Chapter 18

Ranger

I set the phone down with a smile and a shake of the head. I knew Steph had made comments about being a disaster in the kitchen. Last week when she'd been trying to get me to calm down in the gym, she'd alluded to calls to the fire department if she were to cook. But I didn't think she was completely incapable of cooking. Surely she was overstating her lack of skills. There was a difference between not being confident in your abilities, and not having the abilities. Steph had, from time to time, shown evidence of confidence issues, which I attributed to her mother's unrealistic expectations, but whenever I or one of the guys gave her support for the tasks she was apprehensive about, she succeeded with flying colours. I couldn't imagine a woman like her not being able to cook even a simple, nutritious meal.

I guess I'd find out in a couple hours when she FaceTimed me.

Shutting the lid of my laptop, I pushed back from the desk I'd commandeered in Diana's office while she was out of commission, and stood. I stretched as I headed for the door and had made it all the way to the stairwell before I recalled that I'd just asked Steph to send through a report before she clocked out, and then hadn't waited around to receive it. She wasn't the only one who needed to duck to the store for ingredients before our virtual cooking class tonight. Since I'd been mostly subsisting on the meals Kelly (the Miami version of Ella) provided in the breakroom to avoid creating extra work while I was here, I hadn't gotten any groceries in, aside from the ones I'd used two nights ago when I'd had Julie over for some bonding time.

It had taken a scalding from a drugged up and angry Diana for me to realise that there was more to my trip to Miami than simply covering for her while she was recovering from her surgery. Yes, I wanted to make sure things ran as smoothly as possible in her absence, but the fact was, I didn't need to be physically present to do that, which she had so helpfully pointed out when I entered her hospital room with a bunch of flowers.

"What the fuck are you doing here?!" she demanded, attempting to sit up straighter but groaning as the action caused her pain, forcing her to sink back into the pillows once more.

"I'm checking in on the Miami branch of my company," I pointed out, setting the flowers down on her bedside table and crossing my arms over my chest as I stood beside her bed.

"First of all," she said, pointing a finger at me. "My team can handle it. They don't need you down here to babysit them. "And B: What the fuck are you here for? If you're in town to make sure HQ doesn't go down or whatever, you should be at HQ. I'm not some pathetic, weakass damsel in need of flowers." She sneered the last word, casting the sunflowers I'd brought a disdainful glare, like their very existence offended her.

"I can't visit my best manager in the hospital to make sure she's gonna pull through?" I questioned, raising an eyebrow at her. "I'd hate to be blindsided by the fact that you were on death's door. If I need to start looking for a replacement, I'd like to get a jumpstart on it."

My sarcasm caused her to scoff. "It's a ruptured appendix, Ranger," she pointed out needlessly. I'd gotten the full report from LaToya the previous day when I'd arrived at the Rangeman building. "It's not like I'm in a coma, or missing a limb or something. I'll be back at my desk in a week and kicking balls not long after, so don't try to cast the blame for your trip on me. You just needed an excuse to run away."

Run away? I thought. From what?

She must have seen through my blank face, because as she continued talking, I realised that she knew more about why I'd dropped everything and come to Miami than I did. "Tank told me about your job-gone-bad last week, with the little girl," Diana explained, raising an eyebrow at me. "My traitorous appendix is just a convenient excuse for you to check in on your daughter."

To say I was shocked was an understatement. Thoughts of Julie and her welfare hadn't even factored into the situation, but as I stood there, staring down at the brash woman I'd left in charge of the original Rangeman location, I couldn't deny the logic in her words. I may not have made a conscious decision that I needed to see Julie in person, but I'd woken from a nightmare Friday night, reliving the scene where I'd discovered the little girl in the basement, only it had been Julie's scared eyes looking back at me.

"Well," I said, rather than acknowledge the accuracy of Diana's words. "I can see that the removal of your appendix hasn't dampened your spirits, so I'll let you get back to cursing the hospital staff." With that, I'd turned on my heel and marched out of her room, passing Halfred, the Miami tech guy in the hall with a bunch of daisies. Poor guy was in for a roasting, but I couldn't let my thoughts linger on his fate, because the images from the nightmares with Julie rose in my mind, swiftly shifting to the dreams that had followed the next time I'd closed my eyes: Steph, naked and afraid, cowering on that soiled mattress.

I shook my head to clear away the memories, reminding myself that Steph was fine. I'd seen it with my own eyes as I'd passed through the control room on Friday, and I knew that if anything happened to her or any of my Trenton men, Tank would call ASAP. But Julie. God, when was the last time I'd laid eyes on Julie? The last time I'd spoken to her?

