One Lucky Night

By Aria Kane

Derek blinked his eyes to clear the tears.

His boss, Eliza, laughed at him, hazel eyes lit with amusement. She'd come out from the storage room and hung a clipboard up on the wall on the other side of the kitchen. We have a chopper for those, you know. She motioned at the onions on the cutting board in front of Derek.

The idea of it made him cringe inside, but he simply shook his head. It crushes them. Not the same. He didn't mention his instructors at ICE would have his head for using a kitchen gadget advertised on late night infomercials.

Of course. She nodded, smirking.

He'd only been a chef at The Brazen Head for a few months. Eliza, the kitchen manager and head chef, had always praised his attention to detail and she'd promoted him to sous chef when the last one moved to Arizona.

It's not that bad, anyway. He sniffed as he chopped the last of the white onions.

Eliza at least made an effort to control her giggling, though she failed terribly. I should take a picture. Strong and silent Derek, balling like a baby. So this is what they mean by suffering for your art?

Derek flashed her a small smile and scraped the offending pieces into a bowl. He strolled to the sink to wash his hands. The sting in his eyes dissipated and he sighed in relief.

She folded her coat over an arm as her eyes slowly scanned the kitchen. It was standard, as far as small pub kitchens went, with an open-rafter ceiling and older, but well cared-for, appliances and fixtures. Are you sure you're going to be all right on your own tonight? I could—

No, Derek interrupted her. You and Jamie deserve a night off together. It should be pretty slow with the cold weather. You've done a lot of prep work already. Plus, Holly or Sean can help me out if I need it.

Eliza bit her lip, worrying. Derek knew how much The Brazen Head meant to her—to the entire Whelan family. Sure, Eliza was only a Whelan by marriage, but that didn't make her care any less.

I feel bad, with Alice calling out sick and the handyman coming. Eliza tugged her fingers through her hair. Before I leave, I can just—

Don't make me carry you out of here, Derek threatened, laughing. She'd already prepped more than enough meals so Derek would have an easy time of the standard fare. A stack of ready-to-bake shepherd's pies had nearly toppled out of the fridge when he'd opened it earlier. Wait. What handyman?

Oh! Her eyes widened. The dishwasher isn't working right and it's out of warranty, so we called someone my cousin recommended. Andy will be here at seven.

One corner of Derek's mouth lifted. Andy, the handyman?

Eliza shrugged. Guess so.

Cute, Derek said with all the sarcasm he could muster. Wonder if his wife came up with that one.

Eliza's brow creased in a strange expression. A slow smile began to inch across her face. Taegan slapped an order down at the window, demanding both of their attentions. Derek saw the hesitation in Eliza's posture. He grabbed the order and spun to get the burgers started.

Get out of my kitchen, he tossed over his shoulder.

The next thirty minutes went by so quickly, Derek startled when someone knocked hard on the back door of the kitchen, the one that led into the alley. The Brazen Head had been busy, but not unmanageable—a steady stream of orders came through the kitchen. The dishes were starting to pile up in the sink. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Seven o'clock on the dot. Just what he needed. Some cranky butt-crack-bearing plumber getting in his way and dirtying up his kitchen.

Andy the handyman, he muttered to himself before pulling the heavy door open.

A biting wind blasted him in the face, but it was the face greeting him that knocked him back a step. It was a face he knew very well, but had never planned on seeing again. Andrea Rivera stood in the glow of the security lights, looking all grown up. She wore jeans, work boots, and a black leather jacket. Her long black hair swept back into a tight ponytail. But damn if she still didn't look as pretty as she'd ever looked in her sundresses and strappy sandals. Her lips parted in surprise and he found his eyes drawn to their full shape. No, he thought, pretty wasn't the right word anymore. She was pretty when she was a teenager. Now, she was gorgeous and sexy as hell.

Derek? she asked, shaking him from his thoughts. Her voice cracked on his name. Must have been the cold February air. She met his eyes for the briefest moment before glancing away. Her eyes were the same honey brown he remembered from that day four years ago.

What are you doing here? he asked, his voice harsher than he'd intended. You can't be here, he thought.

Andrea's pink lips turned down and her brow creased. She stared at him like that for a few long seconds, somehow avoiding his eyes the entire time.

