She smiled. “This all looks great.”
Rebecca had met him here at the food-truck park after work and had told him to order whatever he recommended. Her easy trust in his taste did more to him than it should. One of his greatest pleasures in life was cooking for people, but feeding them was a close second, and Rebecca was someone who was fun to feed. He’d learned on that first night that she savored each bite and didn’t edit her visceral responses. Watching her enjoy that first meal had made his mind wander into dangerous territory, made him wonder if she luxuriated in other physical delights just as wholeheartedly.
The white twinkle lights blinked on in the trees above them as he finished arranging the food, and the Friday night crowd milled around nearby. He took his seat opposite her and pointed to each dish. “Hummus, eggplant dip, your sandwich has deep-fried chickpea patties. That’s their specialty. My salad is marinated veggies with chunks of bread. Feel free to share mine if you want some of that, too. And then you have your various yogurt, tahini, and garlic sauces. We will have excellent breath after this. Flowers will wilt in our very presence.”
She laughed and unwrapped her sandwich. “I’ll take the risk. This smells amazing and looks about a hundred times better than that chicken I attempted to make in your class the other day.”
He smirked. “Hey, that was a valiant attempt.”
She gave him a surely-you-can’t-be-serious look. “The batter fell off into a soggy mess, and the chicken was undercooked. It was not just inedible but potentially deadly.”
“You got your wet-dry steps mixed up and battered your hand more than the chicken. It happens. But yeah, maybe don’t quit your day job just yet.”
“Don’t worry,” she said wryly. “I’m sticking with what I know. Your kids are great, though. They were sweet to try to make me feel better about my very sad chicken.”
His kids. That sounded so odd but also…kind of nice. Which freaked him out. He wasn’t supposed to get comfortable in his teaching job. It was supposed to be a temporary stop, a stable income while he figured out how to save enough to open his own business again.
His classmates at culinary school had always used the old joke Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach to make fun of their militant professors. And though he didn’t necessarily buy into that sentiment, he’d known at least two chefs who’d gone to teaching after failed restaurants. He didn’t want to be that guy. He wasn’t even teaching at a respected culinary institute. He was at a shoestring-budget after-school program. That was like planning to be a rock star and ending up a wedding singer. Or taking your shirt off and cooking for a bachelorette party.
“They’re a good group of kids.” They weren’t the star students at their schools, but in the kitchen, misfits almost always had a home. It was where he’d found his place once upon a time, too. “And if you want to feel better about the chicken, just blame the crappy oven. That’s what we do when a recipe fails.”
He spooned some of the hummus onto his plate.
“It wasn’t the oven,” she said after she swallowed a bite of her sandwich. “But you do need a new one. Two new ones, really.”
“Believe me, I’m well aware. We don’t have the funds for that yet. Any donations the school gets are usually earmarked for the technology program. Just give the kids a tablet, and that will fix everything, right?”
Rebecca shook her head. “You know, Silicon Valley tech executives send their kids to fancy schools that don’t allow technology. They think it hampers creative thinking. I think what you’re doing with the kids is great. They get to flex all those creative muscles plus learn some life skills.”
“I hope so. I know cooking saved me. But we’re on our own to raise money. So the class will be selling some of their favorite dishes at a fair in a few weeks as a fund-raiser. I’m hoping that will raise enough money for the first oven.”
Rebecca wiped her fingers on a napkin and rummaged in her navy-blue bag, which was next to her on the bench. She took out a square of folded paper and held it out to him. “Here.”
“What’s this?” He took the paper from her and unfolded it. His stomach bottomed out at the sight. “Uh…”
Rebecca took a sip of her lemonade. “Will that cover it?”
He stared at her. “Rebecca, this is a check for three grand.”
“I know. I looked up prices on gas ranges after I left your class. That should be able to ge
t you two decent ones. You also may be able to work a discount on installation if you go to a local place and tell them it’s for a charitable organization.”
A tight feeling crawled up the back of his neck, gripping him. “No way.”
She glanced up. “On asking for a discount? I mean, I could talk to a store if you want—”
“I’m not letting you give me money. That’s… No.”
A line appeared between her brows. “I’m not giving you money. It’s for the program, for those kids in your class. I have the money to give and believe in what you’re doing. The school takes charitable donations. What’s the problem?”
Wes stared at the neat handwriting on the check, some weird combination of irritation and embarrassment moving through him. “The problem is this feels like some sort of pity payment. Or guilt.”
“Guilt?”
“Yes. Like now that you know about what happened in the court case, you’re going to throw some money at me either because you feel sorry for me or because you want to make yourself feel better. Either reason sucks. I don’t want a handout. The class can raise the money.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s not what this is. I know your kids can fund-raise, and they should. That will be a good experience for them. But your program needs a lot more than new ovens. This can be a start. I want to—”