Paid to Seduce His Mother V. 02 Ch. 05

"Just a little tired. I guess three intense orgasms in under an hour will do that," he said with a grin.

Evie laughed and nodded as she peeked around the door jamb. "We should cover her, then we can get to bed," she said, freeing herself from his arms.

"Then what?"

She looked at him with a foxy smile. "That depends on what you have left in that third leg of yours," she said and went into her mother's room and pulled a sheet and blanket over the sleeping woman. Looking around, she identified Mike's clothes and picked them up, to take with her to her room, across the hall.

He followed her into her room, dropping his towel at the foot of the bed. She had dropped his slacks and shirt on the bed and was folding them when he came up behind her and reached around to unbutton her blouse. She shook her head. "I need to shower first. After our session in the office and working all day, I stink. Get in bed and wait for me; I won't be long."

"Okay, if you say so," he complained, nuzzling her neck just below her ear.

"I promise, I won't be long. I know if we made love right now, you'd be complaining because I smell like Limburger cheese. But, if you really wouldn't mind..." she said, turning to him and reaching up to finish opening her blouse.

"No, no; go ahead and shower. I'll wait," he said, backing away, laughing. "I don't mind Limburger, but in a sandwich, not ...you know."

"Not in a smelly crotch? Is that what you wanted to say?" she asked, removing her blouse and unzipping her skirt as she walked toward him. The skirt dropped from her hips as she moved toward him, walking out of it. "I don't blame you," she laughed and turned to pick up her dirty clothes and throw them to her laundry basket. "I'll hurry; you get in bed," she said, leaving the room.

Although she had intended to take a PTA shower, the seductive power of a nice hot shower was too much. She was gone nearly half an hour, and returned to find Mike gently snoring, sound asleep. She shook her head and laughed. Noticing his towel, still on the floor at the end of the foot of the bed, she picked it up and tossed it in the laundry. After setting her alarm clock, with a smile, the young woman crawled into bed beside him, turning so he spooned her.

The unfamiliar alarm woke Mike, and it took him a few minutes to recall where he was. He turned to look behind him, but found only an empty bed. Sitting up and looking around, he saw his clothes on a chair near the door. With a low moan, he swung his legs out of bed and stood up, stretching his back to relieve the ache caused by his vigorous exercise the night before.

He pulled on his boxers and checked the hallway before stepping out to go to the john. He could hear someone in the kitchen, rattling pans, and smelled the coffee brewing. Without thinking, or knocking, he pushed on the door to the bathroom, to discover Anna stepping out of the shower.

"Oh! God! I'm sorry..." he stammered.

"Good morning, Mike. That's okay; come on in. Nothing here you haven't already seen, if I remember last night correctly." She handed him the towel, and asked, "Would you do my back, then I'll leave you to your business." Taking the towel, he lightly dabbed at her back, not otherwise touching her.

Anna turned around, close enough he could smell the scent of her soap. "Are you okay, Mike? After last night, you're certainly permitted to hold me. Even feel me up if you want, as long as we're not in public."

"No, I mean, I'm fine. I never was very good with morning-afters, except with Evie. With her, everything was good, but I guess her Dad had some objection to me."

"Well, that's not surprising. Joey had objections to the world. Get cleaned up. One of us will bring you some coffee. It smells like breakfast is nearly ready." She took back the towel and left him alone to take care of business.

Several minutes later, when he stepped out of the shower, a cup of coffee was on the countertop, by the sink. He took a sip of the piping hot brew. Somebody had been paying attention; it was fixed perfectly. Using the cupping technique he had learned in school, he sampled it. He was able to identify traces of Colombian, and some ...African beans, he thought, and something else... altogether, a good brew to wake up to.

A few minutes later he was in the kitchen, greeting Evie. "Morning, sweets," he said, nuzzling her just below the ear.

"Mmm; good morning to you, too, sleepyhead. This doesn't count toward the night you owe me; I hope you understand that," she said, in a mock serious tone, and laughed. "Did you sleep okay? You were totally zonked when I got back to the bed."

"Aww, Mike; did I wear you out last night? I'm sorry," Anna said, in a tone which plainly said she wasn't. "I'll have to make it up to you somehow. Maybe when we go up to close up your cabin; how would that be?"

"We'll talk about that later, Mom. Mike and I have a couple of serious discussions we need to have before then. What would you like for breakfast, sleepy? I have pancake batter made, bacon, eggs, cereal, toast..."

