Baby Makes Three
Книга "Baby Makes Three", авторами которой являются Литагент HarperCollins EUR}, Molly O'Keefe, представляет собой захватывающую работу в жанре Современная зарубежная литература. В этом произведении автор рассказывает увлекательную историю, которая не оставит равнодушными читателей.
Автор мастерски воссоздает атмосферу напряженности и интриги, погружая читателя в мир загадок и тайн, который скрывается за хрупкой поверхностью обыденности. С прекрасным чувством языка и виртуозностью сюжетного развития, Литагент HarperCollins EUR позволяет читателю погрузиться в сложные эмоциональные переживания героев и проникнуться их судьбами. EUR настолько живо и точно передает неповторимые нюансы человеческой психологии, что каждая страница книги становится путешествием в глубины человеческой души.
"Baby Makes Three" - это не только захватывающая история, но и искусство, проникнутое глубокими мыслями и философскими размышлениями. Это произведение призвано вызвать у читателя эмоциональные отклики, задуматься о важных жизненных вопросах и открыть новые горизонты восприятия мира.
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Table of Contents
Molly O’Keefe has written eleven books for the Superromance, Flipside and Duets lines. When she isn’t writing happily ever after she can usually be found in the park acting as referee between her beleaguered border collie and her one-year-old son. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with her husband, son, dog and the largest heap of dirty laundry in North America.
To Aunt Cherie and Uncle Earl
Sometimes, with family, you just get lucky. And we are very lucky.
CHAPTER ONE
OUT OF THE CORNER of his eye, Gabe Mitchell saw his father, Patrick, spit a mouthful of seaweed-wrapped tofu into his napkin like a five-year-old.
Gabe kicked him under the table, appalled but envious.
“So?” Melissa-something-or-other, the chef responsible for the foul-tasting vegan spa cuisine, asked. “Was I right, or what?”
“Or what,” Patrick muttered, balling his napkin up beside his plate.
“You were right,” Gabe said and pushed his own mouthful of bitter mush into his cheek away from his taste buds. “This is really something.”
“Well?” She smiled broadly like a cat with her eye on the canary. “When do I start?”
Patrick laughed, but quickly coughed to cover it, so Gabe didn’t bother kicking him again.
He managed to swallow the mess in his mouth, took a huge sip of the unsweetened berry smoothie to wash it down and was appalled to discover she’d somehow made berries taste bad, too.
He’d interviewed and auditioned five chefs and this one really was the bottom of a very dark, very deep barrel.
“Well—” he smiled and lied through his teeth “—I have a few more interviews this week, so I will have to get back to you.”
The girl looked disappointed and a little meanspirited, which wasn’t going to help her get the job. “You know,” she said, “it’s not going to be easy to find someone willing to live out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“I understand that,” he said graciously, even though it was getting hard not to throw her out on her scrawny butt.
“And it’s a brand-new inn.” She shrugged. “It’s not like you have the credentials to get a—”
“Well, then.” He stood up and interrupted the little shit’s defeating diatribe before she got to the part about how he was ugly and his father dressed him funny. “Why don’t you gather your equipment and I’ll call you if—”
“And that’s another thing.” Now she was really getting snotty. What was it about vegans, he wondered, that made them so touchy? “Your kitchen is a disaster—”
“You know how building projects can be.” Patrick stood, his silver hair and dashing smile gleaming in the sunlight. “One minute shambles, the next state of the art.”
“You must be in the shambles part,” Melissa said.
“Very true, but I can guarantee within the week state-of-the-art.” His blue eyes twinkled as though he was letting Melissa in on a secret. It was times such as these that Gabe fully realized the compliment people gave him when they said he was a chip off the old block.
Patrick stepped to the side of Melissa and held out his arm toward the kitchen as though he were ushering her toward dinner, rather than away from a job interview she’d bombed.
Gabe sat with a smile. Dad was going to handle this one. Great. Because I am out of niceties.
“Tell me, Melissa, how did you get that tofu to stay together like that? In a tidy little bundle,” Patrick asked as they walked toward the kitchen.
Melissa blushed and launched into a speech on the magic of toothpicks.
God save me from novice chefs.
The swinging door to the kitchen swung open, revealing his nowhere-near-completed kitchen, and then swung shut behind his father giving the oblivious woman the heave-ho.
Gotta hand it to the guy, sixty-seven years old and he still has it.
Silence filled the room, from the cathedral ceiling to the fresh pine wood floors. The table and two chairs sat like an island in the middle of the vast, sunsplashed room.
He felt as though he was in the eye of the storm. If he left this room he’d be buffeted, torn apart by gale-force winds, deadlines, loose ends and a chefless kitchen.
“You’re too nice,” Patrick said, stepping back into the room.
“You told me to always be polite to women,” Gabe said.
“Not when they are trying to poison you.”
Patrick lowered himself into the chair he’d vacated and crossed his arms over his flannelcovered barrel chest. “She was worse than the other five chefs you’ve talked to.”
The seaweed-wrapped tofu on his plate seemed to mock Gabe, so he threw his napkin over it and pushed it away. At loose ends, he crossed his arms behind his head and stared out his wall of windows at his view of the Hudson River Valley.
The view was stunning. Gorgeous. Greens and grays and clouds like angels filling the slate-blue sky. He banked on that view to bring in the guests to his Riverview Inn, but he’d been hoping for a little more from the kitchen.