I should ask you the same, she murmured, then sighed. I'm here to fix a dishwasher.

It was only then he noticed the large red toolbox hanging from her mitten-covered hand. Across the top in permanent marker, she had written Andy in scrolling cursive permanent marker.

Andy's coming to fix the dishwasher. You're Andrea, he said, as if establishing her true identity would make her disappear. He stared dumbly at the toolbox. This had to be some weird mistake. He found himself wishing for the burly handyman he'd been dreading only seconds before.

She raised an eyebrow at him and waved at the dark alley with her free hand. White flurries whipped in and out of the dim streams of light. Are you really going to let me freeze out here because I now go by a nickname?

Derek glanced up at the bare pipes in the ceiling. He didn't have to let her in. They could do without a fully-functional dishwasher for a night, right? He'd call someone else tomorrow. Maybe someone who didn't stir up every emotion he'd spent years burying deep inside. Preferably, someone who he'd never kissed like it was all he ever wanted to do.

Andrea puffed out her cheeks and blew out a breath before squeezing past him in the doorway, using her elbow to put distance between them as she passed. Where is it?

Hm? Derek slammed the door shut a little harder than necessary. Where's what?

The dishwasher, she said, annoyance poisoning her voice. You know, the one I'm here to fix.

His mind flashed back to a sixteen year old Andrea, rolling her eyes at him and calling him dorkface. When he first started noticing her as more than Ricky's annoying little sister. Get your act together, man. The faster he showed her to the dishwasher, the faster she'd be out of here.

"Right, Andy. He led her to the wall separating the kitchen from the bar. Here we are." He rapped the top of the machine with his knuckles.

Andrea dropped the toolbox to the floor and stripped off her gloves. What's wrong with it? She pulled her jacket off.

Derek tried to focus on the dishwasher, and not on the form-fitting long-sleeve shirt underneath her coat. Not many women could make long sleeves and a high neckline sexy, but she sure managed to pull it off. The soft purple fabric skimmed across the contours of her body.

He stared hard at the shiny silver surface of the dishwasher. Eliza didn't tell you?

Suddenly he realized: Andrea and Eliza had talked on the phone. Eliza's weird face when he'd made that crack about Handyman Andy's wife made sense. She'd known. Well, she couldn't have known all of it, but she'd known Andy was a girl.

She only said it's not cleaning very well. And that it started today, suddenly instead of gradually. I was hoping you had more info. Andrea pulled the front door open and leaned over to peer in. Her jeans were tight and hugged every curve of her ass with admirable devotion. He shouldn't be noticing things like that. But when it came to Andrea, he didn't exactly have a history of doing what he should.

He cleared his throat. That's all I know, too.

Kneeling on the floor, Andrea rifled through her toolbox and pulled out a screwdriver and a wrench. The tools looked at home in her hands—and why wouldn't they? Both she and Ricky had grown up in their dad's shop, helping him with broken appliances as soon as they could reach the workbench. That she could work as a handyman was no surprise to him, but her dad and brother had always said they wanted better for her. She had the smarts and drive to do whatever she wanted, even as a teenager.

All right. I'll get started. I'll let you know what I find. You can go do whatever you need to do. The relief and dismissal in her voice was hard to miss.

I'm the chef, Derek reminded her.

Her eyes scanned the kitchen before meeting his, again for the smallest amount of time humanly possible. Had he imagined the panic in them?

The Brazen Head had a small menu and a small kitchen to match. They wouldn't be able to avoid each other in the tiny space.

Where are the other chefs? she asked.

Sick. Off for the night.

Without another word, Andrea turned and stuck her head inside the dishwasher.

He stared at her. He should say something. Apologize for the way he'd left, at least. Though he wasn't sure how much it would mean after all this time. Conflicting emotions warred in his mind until something else caught his attention—the smell of bread and butter burning on the grill.

Derek freaking Chase.

Of all the restaurants in Boston, of all the chefs at those restaurants, why did he have to be here? He wasn't even supposed to be in Boston, last Andrea had heard. He was supposed to be in New York, impressing everyone in the fancy restaurant scene down there. When he'd opened that door, she'd thought she must have passed out and was having one of those dreams she couldn't get rid of. That was the only way to explain how he'd gotten even better looking, with his bottomless blue eyes and perfectly mussed brown hair. He even managed to make chef pants look good. Nobody looked good in chef pants. Maybe it was the tight white undershirt straining against his chest and arm muscles that had distracted her.

