Free White Lilies (A Mitchell Sisters Novel) by Samantha Christy

bar. I put them down on Griffin’s table. “First things first,” I say. “You can choose between a hat and a hair net.” He picks the Mitchell’s ball cap I offered. “And you need to wear a chef’s coat or an apron.” He chooses the ‘Eat at Mitchell’s’ apron.
    He follows me back to the kitchen. “How does this thing go on?” he asks, fumbling with the long straps of the apron.
    I laugh when I look at him. The man has no idea how to put on an apron. I take it from him. I lean in and slip it over his head. When I do, I realize my mistake. Getting this close to him—smelling him—is not a good idea. It’s causing some kind of visceral reaction in my body that I don’t seem to have any control over. I reach around his back, crossing the straps, bringing them around to his front. Our faces come close. Too close. I realize I’m practically hugging the man and when I unwittingly look into his steely eyes, my stomach flutters. I momentarily wonder if it’s the baby moving, but I remember Erin telling me it would probably be another month before I could feel that.
    Griffin is keeping a respectable distance, with his arms held out to the side, giving me room to work. I try not to think about the fact that he is draped in Mitchell. He looks damn good with my name all over him. I close my eyes while I finish tying the apron.
    “Are you okay?” he asks. “You’re not still sick are you?”
    I shake my head. “No. Not for a few weeks now.” I take a few steps away from him, over to where I keep my own cooking uniform. My body relaxes a little at the distance between us. I put my apron and hat on, take another deep breath and turn back around.
    Now it’s his turn to laugh. He’s looking at the apron I’m wearing. I wear it so often, I sometimes forget what it says. It has a picture of a cartoon pig and says ‘Every Butt Loves a Rub.’ I look down at it and feel the heat coming up my face.
    Then he eyes my ball cap. “Yankees, huh?”
    “Well, I did grow up thirty minutes from here. Plus, my friend, Jenna, is engaged to their batting coach, Jake Hanson.”
    “I’ll let it slide, since I know you have to wear a hat in the kitchen,” he says, mocking irritation. “But I’ll have you know, if I see you wearing that on the street, all bets are off.”
    “Not a fan?” I ask.
    “I grew up in Ohio,” he says. “Indians all the way.”
    I feel a twinge inside my heart. I wonder if he’s as big a baseball fan as I am. Growing up, my dad would take me and my sisters to Yankees games one at a time. It was his way of bonding with us individually. Some of my fondest childhood memories are from those games. It makes me smile thinking that maybe Griffin will do something like that with his kid.
    “You know, Jake could probably get you some good seats when they play here, if you want me to ask.”
    His face lights up. “Really? That would be fantastic.” He eyes me skeptically. “Wait, he wouldn’t make me wear Yankees crap, would he?”
    Laughing, I say, “Well, if Jenna comes, she’ll probably spit on you if you aren’t.”
    He contemplates this. “I don’t think I could, in good conscience, wear anything but Indians garb.”
    I nod, understanding loyalty to sports teams. “I could try to get you tickets to a game when Jenna is working.”
    “Aww, that’d be great!”
    The sincere smile on his face makes the skin of his eyes crinkle. He looks almost childlike and for a brief second I wonder if the kid I’m carrying will look like him.
    I nod towards the kitchen door. “You ready to get started?” I ask.
    “Yeah,” he says. “Hey, thanks for doing this. I know Erin strong-armed us both into it.”
    “It’s not a problem,” I tell him. “Besides, have you met your wife? She’s kind of hard to say no to.”
    He laughs. “You have no idea,” he says, shaking his head.
    We spend the next half hour gathering supplies, boiling homemade lasagna noodles, browning Italian sausage and