Catering to Love: PAWS for Romance, #2

By Kadee McDonald

Will a beautiful chef and her handsome martial arts instructor find just the right ingredients when they begin Catering to Love?

 

It takes confidence to launch a new catering company, but Chef Amber Pearson is fresh out, thanks to her philandering ex-husband. Her brother's suggestion that she sign up for a self-defense class seems like a great idea to help her rebuild her self-esteem. It's only a few hours a week and there's no commitment ... she's definitely not ready for any sort of commitment.

 

Luis Mendoza is faced with a dilemma when his high school crush walks into his martial arts studio on Town Square. He came home to help his family after his father's untimely death and to start his own business, which means he needs to stay sharp and focused. Feeling like a nerdy seventeen-year-old again every time Amber shows up for class definitely doesn't fit in with his plans.

 

Will Amber be able to learn to trust and love again? And, as they get closer, can Luis stop worrying that she isn't really over her cheating ex, or that he could show up at any time to try to win her back?

 

Catering to Love is book #2 in the sweet contemporary romance series, "PAWS for Romance."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kadee McDonald
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9798223218500

Book preview

Chapter One

AMBER PEARSON RENNER was seriously in love.

With her kitchen.

Well, not truly her kitchen. It belonged to her parents’ Bed & Breakfast, set on ten beautiful wooded acres next to Center Hill Lake in the picturesque Texas Hill Country, about an hour’s drive north of San Antonio. But Amber had been tasked with choosing the design for both the kitchen and the family dining room during the renovation of the spacious, two-story Pearson family home which had transformed it into the B&B two years earlier.

And, yes, she loved every square inch of the place. Who wouldn’t?

Framed windows brought in lots of cheery morning light, and the clean white cabinetry and counters, as well as a wide farmhouse sink, paired well with an island topped with moisture-resistant teak hardwood. The island separated the working area of the kitchen, with its stainless steel appliances, from a double-pedestal dining table and ten chairs, all set on a handcrafted, blue-green, ceramic-tiled floor.

Amber now worked at her desk, set off by a smaller side window in the corner by the table, deliberately out of the way of traffic. She didn’t need any distractions, with the first job of her newly launched catering business only four days away. She had to review the final menu for the wedding reception that would be held Friday evening in the garden at Herbert House, a two-story, late-Victorian mansion set on a full acre a few blocks from the town square. One of the oldest and largest homes in Pearson, it had been remodeled and transformed into an elegant event venue. She’d chosen what she hoped was the perfect menu and tweaked recipes for every dish down to the quarter teaspoon.

Her new endeavor had to be a success, because, heaven knew, she’d had few enough of those in her life lately.

The excited barking of a dog outside caught her attention. The deep, gravelly woofs meant it could only be Grady, her sister Erin’s lovable English sheepdog. Amber shifted in her chair to glance out the window. Sure enough, there was her younger brother Ryan, Erin’s twin, tossing a Frisbee, and encouraging Grady to chase after it.

The older pup lumbered a few steps, stopped, looked back at his human uncle, and plopped down on the driveway with a ‘this is as far as I can go’ look on his face, his tongue lolling out to one side. Ryan laughed, threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender, and retrieved the Frisbee himself.

Chuckling at their antics, Amber took a few seconds to stretch out her tense neck and shoulder muscles, then went back to work. The bride-to-be had called with a last-minute request for an additional appetizer, and Amber had been debating since lunch between blue cheese and pear tartlets or fig and olive tapenade. She had great recipes for both, but would she have time to make the delicate and flaky phyllo shells from scratch for the tartlets with everything else she had to take care of? She could always serve the tapenade with sliced loaves of French bread from that amazing new bakery in town, although she’d originally planned for everything to come from her own kitchen.

Ryan came in with his usual clump of boots and lack of grace, then stepped down to the combination utility and mudroom to wash his hands. Amber had insisted on putting the washer, dryer and a sink by the back door, not wanting Ryan or their dad working around the property and then coming in to dirty up her always-clean kitchen.

What’cha doing, Am?

Trying to decide between tartlets and tapenade.

I don’t have a clue what either of those things is, Ryan called over the sound of running water, but it sounds like a tough choice. Why not flip a quarter?

Grady came up to the doorway and stopped to wait. The entire family loved him to pieces, but he was well-trained and knew he wasn’t allowed in the main house’s kitchen, shedding dog hair all around where food was prepared.