"Uhh, scrambled eggs and toast, I guess, and bacon. And coffee. Lotsa coffee. This is great, by the way," he said, holding up his cup. "What kind is it?"

"It's my own blend," said Anna, "of a medium roast Colombian, french roasted Colombian and a Mocha Java blend made up of African coffees. I buy roasted whole beans from a vendor in Atlanta, mix and grind them just before brewing. Or at least within a day. This is the end of a batch I made for lunch yesterday."

"Here you go, sweetheart. I'm going to go put on some grungies. I'll come back to change before we open. Don't dawdle. Pedersen's known for promptness on special deliveries like this, and they won't wait more than ten minutes."

They had barely unlocked the back door when Pedersen's truck appeared in the parking lot. The couple walked out to greet the driver as he stepped down from the truck. "Hi, Geordie. I'm sorry to make you work today. Hope we didn't interfere with anything important."

"Now, Miss Evie, I keep telling yo', they's noboddy mo' impo'tant t' me than yo' are. Y'u jus' let me know what yo' need, and I'll git it here for yo' jus' as soon as I can. Iff'n I don' have it on hand, I'll fin' it."

"I know, Geordie; still in all, I don't like to make anyone work when they don't have to. I really appreciate this." She turned to point to Mike. "Geordie, this is Mike Nelson, our new head cook."

"Howdy, Mike; please' to meecha. Head cook? What happened t' Bert? Seems like he were here fo'ever."

"He said he got a job as a sous chef in some fancy hotel in New Haven. Said it was more money and closer to his home. Guess I can't blame him, except for the way he did it. Anyway...one case of game hens, right?"

"Yo' got it, Miss Evie. I'll have 'em right in fo' yo'." While the large black man opened the truck and pulled out the case of 50 birds to carry into the refrigerator, Evie and Mike hurried into the kitchen to unlock the door to the storage room.

When Geordie entered the kitchen, Mike waved him to the work table, where he had a work station set up to start prepping the game hens. Geordie set the case down where Mike indicated and watched while the young chef opened it, to find the hens were individually shrink-wrapped.

"Shit!" he exclaimed. "The frikkin' hens are packed for a grocery store," he said to Evie, when she stuck her head into the kitchen see what the problem was. "They're all individually wrapped."

"That's no problem," she replied. "I can help. That's fine, Geordie. We'll take them, but tell Brad to let me know next time, will you?"

"Shore, 'nuff, Miss Evie. I'll let him know. Sorry 'bout the mix-up, Mike."

"That's okay, Geordie; not your fault, just an extra step and we're already short on time. Good meeting you," Mike answered with a smile, looking up from the bird he had extracted from its plastic wrap.

While Geordie watched, in a period of less than half a minute, Mike had removed the wings, cut through both drumstick joints and split the small bird into two equal halves. "Miss Evie, remind me to never challenge Mis'r Mike to a knife fight. Y'u all have a good day," he said with a good natured laugh as he left the building.

Evie picked up a pair of shears and began opening the plastic wraps and popping out the small birds. "He's right; you're really good at that. Did you do that to all the birds we cooked last night?"

"Yeah, except they weren't wrapped like these." He pushed the two halves into a partially filled brine bucket and grabbed another bird. Keeping his head down as he began to work and establish his rhythm, he asked Evie, "You wanted to talk, I think, about my question to you about wanting to get married, and my answer to the same question from you; right?"

"Yes, no...I don't..." she faltered.

"Whose answer are you afraid of, Evie?"

"Yours. I know mine. But we were almost there before, and now we have this... thing with our mothers and your sister and..."

"Which are you afraid of, yes or no?" She looked up at him, on the verge of tears. He had stopped working and was looking at her, waiting for an answer. She simply nodded. "Both, either, none?"

With a laugh, she nodded again. "So, I'm guessing your answer, to marrying me, isn't no, but not quite yes; sort of a yes, but or a maybe?"

With a big sigh and smile, she nodded. "I..." and stopped when he held up his hand.

"That's about where I am, too. I do want to get married, sooner more than later. The other day, when I asked if we could see if we could get back to what we had, I meant it. I love you, Evie. I did then and... I'm afraid what I'm going to say might hurt. Although I love you, and you are very important to me, I don't think I'm in love with you. But of all the women I've known, you are the only one I can see myself married to."

