Callum had taken.
“I’ve got some night vision goggles and extra guns and ammo in the bag. I’ll keep those in a safe place.”
Out of Evie’s curious hands. That was comforting. Hazel met his eyes, thinking she could never get tired of doing so. She could stare at them for an hour and float on a cloud of infatuation. How many other handsome men had she seen and not had such a strong reaction? She had been quite attracted to Ed, but she had never felt this way with him. Callum might be ruggedly gorgeous but Hazel didn’t think he’d be a good match for her.
What made a good match? She did not know him at all, at least, not very well. He physically attracted her. What would she do with that? What if she had no control over what was between them?
Why are you doing this?
Why is it so important for you to help us?
Those two questions that Hazel had asked kept repeating in his mind and he couldn’t shut off the voice. He was tired of hearing it. Mostly he was tired of wondering why and feeling somewhere deep inside that he already knew the answers.
He opened the drawer of the built-in desk next to the kitchen, looking for a notepad and pen. Hazel had gone to sit on the sectional. It was getting late but she needed to give him a list of kitchen necessaries so he could have everything she needed by morning.
He had been truthful when he had told her instinct had taken over. Instinct had made him walk across the street to check on the mysterious car. He hadn’t really thought much beyond that, but now here he was, guarding a woman and her child.
Finding a notepad and pen, he brought it to Hazel and sat beside her. “Here you go. Make your list.”
She tapped the pen lightly against her lower lip awhile before finally beginning to write down ingredients.
Callum studied her profile, sloping nose and full lips. Long lashes low over hazel-green eyes. He let his gaze travel lower, noticing a button on her white blouse had come loose and exposed more of her cleavage. She was a stunning woman.
He turned his attention to her growing list.
“Do you have regulars?”
“Yes. I’m a personal chef,” she answered without pausing in her writing.
Leaning over he started reading the list. “Are the ingredients all meat and potatoes?”
Smiling she slid a glance toward him. “No. Some are chicken and mashed potatoes.”
He chuckled. “I could do that job.”
“I also have clients who want things like shrimp and scallop scampi. Roasted chicken au jus. Seafood-stuffed salmon. Steak. Lobster. Vegetable dishes. Fruit.”
He would like to try a few of her concoctions. But since he barely knew her, he didn’t mention it.
“What made you decide to become a chef?” he asked.
She smiled softly. “My mother cooked all the time. I grew up with delicious smells wafting from the kitchen.”
“You never told me about your family. You know all about mine and I know nothing about yours.” That wasn’t fair. He felt safe asking her, not too personal.
“Not much to tell,” she said. “My parents are both from Pagosa Springs, Colorado. They knew each other in high school but didn’t get together until after college. My brother is a cop and lives in Phoenix with his wife’s family.”
“I’m sure there is more to tell than that.”
She smiled in that soft way again. “Are you looking for drama?”
“You did say every family has it.” He was starting to love this banter.
She laughed once. “Um...let’s see...well, there was the time when my brother skipped school to smoke pot with his friends. My parents flipped. They were afraid he would drop out of school or be kicked out and his whole future would be in ruins. But it turned out he just went through a phase. He rebelled for a year and then got his grades back up and went on to college.”
To become a cop. Her family drama paled in comparison to his. “What about you? Did you ever rebel?”
“No. I was never good at math or the sciences, but I managed a B average. Art was my forte. I oil painted, drew in lead and colored pencils. My paintings were often displayed in the school hall outside the art room. My parents worried I’d never make a comfortable income. They sat me down for a talk my senior year and said, ‘Hey, look, you might not be able to support yourself.’ Their way of saying they were convinced I’d be the clichéd starving artist.” She laughed. “I suppose I am still, in some ways.”
He liked that she smiled and laughed so much. He smiled and laughed, too, at least he thought he did.
“You were an artist and became a chef,” he said. “How did you go from one to the other?”
That made her think a moment, tipping her head up a bit, eyes lifting in search of an answer. He could see the flecks of green glowing.
“I think the talk with my parents influenced me,” she said. “I went to college for interior design, but one of my optional classes was culinary. That’s what changed everything. I loved the art of making plates look like colorful, abstract paintings. And then I fell in love with flavors and aromas. I dropped out of college after the first semester and went to culinary school.”
She must have a knack for it, since she was so young and already striving for success. “You’re self-employed. That’s quite an accomplishment.”
“I only recently went out on my own. I did my externship at Flemming’s, a renowned restaurant here in Arizona.”
“I’ve heard of it. Where did you go to school that got you that kind of externship?” he asked.
“The Culinary Institute of America.”
He whistled. How had she been able to afford that? He didn’t know the exact tuition but did know it was among the best culinary arts schools in the country, if not the world.
“My parents saved for my college education. They gave me almost half and I took out student loans for the rest. That and the externship got me my first job at a place called Carolyn’s Kitchen. It was an upscale, home-style restaurant. I helped them spiff up their menu and some of the meals I created gave me the idea to go out on my own. Jasmine, the owner of the bakery, lets me cook in her kitchen when I have a big order or several all at once. I cook after the bakery closes at two.”
She didn’t appear to make a ton of money, living in the small apartment, but she had to be getting along just fine, making a decent income to support herself and Evie. Callum admired that. He admired ambition in anyone. Working hard was rewarding. It didn’t matter if the hard work made a person wealthy. If Callum hadn’t been born a Colton, he wouldn’t be wealthy. He made a good income, more than an average bodyguard, but nothing approaching what his father made.
“What’s