Flip a quarter? Amber echoed. I might as well throw all my recipes in a heap in the middle of the floor and let Grady pick out the best ones.

Ryan returned, his hands scrubbed clean. He searched in a lower cabinet for a large plastic bowl, filled it with cold water and a few ice cubes from the freezer side of the fridge, and set it down outside on the porch for the pup.

Vigorous slurping sounds started as Ryan returned to the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of freshly made strawberry lemonade.

Want some? he asked as he poured himself a tall glass. Amber nodded and he filled a second. You sound stressed. Everything going okay? He handed her one drink before settling on a padded kitchen stool at the island a few feet away. The slurping sounds outside finally stopped.

Who, me? Why should I be stressed? She set her pen down and took a sip of the sweet-tart lemonade. She made up a batch of it almost every day during warmer months. I’m catering my first gig Friday night and I have this sinking feeling something will go horribly wrong, and it’ll be a total failure. But, other than that, everything’s just peachy.

You’ve got all your bases covered, right?

If you mean, did I advise the happy couple on the menu and try to think of every detail? Have I calculated all my expenses so I can show a decent profit? Yeah, I think so, but who knows?

Aw, you’ve just got the proverbial cold feet. Ryan waved her concerns away. You’ve always been a winner. You’re the pretty cheerleader who married the quarterback.

That was a decade ago, Ry. Now, I’m simply another thirty-something divorced woman trying to make a go of her own small business.

You’re not alone. You know that, right? All of us are in your corner, always. And besides, you’re a great cook. The guests here love everything you make and you feed everyone who walks through the door with no problem. Why should this job be any different?

She gave a half grimace of acknowledgement at his efforts to encourage her. That’s just breakfast, though, maybe waffles and omelets for twenty. But this is prime rib for a hundred at the nicest venue in the area. Not exactly the same thing, is it?

Well, you’re not doing it all by yourself, right?

"No, I’ve hired Zeke to be my sous-chef here on Friday, and he’s great, plus I’ve lined up two servers, but still..."

When she trailed off, Ryan arched one eyebrow and nodded. Uh-huh, I got it. You’re still battle-scarred because of Paul. You’ve lost your self-confidence thanks to that guy, haven’t you?

She started to answer, to deny it, then sighed. It was true. Things hadn’t been good for a while with Paul, but after eight years of marriage, discovering her husband’s infidelity had dealt her a serious and final blow. Even now, almost two years after she’d signed the divorce papers, she was still trying to recover.

I told you, Am, I’d be more than happy to run up to Dallas and have a little chat with your cheatin’ ex, if it would make you feel any better.

A muscle clenched and unclenched in Ryan’s jaw, and his right hand closed into a sizable fist. He still carried the Marine mentality that saw disloyalty as the ultimate betrayal, whether to country or family. It might start as ‘a little chat,’ but it would end in punches being thrown.

No, thanks. I don’t have the extra cash right now to post bail for you or pay Paul’s medical bills. Besides, I’m over him. I’ve moved on.

Sure you have. Ryan gave her one of his careful looks. I’ll believe that when you start dating again. You know, Erin seems pretty happy with this Jason fella. You should give it a try.

Hey, do you see all this? The sweep of her hand showed a pen, notepad, laptop, and recipes, both loose and bound, literally covering the top of the desk. I’m too busy, Ry. I’ve got no time. Besides which...well, I’m all stressed out, remember?

You probably need to find something to release that tension and build your self-confidence.

She pulled the scrunchie loose from her long, blond hair and shook it back, then ran her fingers through it, gathered it up again and redid the ponytail. What do you think would do that?

Dunno. He lifted one shoulder. Maybe some kind of girly thing, like yoga or...hey, I got it. You remember the building on Town Square that Grandpa Jerry left Mom? Where he used to have his insurance office upstairs, over the old five-and-dime?

Yeah, what about it?

She leased it a couple of months ago to a guy who’s opened a martial arts studio. That might work. You know... He mimed a few karate moves. "Imagine that the sensei is Paul and really let him have it."

Okay. She grinned. Understood. Now, beat it, will you, and let me get back to work?

Yeah, sure. He shoved off the stool and set his empty glass in the sink. The rest of us have important things to do, too. Winter’s coming eventually, and the heat’s not working in Cabin Nine. He paused at the kitchen door, resting one large, calloused hand on the jamb, and looked back at her. Amber, we all just want you to be successful. And happy. You know that, right?