"Is that because I know..."

Mike shook his head. "No, I wanted to ask you that weekend you came to visit, two years ago, but I didn't think it was fair. I still had two years of school to finish, with barely any time to socialize. And it didn't have anything to do with your family or its business. It was just you, and it still is.

"If I didn't have this piece of business hanging with Mom and Dad, I'd say screw it, and let's run away. I can get a job anywhere..." Evie had walked around the table while he spoke, to stand in front of him.

She lifted her arms around his neck. "Shut up," she ordered as she kissed him. "I can wait until whatever you're working on is done.

"I told you, the fourth time I was going to hold you to it. Well, that was four thru ten and then some. I don't care if you want to call it going steady, have an understanding or pre-engaged, or if we ever do get married, but as of now, as far as me and the world are concerned, we're officially a couple. Any questions?"

With a grin, Mike leaned down to whisper, "Can you sleep over tonight?"

Part LX

It had been a very good day. After finally accepting the truth that they didn't have time to celebrate their decision, they had prepped half of the game hens, expecting to sell about 50 orders that day, about a third of what they had sold the night before, figuring they could do the other fifty, if they sold more than half before three o'clock, the halfway point of their serving time that day. By two o'clock, Mike and Evie were busy prepping the remainder of the small birds.

At four, Evie stuck her head in the kitchen. "Mike! One of the customers would like to talk to you. You got time?"

"Bella?"

"Gotcha covered, Mike. You're gonna share tips, right?" she laughed.

Mike pulled on a clean chef's jacket and went to the hostess station. Evie pointed him to a booth about half way down the front wall. He swallowed hard when he saw the woman sitting in the booth. "Crap!" he muttered, half under his breath.

"What is it, sweets?"

"The customer; it's Pete Riordan's wife, and he's probably with her. He has a reputation of checking out the competition personally. Oh, well. I don't officially work for him yet." He steeled himself and walked to the booth.

"Mrs Riordan, Chef. How can I help you?"

Pete Riordan didn't bother to look up, but took another bite of the game hen. "This your recipe? Not bad. I'll buy it from you, along with the exclusive rights. What's your price?"

Mike was assailed with conflicting emotions. On the positive side, one of the top chefs in the country had said his dish wasn't bad, and wanted to buy the exclusive rights to it. In addition, he was scheduled to go to work for him in three months.

On the negative side, the man hadn't even paid him the courtesy of greeting him, or of asking if the recipe was for sale. He had simply assumed it was for sale, figuring his prestige would guarantee the sale.

Almost without considering the outcome of his actions, he replied, "Sorry, it's not for sale. Anything else?"

Pete's head jerked and he looked up into a vaguely familiar face. "Wha... why not? Don't I know you?"

"Yes sir, I'm Mike Nelson. I'm supposed to start working for you the first of October."

"You're coming to work for me? Oh, yes; from the Chef's Institute. What in hell are you doing here if you're coming to work for me?"

"Four months without a paycheck is a bit much, plus, the owner is a friend of mine and they got into a situation when their head cook quit without notice. They asked if I could fill in part time..."

"That's unacceptable! You can't work here and for me at the same time. If I hired you, then this recipe is mine. I expect a copy on my desk in the morning."

"No. I don't work for you until October 1. You were very clear about that at our interview. You even suggested I get some sort of filler job. Under the terms of my employment, the recipe belongs to Waverly's, but they can't share it without my permission."

"That is unacceptable. If you are going to work for me, you can't work here, picking up all sorts of sloppy work habits. You're the head cook? You've barely worked in a kitchen. You probably stole the recipe, that's why you won't sell it," Pete huffed, bristling.

Nancy Riordan, sat and watched her husband's ire increase. "Pete, stop. Think what you're saying. Mike is right. We did advise him to find other work until he started with us." She looked at Mike. "We didn't expect you to be so...talented and successful, but you really shouldn't be working here."

"Not if he wants to work for me," Pete declared.

"That your final position?" Mike asked, his voice calm and neutral. Pete and Nancy both nodded. Mike looked to the hostess station and caught Evie's eye. "Evie, would you come here for a minute?"

She was at the table in a flash. "Yes, Mike?"

"Evie, this is Pete Riordan and his wife Nancy. They own Someplace Else, the restaurant I'm scheduled to start at in October. Because of that, they say, I can't work here any more. Is your head cook position still open?"

