The Baby Truce by Jeannie Watt Page A

skills while they did that—skills that other people paid big money for. Or used to.
    But no.
    Instead she was making him pay for past crimes by asking him to cut up chickens and chop veg, while that dour little woman screwed up tomato sauce. It had been all he could do not to wrestle the knife from her hand and chop the onions and mince the garlic. And then when he’d told her not to add the garlic to the pan until the onions were translucent, she’d given that sniff and dumped the garlic in with the raw onion. The result?
    Overcooked, bitter garlic, no doubt. That was always a lovely note to any dish.
    Keep chopping.
    His stomach was in a knot from trying to control himself.
    He’d just finished with the chickens when Reggie started filling manicotti.
    â€œYou prep cook is screwing up your sauce,” he said matter-of-factly. Patty’s shoulders snapped back a fraction of an inch.
    â€œThen I’ll use frozen,” Reggie said mildly.
    Tom set down his knife. “ Frozen sauce?”
    She didn’t even look at him as she stirred ricotta filling, which he wanted to taste before she used it. “Yes. You must realize that we can’t cook everything from scratch in a catering business. I do as much as possible, but sometimes costs and circumstances are not conducive.”
    â€œFrozen?”
    She bit the inside of her cheek as she slowly nodded, then met his gaze dead-on, her eyes narrowed dangerously. Tom remembered that expression so well. She used it when she wasn’t going to back down.
    When she delivered ultimatums that eventually tore them apart.
    And that was when he realized he needed to back down. For now, anyway. He was not a patient man, not by any stretch of the imagination, but he did have goals, and one of them was to not get kicked out of this kitchen. Not until he and Reggie had an understanding that didn’t threaten her and was acceptable to him.
    â€œI, um, have the chicken deboned,” he said, indicating the hotel pan next to him. Reggie’s gaze shifted from him to the meat and back again.
    â€œThen I’d appreciate a hand loading the van. I have a master list. Make sure everything is there before you load.”
    And so it was that Tom Gerard, James Beard Upcoming Chef nominee, spent the afternoon counting linens and rental glasses, packing coolers, loading a van, while Reggie put together manicotti. Since Patty had scorched the tomato sauce while multi-tasking, Reggie was topping it with frozen sauce—her own frozen sauce. Apparently, during slow spells, she and Eden put up tomato sauce. It couldn’t be as good as fresh, but it had to be better than storebought.
    That, at least, made him feel better about her manicotti.
    Patty apologized about a hundred times for the sauce not being up to par, and when Reggie told her not to worry, Tom wanted to mention that if she’d simply listened to him in the first place… But he didn’t. He would play along.
    At least until his head exploded.

CHAPTER SIX
    T OM WAS AT T REMONT EARLY AGAIN the next day, prowling around the kitchen when Reggie arrived. She put him to work, and he complied without complaint, taking the prep list and propping it up at his station. All went well, right up until he made Patty cry.
    Reggie was in the office, taking a call, when she heard the bathroom door next to the office slam shut, followed by the sound of muffled sobs. As soon as she hung up, Reggie headed out of the office and straight to Tom’s station, where he was putting together the potpies, exactly the way she had asked. No twists, no flairs. Just standard Tremont chicken potpies. It had to be killing him.
    Reggie pushed up her sleeves as she walked toward him. “What did you do to Patty?”
    He glanced up after filling a shell, his expression innocent. Reggie wasn’t fooled. “I made an observation.”
    â€œWhat observation did you make, Tom?”
    â€œLook, all I said was