Yes, I do. Thanks, Ry. That means a lot.

She smiled, watching out the window as he and Grady headed down the back steps and off toward the guest cabins at the back of the Pearson property, closer to the lake. Just two boys out on the town. Or, in this case, out on the wooded acres that comprised their family’s backyard.

Amber returned to work and had just about convinced herself the tapenade would be the best choice when Erin hurried in from the family room. "Hey, Am, have you seen Ryan? He was playing with Grady while I was on the phone with Jason, and now I can’t find them anywhere. I need to get back to the shelter to meet the contractor for the Top Dog project, and I think my poor pup has been dognapped."

Without looking up, Amber pointed out the side window. Cabin Nine.

Oh, good. I’ll stop there on my way to the car. Erin grabbed a ripe peach from the wooden fruit bowl on the long table. Amber kept the kitchen well-stocked, so everyone took advantage of healthy snacking. Well, everyone except Ryan, usually. So, what are you up to?

Setting her pen down for the second time, Amber turned away from her desk. Oh, you know, working...

She trailed off, hoping her sister would get the message. Sometimes living in the middle of a busy, supportive family was all she’d ever needed. But there was the occasional day like today when she’d cheerfully move to a deserted tropical island for a few months, out of the reach of everyone, to find some peace.

Erin leaned against the counter and crossed one ankle casually over the other, apparently prepared to stay for a few minutes to chat and eat her peach, despite her earlier claim she had to rush off. Cool. You know, you should’ve seen the elderly couple who came into the shelter this morning. So sweet. They lost their little corgi to cancer last year, and...

Amber listened with half an ear. Normally, she enjoyed Erin’s stories about the day-to-day happenings at the Pearson Animal Welfare Society, or ‘PAWS,’ the rescue group and shelter founded decades earlier by their late, beloved Grandma Margie. Amber believed in the cause of animal rescue, foster care, and re-homing every bit as much as the rest of the family. She’d bottle-fed more than one little helpless four-legged and helped with busy Saturday adoption days whenever she could.

But she didn’t have time right now. The afternoon was half-gone, and she still needed to finish writing up her detailed lists, put her thoughts in order, and find a minute after all that was done to take a slow, deep breath.

Erin was no slouch in the art of intuition, and it apparently didn’t take her long to realize her audience of one wasn’t paying close attention. Okay, well, guess I’ll collect Grady and be on my way. See you later. Love you.

Meanwhile, Amber’s brain had been chugging along on auto-pilot. Uh-huh. See you. Love you, too.

As Erin left through the back door, voices came from the entryway, along with the squeak of luggage wheels and a light-hearted burst of laughter, telling her that new overnight guests had arrived. She heard her dad, Mike Pearson, welcome them and ask them to step over to the desk to get checked in. From the second-floor guest rooms, a vacuum cleaner roared to life, which meant their two housekeepers were finishing up their daily chores.

More interruptions. Pleasant as they were, such time-outs were wreaking havoc with Amber’s schedule and her nerves. Where could she hide out? The drop-leaf kitchen table in her own small cabin was hardly big enough for her computer, much less all this paperwork.

The public library in town? Even if she found a secluded corner, there’d be other patrons passing by, asking the staff about the newest books and magazines available. Their whispered conversations would distract her as much as Ryan, Erin, new guests, or vacuum cleaners ever could.

The conference room at her mother’s office on Town Square?

Well, why not? Amber was, after all, Mayor Kate Pearson’s eldest daughter. Might as well see if she could act on that relationship, perhaps this once, when she had so much to do and nowhere else quiet available to do it. Maybe she should look into renting a small office in town.

She gathered her notes, recipes and laptop, stuffed everything into her computer bag, and headed out.

Are you sure they’re not too little, Mr. Mendoza? Barbara Jean McNulty had one hand securely on the shoulder of each of her two young sons, and she looked nervous. Bobby is barely seven and Drew just started all-day kindergarten. My husband, Walt, thinks learning martial arts will be good for them, but I’m not sure. Maybe he’s seen too many Bruce Lee movies?