I'd called Rachel the second I exited the hospital, explaining that I was in town and wanted to arrange some time to visit with my daughter. She'd hesitated only long enough for me to blurt out a 'please', and then she was verbally sifting through the week's schedule to find a suitable time for us to spend some time together. I'd wanted to insist on coming over right that second to just see her with my own two eyes, but Rachel had assured me that was not possible, and since I'd already put a strain on our relationship by moving interstate two and half years ago, I needed to keep on her good side.

I'd picked Julie up from school the following day, taken her to the park for an hour or so, then back to my apartment at Rangeman via the store to pick up groceries to make dinner. While I didn't get to spend time with Julie alone very often, whenever I had her for a meal we had a tradition of cooking together. She was quite the little chef, and I'd let her lead me through making the stir fry recipe I'd taught her on my last visit. Which is why it had popped into my head when Steph had outlined her dinner plight. If my seven year old daughter could make it, surely Steph could too.

I made my way down to the garage, heading for the supermarket to pick up the necessary ingredients just as I'd instructed Steph to do. I'd made it back to my apartment, put everything away in the fridge that needed to be kept cold, and was just dressing after a quick shower when my phone started ringing with the FaceTime tone. I finished pulling the shirt over my head before accepting the call, and let my lips tip up in a semblance of a smile at the sight of Stephanie Plum on my phone.

She must have changed out of the clothes she'd worn to work, because the Van Halen band t-shirt she wore now did not match the standard of dress she maintained at the office.

"Ready to cook?" I asked by way of greeting, holding the phone up in front of me as I made my way through the apartment to the kitchen.

"As I'll ever be," she replied, seeming to steel herself for the upcoming endeavours. Her shoulders were stiff and her features were drawn with stress. "This seems like an awful lot of food for one person," she added, flipping the camera around to show the assembly of ingredients on her kitchen table. "I know I can eat, but this seems excessive."

"You'll have leftovers to cover probably three more nights," I informed her. "I've always found that making a family size batch and freezing portions for later saves on effort. It's a good habit to be in."

"Says the man who has someone else cook for him most nights," she drolled, flipping the camera around again so I could see her eyeroll.

I shook my head, setting the phone down in the stand I'd set out on the counter earlier. "Now that I can afford it, sure," I agreed. "But up until a couple years ago, I was cooking for myself every night, and there are always nights when you don't feel like it, or don't have time. That's where the frozen portions come in handy."

"Okay," she agreed, her image shaking and tipping as she apparently attempted to settle her phone on the counter, propped up against something. "So what do we do first?" She stood back, hands of hips as she looked from the phone to the table where all her ingredients were laid out and back, waiting for instructions. "I've washed my hands already," she assured me, holding them up as evidence. "And I grabbed out a frypan." She lifted the object from the table beside her, spinning it in her hand. "I assume it goes on the stove?"

The urge to laugh at her question was there, but I squashed it down. I didn't need her doubting herself in the kitchen anymore than she already did. "Correct," I said instead, grabbing my own frypan out of the cupboard and setting it on the burner. "Put it on medium-high and add some oil or cooking spray so the chicken doesn't stick to the pan when we put it in," I instructed, following my own instructions as I spoke.

"How much?" she asked, holding up a bottle of oil and glancing from it to me.

"Enough to cover the bottom of the pan," I said. "Just put a little in and then tip the pan around to spread it."

She nodded and did as I said, stepping back once it was done. "Now do we add the chicken?"

"Not until the pan is hot enough."

"Okay," she nodded, resting her hands on her hips again as she looked directly into the camera again and I felt like she could see straight through it and into my soul with how piercing her blue eyes were on the screen in front of me. "How are things down in Miami?" she asked. "Tank said the manager, Diana, is in hospital so you went down to keep things running."

I mimicked her nod, as uncomfortable talking about my life as she apparently was with cooking. "She's fine. Got released from hospital yesterday morning and should be returning to work on light duties next week. Miami is pretty much running itself in her absence, so I'm pretty much just here as backup in case things go to hell in a handbasket."

"And Julie?" she asked, her gaze never wavering from the camera even as I looked away to test the temperature of the pan. "Lester mentioned you'd probably visit your daughter while you're down there."

"Julie's good," I said, avoiding looking at her as I moved to the fridge to pull out my diced chicken. "We had dinner together earlier in the week, and I'm accompanying her, and Rachel and Ron to the beach tomorrow morning."

She smiled wistfully, picking up her chicken when she noticed me holding mine. "That sounds fun," she said, following my example without instructions as I tipped the chicken into the pan and grabbed a wooden spoon to spread it around. "I'm a little jealous. The beach is one of my favourite places to go. It's not warm enough up here to warrant a trip to Point Pleasant yet."

"It won't be long," I assured her. And then, as often happens when I was talking to Steph in a casual and private setting like this, my mouth took the lead, leaving my brain in the dust. "The core team and I have a beach house at the shore. We usually try to sneak away there for a weekend at some point over the summer. I'm sure the guys wouldn't mind sharing it with you as well." And it would be even better if we found ourselves alone together there, I added silently.

