Apples & Oranges (The This & That Series) (6 page)

             
“Trey.” Demo shot his nephew an icy glare. “Yiayia, she just came to get her car so she could get back to work. She’s probably in a hurry, aren’t you, Marisol?”

             
“Hush it,” Yiayia snapped, gesturing to the baklava Trey was still holding. “Eat something, Demetrious. You’re acting like a goat.”

             
Demo released my elbow and jerked his hand through his hair, standing it on end. I waited for him to retort, but he said nothing.

             
I hated to admit it, but part of me wanted to stay. This Yiayia character could shut Demo up in one sentence, and for that, I had endless admiration for her. And besides that, the woman’s baklava could have easily substituted sex in my life for a very, very long time. It was if God himself had made it.

             
I wanted the recipe.

             
“So tell me, Marisol,” Yiayia said, looping her arm through mine and guiding me into the office, where she settled herself on a stool. I heard Trey sniggering out in the garage, and Demo telling him to shut up. “Are you married?”

             
I settled across the desk from her. “No, ma’am. Never even been close.”

             
“My Demetrious hasn’t been married, either.” She nodded her head in his direction. When I followed her line of sight, Demo was bent under the hood of a yellow Toyota, shaking his head at me as he cranked a wrench back and forth. “He got close once, but she ripped his heart out, the little tramp.” I choked on a piece of baklava, and she smiled proudly. “You like those? They’re my mother’s recipe. Best Baklava at the North Spokane Greek Orthodox church bake sale five years running.”

             
“Yes, they’re incredible.” I looked around for a napkin, but alas… we were in an auto garage, and there were none to be found. I settled for the back of my hand. “Do you only bake? Or do your skills include savory treats, too?”

             
She pressed a crimped hand to her chest. “Oh, my yes. I cook everything. I learned to cook in Papagos. That’s where my family was from. My parents ran a café.”

             
Oh, this just got better and better.
“No kidding?” I squeaked. “I’m a caterer.”

             
“Aha, you see?” She shook a finger at me. “I knew there was something about you I liked. What is your specialty?”

             
I thought for a moment, and heard Demo scoff from under the hood. “Come on, Yiayia. Look at those fancy clothes. Does really she look like she can cook?” he called.

             
“Hush!” She scolded. “Please excuse my grandson. When he’s around a pretty girl, he gets nervous and puts his foot in his mouth.”

             
“Yiayia,” warned Demo.

             
“Demetrious Marcos Antonopolous,” she barked.

             
Offering him a haughty glance, I giggled. “Is this your family on the wall, Yiayia?”

             
She nodded proudly. “Yes. My husband and myself. Our children. Their children. Their children’s children. Every generation clear down to Little Demetrious’ generation.”

             
“Little Demetrious?” The urge to crack up was getting stronger. “Is that what you call Demo?”

             
Yiayia shook her head. “No, I meant Trey. His full name is Demetrious Bakas, and his mother is Demo’s third sister. We call him Trey for short.”

             
“His third sister?” I croaked, sitting on my hands to avoid grabbing another baklava. “Out of how many?”

             
“Six children in that branch of the family tree.” Yiayia beamed up at the wall. “His sister, Leni, is Trey’s mother. She’s this one right here.” She tapped a picture above her head. “And his other siblings are Niko, Agalia, Dion, Athena, and Cyrene.”

             
“Do you visit Demo and Trey at work often?” I asked.

             
She jutted her chin out at me. “Oh, I’m not visiting. I work here.”

             
“You work here?” My mouth dropped open. “At your… I mean, even though…” My voice petered out. I didn’t know what to say. I was pretty sure Yiayia was in her early
hundreds
. There had to be a law against making your grandmother work in a dirty auto shop.

             
“You mean even though I’m old?” She grinned. “Eh, I’m not so old. I’m eighty-seven years young.”

             
“Well, I hope your grandson pays you well.”

             
Yiayia nodded. “I’ve been answering phones here since 1943. My husband started the garage with ninety-three dollars in his pocket and having never driven a car before. Oh, he was always good at tinkering with things, and he learned fast enough. That was the original Demetrious. Then our oldest son took over. He was obsessed with cars, and brought them home from the junkyard to rebuild. That was the second Demetrious. When he died of cancer three years ago,
his
son took over. That’s the one who’s pouting under the hood of the Toyota over there.”

             
“Not pouting, Yiayia.” I could hear a smile in Demo’s voice.

             
She shook her head. “Silly boy. Now he’s training his nephew, and the fourth Demetrious, so that he’ll be able to take over the garage someday.”

             
“Will you change the name to Four D’s?” I asked.

             
“Well, I don’t know,” she shrugged her stooped shoulders. “Suppose that’s up to Demo. But who knows what goes on in that boy’s head.”