For four years she'd wanted to see him again, but never actually expected to. She'd wished for the chance to set things straight with him, to get some closure about what had happened, and to—if she was being honest with herself—let him know exactly how much he'd hurt her. But everything she'd ever planned on or practiced saying to him escaped her mind the second she saw his face. So many emotions came flooding back to her at the sight of him. She wasn't ready. She'd never be ready.

Ten minutes after sticking her head inside this dishwasher to escape Derek, Andrea hadn't even started looking for what was wrong with it. Her brain was incapable of doing anything but replaying every moment she, Derek, and Ricky had spent together. And why was she holding a wrench too big to turn any bolt in this machine? She could hear Derek moving around the kitchen, leaving sizzling meats and popping frying oil in his wake. It was all she could do not to stare at his back as he moved, to watch the bunching and rippling of his strong back and shoulders. He'd been twenty the last time they saw each other, but he'd really filled out since then. Chefs aren't supposed to be that fit.

Never trust a skinny chef, her mom always used to say. Well, Derek wasn't exactly skinny, not anymore. The man was built like a firefighter—the ones in the calendars, anyway. He certainly didn't look like he spent much time eating his own culinary creations—ones she was sure would be exquisite, if his teenage experiments were any indication.

Glass clattered against aluminum as he dropped two plates in the window for the waitress to pick up. Andrea shook her head and focused on her task. No matter how much hotter he'd gotten, he was still the same guy who left her when she needed him most. If he could get down to work, she could too. Dishwashers were one of her specialties. She just had to get it running great again and she could escape. The faster the better.

A few minutes later, a shadow fell over her and something clinked on the metal above. She pulled her head out enough to see a plain white coffee cup sitting on top of the washer. Sliding her gaze sideways, she saw Derek flipping something on the griddle, his wide, strong back frozen in a stiff posture.

Tentatively, Andrea picked up the mug and inspected its contents. Black coffee. Specks of something floated on the dark surface. He couldn't have remembered. Raising the mug to her nose, she sniffed. The earthy scent of dark roast coffee flooded her, but underneath the bold notes was what she'd been half hoping wasn't there: cinnamon. Steam rose from the mug so she slurped her first sip to keep from burning her tongue, the way Derek had taught her when she was seventeen.

Spicy, rich, and sweet with a hint of cinnamon. In one word: Perfection.

She stared at the shiny, rippling surface, her mouth twisted into a frown. The last time he'd made her coffee like this … she couldn't think about that now. This didn't mean anything. What was he trying to pull, anyway? She marched over to the grill and waited until he noticed her standing next to him, rage rising through her with every passing second.

What is this? she demanded, indicating the cup in her hand.

His face twisted in confusion. He tried a smile, but it withered under her stare. Black, two sugars, dash of cinnamon.

Obviously, she thought. But she didn't really know what she wanted to hear, so she continued to glare at him. He didn't get to be nice now. It was too late for that.

Right? He only looked unsure for a fraction of a second. No, I know it's right. Unless you don't drink it like that anymore?

It was right. Exactly right. Not that it mattered. He folded his arms across his chest, making his biceps pop and his chest swell under his shirt. She ignored the tickle in her belly, latching on to the anger like a lifeline instead.

That's not the point.

His blue eyes examined her face for a full three seconds before he returned his attention to the griddle. There is no point. It's just coffee.

Andrea wanted to growl in frustration. Just as he had four years ago, he was shutting down on her. Why?

Because it's cold out? Because you always like coffee when you're fixing something. As a peace offering. I don't know, pick one.

No. She nearly spat the word.

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh or a sigh, which only fueled the angry fire burning a path across her nerves. No?

I don't want it. Andrea stepped toward the huge silver sink to dump out the coffee, but Derek grabbed her wrist before she turned the mug upside down.

He wrapped his other hand around the cup, partially cradling her fingers and pulling the coffee toward her stomach. Don't throw out good coffee just because I made it.

His eyes met hers and they were flooded with so many things, she thought she might drown if she continued to stare into them. His touch hit her like live electric wires dancing across her skin.

