than pursue a career in medicine. A few stints helping out in their practice and at a local nursing home had convinced her she’d rather feed people than minister to their ailments. Cherie had arranged the internship at the nursing home, never suspecting Emma would find her vocation in the facility’s kitchen rather than with the residents.
“Didn’t you ever want to do anything other than become a doctor?” Emma asked now.
Tucking her phone into her bag, Cherie paused. “How is this relevant?”
Emma already knew the answer. Cherie’s father, Emma’s grandfather, had helped pioneer bone marrow transplantation. Cherie had grown up hero-worshipping him and took it for granted that she’d follow him into medicine. Not for the first time Emma wondered if her mother had ever questioned her choice. Many years ago, Cherie had painted exquisite miniature landscapes. Perhaps…
Emma killed the thought. No point going there. If life was this hard for her as the family misfit, how much tougher would it have been for her mother, hardwired for conformity since birth? Cherie never stepped on the grass if a sign warned against it, whereas Emma was likely to take off her shoes and run barefoot across it out of sheer devilment. Those genes had to come from Emma’s paternal grandmother Jessie Jarrett, a wonderful cook who’d made her mark independently of her oncologist husband. Gramma Jessie was still one of Emma’s favorite people.
“Don’t worry, Ma. I’ll talk to Nate and we’ll work something out.”
Her mother looked relieved as she came around the desk and dropped a light kiss on Emma’s forehead. “You won’t regret your decision.”
She already regretted it, Emma thought as she saw her mother out. Although she hadn’t actually agreed to cater the party, only discuss it. Would she have been so uptight about the meeting if the client wasn’t Nate? Probably not. And for that, she had no one to blame but herself.
In the kitchen, her assistant Sophie had finished packing the cold canapés and desserts into insulated containers for their client’s cocktail party that evening. Emma double-checked the list, more from habit than because she doubted Sophie, who was always meticulous. “I’m glad they didn’t book us to staff tonight’s affair. I’ll take these around in my car, you lock up and have an early night for once,” she said.
Sophie shook her head. “And miss hearing what happened with your mother? No way. I’ll make the coffee while you’re gone.”
Arms laden, Emma turned at the door. “You didn’t pack all the Bakewell tarts, did you?”
Sophie gave her a smug smile. “I might have taken out three or four less than perfect ones. Can’t send out anything but our best work, can we?”
BY THE TIME EMMA RETURNED fifteen minutes later, Sophie had the coffee made and the tarts plated up. Emma snapped a piece of paper in front of her friend. “The client paid in full on the spot. That should make the bank happy.”
Sophie hitched a slender hip onto a stool at the counter. “Good for the bank. Now tell me about your mother’s visit. Who’s she trying to fix you up with this time?”
Emma affected an air of nonchalance. “What makes you think she’s trying to fix me up?”
“Since the day we met in high school, that’s all she’s been doing. Who is it this time? A psychiatrist who can get to the bottom of your doctor phobia?”
“I don’t have a doctor phobia.”
“Oh, no?” Sophie pushed her glasses to the end of her nose and mimed holding a pad and pen. “Tell me, Ms. Jarrett, how long have you hated your horse?”
Emma snorted a mouthful of coffee. “I don’t have a horse, either.”
“You only think you don’t have a horse. Come lie on my couch and tell me all about zis problem. I’ll lie here beside you. Closeness helps break down zee inhibitions.”
Laughing, Emma blotted her shirt front. “My mother doesn’t have a psychiatrist lined up for me, thank goodness. She wants us to cater a birthday bash for Nathan Hale.”
Sophie pressed a fist against her chest. “The heart surgeon? According to She Magazine, he’s the sexiest man in medicine. Tell me you said yes.”
Emma gestured around the congested kitchen. “Look at this place. How can we take on a sit-down dinner for fifty or more?”
“Charge like a wounded bull, then hire waiters. Some of my study group might help out. They always need cash. Even if his party is on a class night, I can do some of the prep work with you and put in a couple of hours at the venue before going to school.”
Sophie was studying for a postgraduate diploma in nutrition and Emma had agreed to work around her commitments, knowing Sophie would be free of them in another few months. Her diploma, which was focused on food services management, would widen the range of services they could offer. Emma bit into a tart. “The upfront expenses will be a stretch. I know they’ll be billed back to him, but we’ll have to carry the costs till then. The sexiest man in medicine won’t settle for anything but the best.”
“Ancient Chinese wisdom says Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
Sophie liked to spout Confucian wisdom whenever possible. Her grandparents had emigrated from Hong Kong to Australia, where their baby girl had grown up and married an Australian sailor, Sophie’s dad. “According to you, the only wisdom is ancient Chinese,” Emma teased.
“Not at all. There are wise Australian sayings like ‘she’ll be right’ and ‘no worries.’”
“True.”
“Translated from the original Chinese,” Sophie added with a wicked grin.
“No doubt. Was there anything you guys didn’t invent?”
“You’re just jealous.” Sophie leaned forward on her stool. “Confucius would say It’s better to try and fail than not to try at all.”
Emma laughed. “Confucius obviously didn’t have a kitchen the size of a bathroom.”
CHAPTER TWO
NATE WAS ONLY A CLIENT. She hadn’t been herself when they met at her parents’ party. Emma repeated the phrases like a mantra as she drove to his place on Friday morning. She was a professional, she could do this. All he had to do was cooperate. Amnesia would also help, she thought.
Nevertheless her fingers twitched at the memory of a dark crew cut crowning a classically shaped head. She’d spent half the party resisting the urge to run her palm over it, until finally she gave in to temptation after finding him tucked in a shadowy corner near the conference room. He’d looked as surprised as she felt, but didn’t resist, pressing a kiss to her fingers. When he hadn’t shown any inclination to move on to her mouth, she’d taken the initiative, kissing him with increasing enthusiasm as she felt him respond.
“You taste of truffles,” he’d murmured when he ended the kiss with what she’d swear had been reluctance.
“Not bad,” she’d said, her mind spinning. She’d handled truffle oil hours before, yet he’d still detected the traces on her skin. Had he also noticed the throbbing of