Demo groaned. “Come on,
Yiayia. Stop monopolizing the lady’s time. She’s got to get to work.”

             
“Yes, yes. I’m sure she does.” Yiayia patted my hand, then picked up another baklava. “Here. Take one for the road.”

             
My brain screamed
no, no, no!
But my stomach growled for some more. I was going to spend
a lot
of time on the elliptical this week, that much was certain. “Thank you,” I said, taking it from her. “It was lovely to visit with you, Yiayia.”

             
“The pleasure was all mine,” she said. “Bring your fancy car back to us anytime. We’ll beat anyone else’s price. I guarantee it.”

             
“Of that I have no doubt.”

             
“Or just come back to see me,” she offered, winking. “Or to see Demo.”

“You got it.”
I stood up and propped my purse on my elbow. “Say, before I go, can I ask you a question?”

             
“Of course, my dear.” She sat up straighter on her stool. “Shoot.”

“Don’t let her ask you for a discount,
Yiayia.” Demo growled in the garage. “She’s got money.”

“
Oooh, burn!” Trey laughed.

Ouch.
Shooting Demo a venomous glare, I shifted so that my back was to both of the D’s. “I have a wedding coming up this summer. A Greek wedding, in fact.”

“In the Greek Orthodox Church downtown?” Her eyes lit up. “Such a lovely church. All of my children were married there. And some of my grandchildren.” She sent a pointed glance over my shoulder at Demo. “
I wonder if I know the family. Where’s the reception, dear?”

“The Montvale Hotel.”

“Oh, they must have some money to spend.” Her white eyebrows pinched together when she smiled. “Greek receptions can get pretty rowdy. Marisol. I hope you make them pay for extra plates.”

Laughing, I tucked my hair behind my ears. I’d forgotten about the plate breaking tradition. Thank goodness for
Yiayia. “My partner and I have been asked to cook a full buffet complete with authentic Greek dishes.”

“That sounds lovely.” She sighed contentedly. “Nothing celebrates the start of a life together like some
pilafi kritis and dolmas.”

“Good! That’s what I was hoping you’d say.” I clapped my hands together. “Because I’ve been trying some recipes, and haven’t gotten the grape leaves right—”

              Demo appeared in the office doorway. “Yiayia doesn’t share recipes.”

             
“Is that so?” I offered him a haughty glance. “So, Yiayia, what do you think? Can you help me?”

             
I waited for her reply, watching as her eyes—the same shade of dark chocolate as Demo’s—bounced back and forth between her grandson’s and my faces. Five seconds meandered into ten, and the only sound in the air was Trey singing Nicki Minaj in the garage. After long enough to be officially awkward, Yiayia’s crinkled face brightened, and she clasped her hands together.

             
Score.
Smiling smugly at Demo, I leaned in close to Yiayia. I didn’t want to miss a detail. I wondered what made the recipe perfect? Extra coriander? Maybe some anise?

             
“Demo’s right,” she said finally.

             
“Oh, thank—” I did a double take. “Say what?”

             
Yiayia tilted her head at me. “I don’t share my recipes with anyone who isn’t family.”

             
“Oh.” My shoulders drooped, deflated. I could practically hear Demo grinning next to me, but didn’t look up at him to check. “Not even for dolmades?”

             
“But don’t you worry.” She pointed an arthritic finger at me. “It’ll happen soon enough. And when you’re family, I’ll give you the recipe.”

Chapter Six

             
I carefully placed a sprig of fresh dill on top of the last lobster stuffed mushroom on the tray and stood back to admire my work. It looked pretty damn good, if I did say so myself, but I’d relied on Lexie’s taste test to confirm it. I’d eaten four pieces of homemade baklava with Yiayia, and judging by its rich goodness, they’d been about two hundred and twenty calories apiece.

(Now, usually I enjoyed a good butt kicking by my hot trainer, but the one I had coming was going to be rough.)

“Hey, Mar, are those ‘shrooms about ready?” Lexie called, coming into the kitchen with an empty tray propped on her shoulder. “These small business owners are ruthless. I went through all those shrimp canapés in less than three minutes.”

“Yikes.” I pushed the mushrooms towards her. “I hope the fact that they’re all starving isn’t an indication of how their businesses are doing.”

              “Hey, we’re a small business, and we’re doing all right.” Lexie popped one of the mushrooms into her mouth, then washed her hands in a nearby sink. “Don’t be a snob.”

             
My cheeks heated, as I realized who I sounded like. For years I’d thrown out comments and digs, all in an attempt to appear funny and confident, when in actuality I sounded like I’d poured pretention into my coffee in the morning.

             
“You’re right.” I wiped my hands on a towel. “I’m sorry.”