I don't want it. Her voice was weak and some weird emotion she only felt in her stomach made it break in the middle. She made a half-hearted move toward the sink, but he held firm, pulled her closer.

Derek laughed, short and amused. Liar.

She'd argue, but she didn't believe her own claim. All she'd wanted was Derek to watch her throw his peace offering down the drain, even if it was made exactly how she liked it.

Let go. Andrea glared at his hand, still clasped around her wrist.

Not until you promise you'll drink the coffee.

His smirk transported her back four years and, for a second, she could imagine they were in her parent's kitchen, stealing a quiet minute alone.

"You said you were going to tell him." Andrea hated the whine in her voice but this was the second time Derek had chickened out.

He slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her torso tight against his. She inhaled a rich, spicy scent — the mixture of his cologne and whatever he'd been cooking earlier. When his hand traced the length of her arm, her heart leapt, missed a beat, then recovered in double time.

"I will. It just wasn't the right time, yet." He tickled her lips with the lightest touch of his index finger, sending a thrill through her stomach and further south.

She lowered her eyes and looked up at him through her long lashes, something she knew drove him nuts. You can't possibly be scared of him. You're practically twice his size.

"I'm not scared. Derek's shoulders stiffened as he straightened his back. Ricky's got that famous Rivera temper, you know? And it's not easy telling your best friend you've been seeing his baby sister behind his back."

Andrea bit her lip and pressed her hips into his, causing him to draw in a sharp breath. So I'm a baby, am I?

But when she remembered the fear of Ricky walking in on them, it broke the spell. She couldn't, not even for a fraction of a second, imagine her brother was still alive.

Andrea cleared her throat, swallowing back tears. Why is it so important to you?

I could ask you the same question. You want it, I know you do. Why are you trying so hard to deny it? His voice was teasing, but a deeper question floated underneath the surface.

In the space of a breath, she wondered if they were still talking about the coffee. But of course they were. What else would they be talking about?

Fine, I'll drink the coffee. Happy?

Andrea expected Derek to smile. He didn't. For now, he said, his voice low and laced with promise.

His fingers slid across the inside of her wrist as he released her. Her hands felt cold in the absence of his, so she clutched the mug tightly to warm them. He tracked every small movement with his eyes. She realized how close they were standing. Pulling in a deep breath to calm her racing heart, she smelled grilled meat and fried food.

Slowly, she raised the cup to her lips and drank, proof of her acquiescence. The warm liquid flowed across her tongue, the slight acidity pricking at her taste buds, its heat warming her belly. He was right about one thing: she needed coffee to work, as much as she needed any of her tools. Derek kept reminding her of all the little ways he knew her so well.

Why Andy? He watched her closely.

Her lips twisted in confusion. Why, what?

I mean, you used to hate it when we called you that. When you were in junior high and still growing into your … He laughed. Well, you know. When we realized how much you hated it, we did it even more. Just to make you mad.

Derek broke eye contact and looked at his hands. It was the first time either of them had mentioned Ricky tonight, even if it wasn't directly. He stepped back once. What I mean is, why are you going by Andy?

She felt the change of subject like the weight of the world lifted off her shoulders. This was an easy question with an easy answer. Nobody calls Andrea to fix anything. Most people would go through every, single man in the phonebook and Craigslist before calling a girl. 'Andy,' though. Nobody thinks twice. By the time I've got them on the phone and they realize I'm not the secretary, most of them are too embarrassed to say anything.

And after the first time, when they realize how kickass you are, they always call you back.

Andrea drank another slow slip of coffee and started back toward the dishwasher, glad to put some distance between them again. With him standing so close, she was feeling things she hadn't for years. A thrill in her stomach, the rush of blood in her neck. Raising her mug to him, she said, That's the plan.

Damn, he shouldn't have touched her. Just a hand on her wrist and now her soft, tan skin was all he wanted to think about. When her eyes had glistened with tears, it was all he could do not to wrap her in his arms and never let go. But he knew at least part of that sadness was completely his fault. So he'd changed the subject instead and let her walk away. Staring at the grill in front of him, Derek wished he could change the subject dominating his thoughts as easily.

He worried for his customers. Considering he focused ninety-five percent of his attention on Andrea's perfect ass sticking out from the dishwasher, there's no way the plates he'd been