Evie's brow furrowed, as she wondered what her lover was up to. Slowly, she nodded. "Not any more. I'll take it, full time, at my present rate. Okay with you?" The young woman beamed as she nodded and stuck out her hand. Mike took it and shook hands with his new boss.

"Mr Riordan, Mrs Riordan. Until I sign an employment offer, you can't tell me to do anything, especially to desert my friends. I owe you a free dinner when my folks and I had dinner at your place the end of last month. Your dinner tonight is on me. Evie, take it out of my check. I insist. Good evening, Chef, Nancy."

Mike turned to walk away, snapped his fingers and turned back. "Just in case you were contemplating taking some of the game hen home...have you ever been to Mystic for the pizza there?

"The owner of the original Mystic Pizza said she had a secret ingredient no one would ever figure out. Well, I did, and confirmed it with the present owner. It's the secret to the game hen cacciatore.

"I will give you a hint. It's not a single ingredient, but a blend of herbs and spices so finely ground, you wouldn't be able to identify them unless you used a mass spectrometer."

You could see the blood rising in Pete Riordan's face. With a growl he got up and stalked to the cash register, waiting there for his wife to catch up.

Mike whispered something to Evie, who gasped and went to the register. When Pete attempted to pay his bill, she reminded him that the meals had been paid for. He, visibly, grew angrier. With a calm voice, Evie said, "May I have your car keys, Mr Riordan? I'll give them to your wife so she can drive you home, or I'll call you a cab."

"What the fuck! I am not inebriated, young woman! I am capable of driving myself home!"

"Mr Riordan, as you should know, the Hospitality Laws state that if, in our opinion, any paying patron of our establishment, for any reason, appears to be unfit to drive themselves, or poses a risk and danger to other drivers, we must confiscate their keys and arrange other transport for them. Since your wife seems calm enough to drive, I'll give them to her, but I have to insist that you give me your keys." She held out her hand for his keys.

Grumbling, he pulled them from his pocket and slapped them into her hand, feeling a trace of satisfaction when she flinched from the pain. He turned away from her and stomped around the foyer, waiting for his wife, who was still sitting in their booth, sipping her coffee, seemingly unaware of the glaring looks he was sending her way.

He stomped out the door and to the parking lot, where he tried to get into his car, remembering only when he tried the door, that it was locked. He clomped back into the restaurant, and learned his wife was now in the ladies room.

His hands went up to grasp the sides of his head. It truly felt like it was about to explode, and suddenly he did. In laughter. It started first as a barely perceptible giggle, but once started, it couldn't be constrained. Soon he was roaring out full belly laughs. He sat on the waiting bench, arms wrapped around his abdomen, with tears running down his face.

Nancy came out of the ladies room and saw her husband sitting on the bench, doubled over, roaring out his laughter. "Oh, dear," she said. "I hope this doesn't cause you any problems. How long has it been going on?"

Evie, trying hard to restrain her own laughs, replied, "It's just been a few minutes. Does this happen often?"

"A couple times a year. It's like a safety valve for the stress. When it gets to be overly much, he just cracks up, infecting everyone around him. I've learned there's nothing to do but let it run its course. It'll take five or ten minutes before the constant laughing stops, then it'll be a few minutes of intermittent giggles. Until then, it's just waiting.

"So, Michael is going to work for you. How did he come to work for you?"

Evie explained that they knew each other in school and had dated for a while a few years ago, and that he was there in the restaurant when the previous cook had given less than adequate notice.

Nancy noticed Evie's excitement and mood brightening when she talked about Mike, and asked if there was more to their relationship than business. Her answering smile told Nancy all she needed to know.

"So he probably wouldn't be working for us very long, anyway. I gather. It's probably just as well then. I'd hate to put all the time into a new employee and have them leave in less than a year."

By now, Pete's laughter had died down so he was more or less in control of himself. "Chef Mike! Chef Mike! Come out here, please." The other diners looked at the large man and laughed, recalling his behavior of the previous several minutes.

Mike emerged from the kitchen, dressed in his working jacket and hat. "Mike. Good. Please, come out here so I can apologize to you. I was an ass, and you have every right to tell me to go screw myself on Main Street, but I hope you will accept my apology, and join me for a drink sometime this week. I can't tonight, or I'll be silly until tomorrow morning."