             
Lexie stopped what she was doing, and her eyes widened. “I, uh, okay.”

             
We stared at each other for a beat, unsure what to say to each other next. Apologies weren’t my forte, and I’d never dealt them out very easily. Finally I waved my hand. “Argh. Don’t make such a big deal out of it, or I’ll never say it again.” I plucked some breadbaskets off the counter. “Come on. Let’s get these people fed, before I break down and eat all these appetizers myself.”

             
“Whatever you say.” A smile teased the corners of Lexie’s mouth as we pushed through the swinging door into the bed and breakfast dining room where the Manito Small Business Association was holding their latest meet and greet.

We’d gotten this even
t for the first time this year, after a tight bidding war between us and two much larger catering companies. I liked to brag that the fact I’d worn a low cut sweater to the tasting was the reason, but the truth was, Lexie’s cedar smoked salmon pate had driven it  home.

We entered the dining room.
“So tell me,” she said through the corner of her mouth. A woman approached, plucking a mushroom from the tray, and Lexie waited until she’d meandered off before she finished her thought. “Are you gonna get the recipe for dolmades, or what? You said you hit it off with the grandma today.”

“I certainly did.” I smiled widely as a man grabbed a roll out of one of the baskets. “She asked me to call her
Yiayia.”

Lexie
giggled. “What does that mean? You’re not calling her a bad name in Spanish, are you?”

“That was Greek.” I handed a roll and a napkin to an old man passing by. “It means Grandma. And I have not yet scored the recipe. But don’t worry. I will.”

“Is there seafood in those mushrooms?” a man with a beard asked Lexie.

“Yes, sir. Pacific lobster.” She pointed to one of the other waitresses we’d hired for the evening. “There are cheese stuffed mushrooms just over that way.”

“Thank you,” he said, setting off on his mission.

Lexie
turned to me. “So how come you didn’t get the recipe?”

I shrugged, feigning nonchalance. My conversation with
Yiayia had stuck with me for most of the day, and I’d replayed it about a thousand times. She’d clearly assumed that Demo and I were going to wind up together, thus making me ‘family’ and someday worthy of her recipes. But then again, some senior citizens thought their dead relatives were in the room. My guess was that as sharp as Yiayia was, she didn’t see the deep-rooted distaste her grandson and I had for each other.

Apparently she hadn’t picked up on the fact that I’d come to Triple D’s this morning to make him want me… only so I could drop him on his face later, too.

Thank goodness.

I sighed. “She said she only gives her recipes to family.”

Lexie snorted. “So when’s the big day?”

“Don’t get carried away,” I warned her with a scowl. “But don’t you worry, either.” I nodded at a woman who was biting into her roll. “I’ll get it.”

Lexie chuckled. “I can Google another recipe—”

“No!” I yelped, making an old man with a mushroom jump. “Sorry, sir.” When he walked away, I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You don’t understand, this woman’s cooking is amazing. The baklava made my toes curl.”

“You said that about
my
baklava,” she hissed.

“Well, this is even better.” I widened my eyes at her. “It was better than sex,
Lexie.”

One of her auburn eyebrows rose. “That’s a bold statement, coming from you.”

It was true. I’d spent the bulk of my adulthood—thus far—with a fairly liberal sense of sexuality. When done properly, sex could be a lot of fun. And in an attempt to reject my mother’s warped sense of marriage and its fiscal benefits, I’d supported myself financially and scoffed at any use of the “R” word (relationship). I used sex as a really cool way to pass the time and cure boredom. No commitments, no strings, just safe, consensual humping amongst friends. It was a win/win, right?

Wrong. Needless to say, my friends—both of whom were happily married with kids
—were mortified by my lackadaisical attitude about the horizontal boom-boom. They seemed to think I’d been so scarred by my mother’s seven marriages and my father’s inability to commit to anything that I was completely disconnected from what mattered most in life.

             
Marriage. Home. Family. Whatever.

             
“Orgasmic baklava?” Lexie sucked in a sharp breath. “That’s something I’d like to try someday.”

             
“Well, you will, if I have anything to say about it.” I muttered as a woman took two rolls, then scurried away like a rat. “I’m working on this problem and intend to fix it sooner rather than later.”

             
“So you
are
marrying the mechanic?”

             
“No. But I will date him.”

             
Lexie rolled her eyes back at me. “Okay, yesterday you were going to date him just so you could dump him. Now you’re going to date him for his grandmother’s recipes?”

             
“Yes,” I said. “Don’t say I never did anything for our business.”

             
Lexie shook her head and laughed. “This is a new low even for you, Mar.”

             
I lowered my voice as a group of people passed. “Oh, don’t make it sound so dirty. I’m not going to sleep with him for the recipes. Though it
is
tempting. He’s really quite beautiful, in a greasy, gritty,
he-might-punch-me-in-the-face
sort of way.” I jutted out my hip and laughed.

