“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 howgiddyhe 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 isme. 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 sayemployees only. No rules have been broken.”
He ran a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t buy it. You’veclearlyturned to a life of crime. Next thing I know you’ll be sneaking into my room to cuddle.”
“That woulddefinitelybe 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. “Maybeit 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, fivekilograms,” 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. Ihatedit 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.”