"I'd like that," she enthused, and for a moment I thought she was responding to my internal words, which caused my spine to stiffen as I cut my eyes from the pan I'd been monitoring to the screen. "Accommodation is always so expensive, so I can usually only afford a day trip," she continued, prodding at her own pan and putting my mind at ease.

"How's your chicken looking?" I asked, changing the topic back to the task at hand before I accidentally let one of the cock-driven thoughts circling my brain loose into the air. The last thing I wanted to do was tell her how much I wanted to have her naked and moaning in the hot tub on the deck.

She leaned over her pan to examine it a little closer, glancing at me briefly and then back to it. "Um," she hesitated. "It's turning white, but there's still bits that are pink."

I nodded, confirming that we were at the same stage and let her know that once all the pink was gone we'd be adding in the vegetables. Then, I asked how her week was going so that I could avoid talking about myself and accidentally revealing too much about my feelings towards her. She told me how she'd given Lester a tip on a skip he was after that she knew from high school, and that Ram was paying her for her help in coffee and donuts every day. I quipped that that stuff would kill her, the same way I did everytime I caught her eating junk food in the building, and she just rolled her eyes, launching, instead, into a story about how she'd taken her grandmother to a viewing at the Stiva's funeral home and narrowly avoided causing a scene when the woman had attempted to prise the closed lid of the casket open for a peak at what was inside. Apparently, Grandma Mazur thought that it was her right to see the deceased in person and that having a closed-casket viewing was a crime.

Throughout her story, I inserted brief instructions to keep the cook progressing and by the time she'd finished detailing how she'd managed to convince her cousin-in-law Eddie Gazarra, who was the police officer attending the complaint the bereaved had lodged against Grandma, that it was all a misunderstanding, we were plating up the rice and stir fry.

She'd followed my directions easily, only needing to direct the phone camera at the contents of her pan for reassurance once or twice, and as I slid onto a stool at my breakfast nook, watching her carry her own plate to the table in the middle of her kitchen and sit down, I couldn't be prouder. This was not a woman who didn't know how to cook, just as I'd suspected. She just lacked confidence.

"And you're sure the chicken is cooked all the way through?" she asked, her laden fork hovering between her and the phone as she hesitated before her first bite.

"Positive," I assured her. "We browned it off first, and then it had longer to cook when we added the rest. It's safe to eat."

She nodded, glanced down at the fork, and then lifted her eyes again, holding my gaze through the phone screen as she took the bite into her mouth. Her eyes drifted closed and almost instantly, she let out one of those happy little moans she was prone to when she liked what she tasted. "That's delicious!" she cried, her eyes popping open again to find mine. "Thank you, Carlos."

I couldn't help but smile. "I didn't do anything," I reminded her. "You're the one who cooked it."

"Yeah, but I couldn't have done it without you," she said quietly. "You made everything relaxed and easy. Cooking was never like that when Mom was trying to teach me. She was always pointing out that I was doing it wrong, stirring too hard, cutting things too big." She shook her head, shoulders slumping at the memories. "But with you…"

"The food doesn't have to be uniform, and picture perfect to taste good," I reminded her. "Cooking for yourself isn't about creating something worthy of the cover of a magazine, it's about nutrition and making it taste good. Who cares what it looks like?"

"Yeah," she agreed, grinning as she took another bite. "It's just gonna look worse once it's digested, anyway!"

I almost choked on my own mouthful of stir fry as I let out a startled bark of laughter. That was the kind of comment I expected to come out of Lester's mouth, not Steph's. But then, I supposed, she and Lester had been good friends for a year now, it was inevitable that he'd rub off on her. I shook my head, beating a fist against my sternum to help the food down my throat and took a pull of the beer I'd grabbed from the fridge while we were cooking. "That's one way of looking at it," I agreed.

We continued the video call while we ate until I got a call from the guys downstairs and had to say goodbye, but I did so with a heart as full as my stomach, knowing that I'd helped Steph achieve something she hadn't thought she could do. And if I was being honest with myself, I felt better for having spent the time with her as well. I'd missed our weekly dinner in my apartment earlier in the week. Missed the time spent getting to know her better, to listen to her talk about her crazy Grandma, or the things she got up to in college, or even her recount of how Tank had bluffed his way to winning with nothing but a high card in his hand at Lester and Bobby's monthly poker night.

It was the reason I'd called her to ask about the report earlier instead of sending her an email or message. I'd wanted to hear her voice after stupidly avoiding her for days. And once I'd heard her voice, I wanted to see her, too. It seemed that every attempt to step back and put some distance between me and Stephanie Plum resulted in my heart latching onto her a little stronger, and if that wasn't a terrifying thought, I didn't know what was. My life didn't lend itself to relationships, after all.