             
“Ugh.” Lexie wrinkled her nose. “You have such a way with words.”

             
I smoothed down the front of my apron. “Thank you.”

             
“So you’re not going to sleep with him?”

             
“No.”

             
“Even though he’s kind of hot?”

             
“Yes.”
              “And you’re Marisol, queen of hooking up with gorgeous men.”

             
Giving her a pointed look, I thrust the basket of rolls into another person’s face. “Fresh sourdough rolls with brie centers. Made this morning.”

             
A woman with a giant nose ring squealed with delight. “Oh, my! Sounds delicious. Thank you.”

             
“I told you the brie center was genius,” I whispered to Lexie. As soon as nose ring lady walked away, I added, “Scoring those recipes will be worth abstaining from sex with Demo-the-mechanic. Because his grandmother’s baklava recipe alone could make his prowess in the bedroom seem wanting.”

             
My friend’s eyes widened as she scanned the room. “Um, are you sure about that?”

             
I plucked a mushroom off of her tray, and popped it into my mouth. “Positive,” I said around my mouthful. “Knocking the dickhead off of his high horse will be an added bonus.” When I finished chewing, I swallowed and blinked at Lexie. Her face had gotten almost as red as her hair. “What’s up with you?”

             
“Well, I don’t know about Demo the dickhead,” she said lowly, her eyes bugging out of her head. “But you’ve got a tasty pastry staring at you over there. And oh… oh, my.”

             
“What? Who?” Brushing crumbs off of the front of my shirt, I looked over my shoulder. Sweat instantly pricked at my hairline. “Holy crap! It’s
him
.”

             
There, at the far end of the room talking to a group of men, was Demo—watching me with a half annoyed, half amused expression on his face. He looked a little out of place, with a plaid shirt tucked tucked into a pair of pressed cargo khakis. On his feet he wore scuffed church shoes, and his wild brown hair had been gelled into submission. Everyone else in the room was wearing their best. Suits, dresses, slacks, ties. But not Demo Antonopolous. With his scruffy five o’clock shadow and grease stained fingernails, he looked like he’d stumbled into the wrong party on his way to a Nascar event.

             
He kinda looked like hell. The sad part was? He looked
good
that way.

             
“Damn…” It came out half groan, half whimper, and I regretted saying it the second it came out my mouth. A fire had started deep down low in my belly.

             
Lexie choked on a snicker. “No time like the present to put this plan into effect, Mar.”

             
“Shut up,” I snapped. She just grinned at me, the cocky little brat. “Fine. It’s time for my ten minute break anyway.”

             
“I couldn’t agree more.” She handed the nearly empty mushroom tray to me and grabbed the baskets. “Go give him some mushrooms. A way to a man’s heart is through his—”

             
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. I tried that with your husband and he still rejected me.”

             
Her cheeks pinked when she smiled like a lovesick tween. “Okay, then. Good luck.”

             
Tugging the elastic out of my hair, I shook it so that it tumbled down over my shoulders, and prayed there wasn’t a health inspector at the meeting tonight. Then, after hoisting the tray up onto my shoulder, I sauntered my way across the room, swaying my hips like a hula dancer. I was pretty sure I looked like a moron, strutting around like a cat in heat, but I could tell by the way Demo’s jaw dropped that it was getting the desired affect.

             
“Good evening, gentlemen,” I purred, swirling the tray off of my shoulder and holding it under their noses. “Want to try some of my lobster stuffed white mushroom caps? From what I’ve been told, they’ll melt in your mouth.”

             
All of the men in the semi-circle dove into the mushrooms like they’d been in a Turkish prison, but Demo stared at me, his brows pinched together. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

             
I blinked at him. “I’m the caterer. Why don’t you try a mushroom?”

             
“No thanks.” A waiter passed by with a bacon wrapped shrimp, so he grabbed one and popped it in his mouth.

             
Anger bubbled in my chest.
Nobody
rejected my food. “Are you kidding me?”

             
Lexie whisked past my back with the breadbaskets. “Tsk, tsk, Marisol,” she whispered.

             
Dammit.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to cool down.
Remember the recipes.

             
“How are the shrimp?” I asked casually.

             
He swallowed. “Good.”

             
“Oh, wonderful. Because I made those, too.” Topping my sentence off with a wink, I put a hand on my hip and smiled at the row of men standing before me, chewing like cattle. “Well, boys, have you tried the cedar smoked salmon pate?”

             
“Pate?” One guy who looked like he’d been over served by at least two drinks, maybe more, wrinkled his face. “Isn’t that fish eggs?”

             
He breathed on me, and I held my breath until the fog cleared. Make that four drinks.