After that day, I’d stopped eating anything but fruits and vegetables in front of other people.
Shaking myself out of that lovely trip down memory lane, I watched as Con opened the freezer and pulled out giant trays of premade lasagna and set them on the stainless steel prep table in the center of the room.
My stomach tensed just looking at them.
“The hard stuff is already done; you just have to throw it all in the oven, babysit it, and put together PB&Js for them to take home.”
I could do that. I could so do that.
“What’s with the PB&J?”
Con looked up from where he was now turning on the oven. “They’re burning a ton of calories here, and they need the fuel. So we feed ‘em dinner every night, and lunch if they’re here during the day, and then send them home with a snack. It’s not like they’ve got overflowing pantries. Although, between you and me, I would guess that most of them hand off what we give them to a younger sibling.”
I was floored. “You really feed them every day?”
His face took on a militant quality. “If we don’t, they might not eat. And that’s not something I’m gonna let happen.” He surveyed me before continuing, “Come on, Van. You fund plenty of soup kitchens and food trucks. The fact that a good chunk of this city is going hungry on a regular basis can’t have escaped your notice.”
He was right. My psychological problems with food were nothing compared to actual hunger. I’d read the grant applications. I’d made recommendations about different programs we should fund. And I’d felt good about what I was doing. But I was ashamed to admit I’d never done more at a soup kitchen than attend a ribbon-cutting. I’d never handed out meat and bread and fruit to someone waiting in line at a food truck with a laundry basket. And here was Con, bad boy of the first order, combatting childhood hunger from the front lines. My shame multiplied, but I tried to mollify it by telling myself that those food trucks and soup kitchens have to be funded by someone. And if the foundation didn’t do it, who would? I was making a difference, dammit.
“Have you applied for funding for your program? You could probably get a grant.”
Con opened the freezer again and yanked out several loaves of garlic bread.
“You don’t get it, do you, princess? This isn’t about the money. This is about the kids and making sure they go home tonight with a full stomach and something to stop it from growling later.”
“I get that, but if you’re shelling out all of your own money on this…”
“I got plenty, if that’s what you’re worried about. Besides, I don’t have time to waste filling out some hundred-page grant application and justifying what we do here for a few bucks. Reggie started this thing on his own, and he and I will make sure it stays going.”
He laid the bread on the table in front of me and grabbed several aluminum cookie sheets from the counter. “You think you can handle this?”
I grabbed the bread, and, in an attempt to turn this conversation back to something lighter, I tossed out, “I’m pretty sure anything you want me to handle is way out of my league, Leahy. But I’ll give it a shot.”
His answering grin was brilliant. “Holy shit, you do have a sense of humor. I would’ve been willing to bet good money that you didn’t know how to crack a joke.”
“Well, I guess that means you would’ve been wrong.”
Con slid behind me, and his heavy hands dropped onto my shoulders. His breath was warm against my ear as he whispered, “You’re the one who’s out of my league, sweetheart, and we both know it.”
The bread fell from my shaky grip onto the stainless steel surface. I had no response. But that didn’t stop my mouth from opening in preparation to say something completely stupid.
I was saved from myself when Reggie stuck his head into the kitchen. “Con, you gonna help with drills, or you gonna fuck around in here all day?”
Con stepped away, and my traitorous body immediately missed his heat.
“I’ll be out in a few, Reg. Just showing Ms. Frost the lay of the land in here.”
Reggie guffawed. “Sure, man, whatever you say.” He slipped out of the kitchen, leaving an awkward silence behind him.
Con cleared his throat. “So, you think you can handle this? We’ve got fifteen eating here, and we need a dozen PB&Js to go home.”
I nodded, words still escaping me.
“Good deal. Yell if you need help getting the lasagna in or out of the oven. Those things are fucking heavy.”
My mumbled okay was less than impressive, but it was pretty much all I could get out.
Con paused in the doorway and looked back at me. “Don’t go running off after you’re done either. We’ve got some shit to talk about.”
I wondered if he was talking about the crazy feelings ripping around inside me. Good God, can he tell? I forced myself to remember the reason I was here: the piece of property I needed to keep my shot at running the foundation that had been my mother’s passion—a passion that had been imbued in me since childhood. My mother might have been happy to sit on the board in a figurehead position, but I wanted more. I wanted to think bigger, do bigger. I wanted to make the final decision on how we changed lives in Louisiana for the better.
Just focus on the goal, Vanessa. Push everything else aside.
I reached for the garlic bread, declaring my mental pep talk successful.
Mostly.
We all see what we want to see. And we expect our assumptions to play out accurately in real life. But in this case, the case of Ms. Vanessa Frost, it seemed like my assumptions may have been off—if only just a little. She was still gorgeous and eminently fuckable, but she wasn’t the stone-cold bitch I’d thought she was since she’d walked out and left me with the taste of her still on my tongue. It could have been a show to soften me up to get what she wanted, but she’d actually seemed to care about making sure these kids had food to eat. The way to most men’s hearts might be through their stomachs, but the quickest way to mine was through the stomachs of my boys.