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I laughed. “Why?”

He removed the steaks and placed them on a clean platter. “Those’ll be ready to eat in five.” He opened the oven and removed two casserole dishes. After getting a salad from the refrigerator, he stepped to the island. “A Hispanic man applying for a cook’s position is working to provide his family with a place to live, food to eat, and clothes to wear. He knows damned good and well that he’s already got one strike against him, because he’s a Mexican. In his eyes, he started the job with one foot out the door. He’ll work his ass off to keep it. The woman is either working because her husband told her to get a job or because she wants a new handbag, dress, or jewelry of some sort. None of those reasons will make her a good cook or a good worker.”

He was probably right. Regardless of what was driving him, the man’s lack of experience troubled me.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Hire him,” he said. “If he doesn’t work out, I’ll come cook for you for free until you find someone else.”

I laughed.

He looked at Price. “She doesn’t think I’m serious.”

Price chuckled. “Neither do I.”

Jack held out his hand. “Hire the man. If he doesn’t work out, I’ll work for free.”

“If he’s offering to shake on it,” Price said, nodding toward Jack’s outstretched hand. “He’s serious.”

“I’ll decide after dinner,” I said.

Jack peered into the living room. “Sun will be setting in a few minutes.” He nodded toward the food. “Brussel sprouts with bacon and onions, Caesar salad, and andouille sausage-potato casserole. Dig in.”

We fixed our plates and took a seat at a rustic wooden dinner table on the back patio, a covered concrete area that faced the mountains. The food was seasoned—and cooked—to perfection. The Brussel sprouts—which I’d always claimed to dislike—were fabulous. The sausage and potato casserole was so good I wanted the recipe.

I’d take Jack for a cook any day.

I gathered the perfect bite of casserole. “What else can you cook?”

“Damned near anything,” he said. “Been doing it since I was a kid.” He gestured to Price. “His mother and I would have contests, baking pies. The men who ran with me would try ‘em and give ‘em a ranking. We were about fifty-fifty when she passed.”

“That’s commendable,” I said. “Considering Price’s comments about her baking.”

“That woman could bake,” Jack said. “Loved making cakes, cookies, and such. Had a touch of a sweet tooth.”

I nodded at Price. “So does he.”

“Well,” Jack said, grinning as he spoke. “He came about it honestly.”

We sipped our wine, ate our food, and watched the sun set over the mountains in the distance. It was a fantastic change of pace from our normal Sunday dinner out—or cooking at Price’s place.

It was easy to convince myself that we were eating Sunday dinner as a family. It was something I never had as a kid. I often wished for it, but it never happened.

Jack pushed his plate to the side and looked at each of us. He took a drink of his wine. “You two remind me of McNealy’s parents, Earl and Kimberly. They had an energy about ‘em just like you two.”

I was intrigued. “We have an energy?”

“I’m not a pot smoking weirdo,” Jack said. “I’m not meaning something other than worldly. I’m sayin’ you two complement one another.”

“I didn’t think you were a pot smoking weirdo.”

“Well, you were looking at me like you thought I was.”

“I was not.”

He scowled. “Damned sure were.”

“No, I wasn’t. I was. I was intrigued.”