a good place. I know one of their cooks,” Swaggart said. “What did you have?”

  Poppy smiled, relaxing a bit. Leave it to Swaggart to be more interested in the food of a restaurant than what happened between her and Mark afterward.

  “I had the citrus chicken—and, no, it wasn’t nearly as good as yours,” she told him.

  He chuckled, flashing one of his dazzling smiles. At the sound of his laughter and the sight of him smiling, Poppy felt warm and tingly all over.

  “You’re on to me,” he said. Poppy smiled at him as he said, “Well, I’m glad you had fun and that Romeo is so ‘nice.’”

  “What is your favorite meal to cook anyway?” she asked. She’d seen Swaggart Moretti cook everything from the most delicate, difficult dish imaginable to simple meatloaf and potatoes. It was a constant amazement to her—the versatile nature of his culinary skills.

  “Do you want the honest truth?” he asked, tired eyes glowing warm and sultry.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  He laughed. “I don’t know if I should tell you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ve never told anybody. Besides…you’ll probably think I’m a fool for it.”

  Poppy smiled. How could he be a fool for liking to prepare a certain meal?

  “Tell me,” she said. “Come on. Just tell me.”

  He raised his head, and she smiled when he actually glanced around to ensure their privacy.

  “It can’t be that bad, Swaggart,” she giggled. “It’s no secret you moonlight doing big, fancy catering jobs. Why would I think you’re weird for wanting to cook fancy stuff? You went to school to learn how to do it, so I don’t see why it would seem strange to—”

  “Hamburgers,” he stated.

  “What?” she asked. He couldn’t be serious.

  “Hamburgers,” he repeated. “There—I’ve admitted it.”

  “Hamburgers?” she giggled. “You’re teasing me.”

  But he shook his head and said, “Nope. Hamburgers.”

  “But…but they’re so easy,” she said.

  He held up an index finger and said, “Not true. Name the best hamburger you’ve ever had.”

  Still smiling Poppy said, “Yours, of course.”

  “That’s right. I know you’re telling the truth,” he said. “Now, tell me…in your entire life—even considering specialty burger places—in your entire life, can you ever remember eating another hamburger as good as mine?”

  Poppy thought for a moment and then said, “No.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “A good hamburger is a very rare thing. Hamburgers are a challenge—if you care, that is.”

  “Hamburgers,” Poppy said, shaking her head in delighted disbelief.

  “Yep,” he said.

  Somehow—and she couldn’t at first fathom it was even possible—but somehow, Swaggart suddenly seemed even more attractive than before. Here was a highly educated man—a man who had completed culinary arts school, earned a business degree, and managed to become the best cook in the city—and his favorite thing to cook was a hamburger? It was entirely too admirable and endearing.

  Poppy felt her mouth begin to water. She couldn’t quite tell if it was the memory of one of Swaggart’s delicious hamburgers causing it to do so, or the fact she had just remembered the notebook inside in Whitney’s bag and item number one on her Dreams to Do list.

  “Okay, now you tell me a secret,” Swaggart said, closing his eyes once more. “It’s only fair.”

  “I don’t have any secrets,” Poppy lied, again thinking of infamous item one.

  “Everybody has secrets, Poppy. Come on… ante up.”

  “You’ll have to let me think of something,” she told him. “But meanwhile…my break really is over.”

&nbs
p; “Chicken,” he said, smiling at her.

  Poppy smiled and stood up from the bench. She didn’t want to leave him. He was so refreshing, so enjoyable to converse with. He looked so weary, and she couldn’t resist running her finger through his soft, dark hair.

  “I’ll give you a quarter if you do that for two minutes,” he said. “That feels really good.”

  Poppy ran her fingers through his hair three more times before forcing herself to stop.

  “I don’t have two minutes left, and you never have any change,” she said, smiling down at him.

  “That’s because Whitney’s always stealing it to buy cookies from the Girl Scouts who come in,” he said.

  “Well, you be sure and get some sleep tonight. And a long nap tomorrow,” Poppy said.

  “Tell Uncle Robert I’ll be right there, will you?” he asked.

  “You bet,” she said.

  She didn’t want to leave him—felt depressed somehow about doing so. Therefore, as she walked away, leaving him on the bench—wondering if he might accidentally fall asleep and forget to come back in—she consciously conjured up a vision of Mark. Next Saturday would be fun! Romantic too, no doubt. She couldn’t wait!

  Suddenly remembering the notebook in Whitney’s bag, Poppy hurried back into the restaurant. She wanted to make sure the stupid Jon Bon Jovi notebook didn’t find its way into Swaggart’s hands. What a nightmare it would be if he managed to get hold of it and see item number one on her list.

  Swaggart rested his head against the outer wall of the restaurant once more. He was wiped out! He hadn’t had a good night sleep since Joe Perfect-Man sent Poppy that stupid truckload of roses. It was always like this—anytime she went out with someone, Swaggart got all uptight and nervous. This time, it was even worse because this guy seemed perfect—perfect clothes, perfect hair, perfect face—perfect. Secretly, it ate Swaggart up inside. He hated the smelly flower arrangement sitting in the alcove at that very moment. He wondered what the card that had come with it said. His Uncle Robert said Poppy’s face lit up like the Fourth of July when she read it, and it ticked Swaggart off!

  Still, who was he to say anything? He’d never made a move on Poppy—how could he have? Here he was, a cook at Good Ol’ Days—no fancy career, no massive amounts of money in the bank or invested—just a cook at his grandfather’s restaurant, and Poppy deserved far better. This new Romeo sure seemed far better—and Poppy seemed pretty pleased with him.