I understand your concern, ma’am, but there’s no reason to worry. As a fifth-degree black belt in the sport, Luis Mendoza tried to reassure the anxious mother as they stood in the small lobby of Mendoza’s Self-Defense and Martial Arts, the newest business to open in downtown Pearson. I’ve taught preliminary classes to kids as young as four. Bobby and Drew will be perfectly safe here and, of course, I hope you’ll stay to observe every class.

Well, I did buy them these cute little white uniforms you recommended on your website. ‘Preliminary’ means there won’t be any advanced stuff, right, like fighting or breaking boards?

No, nothing like that. Luis grinned at the idea. "The practice of striking boards with precisely the focus and strength to break them is called tameshiwari, but I never use it in my classes. I think Bruce Lee even once said something like ‘boards don’t hit back,’ and I’ve never seen much point in it. The children will have fun, practice following directions, and get loads of exercise. I’ve designed these basic classes to help them get stronger, learn some discipline, and build their confidence. Then later, when they’re ready, they can start learning kicks and punches, but only on sand-filled bags and focus mitts, not on each other."

Okay. Mrs. McNulty nodded. As long as you say it’s not dangerous, I’ll let them try it. Where do I sign them in?

He showed her over to the front counter, entered the boys’ information into the computer, and then asked them to leave their shoes in one of the wooden cubbies by the front door during class.

Luis had meticulously planned every detail of the studio. It was orderly, inviting, and ready for business. Thick new mats lay on the floor and extra ones hung from the walls, for protection during routines. Sturdy hooks fastened to pegboard in another area held equipment for more advanced students. The wall at one end was mirrored, while a dozen comfortable chairs lined the opposite wall where parents and guests could stay to observe a class.

It would be a dream come true for Luis if he could make a success of the studio. His website was up and running, with the schedule of classes he’d already set in place. The town’s local newspaper, The Pearson Post, had featured his grand opening last week, and he prayed the few clients who’d signed up so far would get the word out to the rest of Pearson and the surrounding areas, bringing in more business.

Bobby and Drew hurried over to join the group of five-to-seven-year-olds, boys and girls, each dressed in their fresh, white two-piece uniforms, who’d assembled for their first after-school karate class. Cute kids, every last one of them. A little scared of trying something new, yet curious, and all of them looking as serious as all get-out.

Drawing in a deep, calming breath to focus, Luis approached with a smile. Good afternoon. My name is Mr. Mendoza, and I will be your teacher. Welcome to your first class. He sank to his knees in front of them and sat back on his heels, then motioned to all of them to imitate. This is how we begin each practice. He paused, met their uncertain gazes with confidence, placed his hands flat on the padded mat in front of him, and gracefully offered them the ceremonial bow.

They looked at each other, but then one by one, put their small hands down, bowed and came back up in return. Drew McNulty, the littlest in the class, tipped a bit off balance and almost fell over, but righted himself just in time. Watching from the guest chairs, several moms and dads chuckled.

Very good. Now, let’s start. You know my name, Mr. Mendoza, so now I need to learn your names. He went around the group, talking and smiling, waiting patiently for the shy ones to speak loud enough for him to hear them. Then he stood and walked to the mirrored end of the room. When I call each of you, I want you to jump up, say ‘Yes, sir,’ just like you would if you were a soldier in the army, and then run here and stand where I tell you.

It took them a while to get the basics down, and he would have to repeat it at the beginning of every class for weeks or even months to come, but Luis loved it—every moment of teaching fulfilled him, every repetition of the simplest version of the ‘Karate Promise’ to only use what they learned in class to protect themselves and others. It would also be important for them to learn the ‘tenets’ of martial arts, qualities like courage, honesty, and self-control, all of which would help them build strong, healthy minds and bodies.

Luis started self-defense classes himself as a teenager to feel more self-confident, and then continued his studies and practices during his years in the military. It had long been a dream to open his own studio one day.

When his father died unexpectedly eight months ago, at far too young an age. Luis returned home to Pearson to help deal with the shock wave that threatened to overwhelm both his mother, Marta, and his sister, Verónica, as well as help handle all the usual mind-numbing intricacies of the funeral and their new life without Dad. It didn’t take him long to realize he needed to move back for good.

Being in Pearson again had been quite a readjustment, given the more exotic locations where he’d lived for more than a decade. Things were quieter here, the pace slower, the demands fewer. All of which gave him too much time to think and way too much time to worry about this new venture.

He’d invested all his savings and taken out a small business loan. If the studio