Chapter Thirteen

RACHEL HAD BEEN STARING at the boxes she’d brought from Paisley for nearly a week, as if by leaving them unopened, the whole situation might prove to be a bad dream. Like she might magically stumble upon a restaurant lacking a chef and move the boxes straight into her new office as if she had planned it that way.

That wasn’t going to happen.

She lifted the lid on the first, found the cookbooks that she had dragged around with her since she’d first moved to New York. They were battered and stained, older than her, considering she had found some of them in a secondhand bookshop in Greenwich Village. Larousse Gastronomique, the encyclopedia of French cooking, an early edition. Jacques Pépin’s Complete Techniques. The Escoffier Cookbook, an abridged English version of Georges Auguste Escoffier’s Le Guide Culinaire. Basically, the books that had helped her through her first jobs in fine dining —culinary school for those who couldn’t afford culinary school.

She went to the white-painted built-ins in her living room, shoved over a handful of other books, and slid them onto the shelf.

One by one, she withdrew the composition notebooks that she bought in bulk. Each one had a date written on the front in thick black Sharpie, the day she started a new one. Twelve years’ worth. The early books had notes from the first New York kitchens in which she had worked, some of which were barely decipherable now. The later ones were more relevant, containing ideas for new dishes, flavor pairings, ingredients to try out and the best place from which to buy them. If she lined them up in chronological order, she’d see her growth, her progression from kitchen assistant to line cook to chef. Looking at how far she had come, there was no reason to believe she couldn’t pull off a menu that would dazzle everyone.

She found the last two, dated earlier this year, and brought them with a pen over to her dining room table. Surely there was something in here she could use for the supper club.

Rachel flipped through the pages slowly. Some were cryptic: fennel, acid, add crunch. Others were extremely specific, full recipes that she could make right now. They were written to be specials or menu items, with notes on ordering. Not that she couldn’t scale it down to a meal for twelve, but there were some things —shaved truffles, for example —that weren’t practical when the food costs were coming out of her own pocket.

Focus. Flipping through these books wasn’t getting her anywhere. She’d told Alex she would have some ideas written up in a few days. Right now all she had were columns that said, Amuse-bouche, soup, salad, seafood, meat, dessert, cocktails. She needed to get it together, or she’d be serving them pieces of notebook paper and calling it performance art.

Her phone, left on silent to filter the trickle of calls she was still receiving from the media, lit up. She saw Alex’s name flash on the lock screen with his text message: Can you meet for coffee tomorrow morning?

She picked up the phone, happy for the distraction from her current predicament. Going to farmers’ market in the a.m. Meet me at The English Department before?

I can be there at 6:30.

A smile spread across her face. Sure you’ll be able to get yourself properly dressed by 6:30? It’s not the sort of place that likes sweatpants.

Are you flirting with me, Chef? It sounds like you’re flirting.

A laugh slipped from her lips. You wish.

You’re right, I do.

Her breath gave a hitch as she stared at those four words on her screen. Then a follow-up came through. Okay, you win. 6:30. I’ll be the one looking caffeine-deprived but wearing grown-up clothes.

Deal. She set down her phone and exhaled. She was imagining things. Alex was a jokester; she’d seen that from the beginning. Liked to show off how clever he was, which no doubt translated into women thinking he was flirting with them. There was probably no shortage of disappointed hearts when they realized he was like that with every woman. Unless, of course, he took advantage of the admiring glances he got from half the population.

Probably not the thing to be thinking about a man who was essentially a business partner, or at least a comrade-in-arms in her mission to rebuild her career. There was no reason the same rules shouldn’t apply to him as they did to the restaurant staff with whom she’d worked over the years.

Alex Kanin, for more reasons than one, should be completely off-limits.

*   *   *

When Rachel woke to her alarm the next morning, a knot of nervousness immediately formed in her stomach. It took her a moment to remember she was meeting Alex at her favorite LoDo restaurant in an hour, and she still had absolutely nothing to show him. For all her reading and brainstorming and flailing about, she had made very little progress.

Unless, of course, she defined progress as making a “refrigerator soup” of all the leftovers sitting in her vegetable crisper. An excellent use of things that would otherwise go to waste, but perhaps not the best use of her time considering she was no closer to a completed menu than her initial list of courses.

She dragged herself out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee. By the time she had downed her first cup, she felt slightly more coherent. She had too much time on her hands —that was the problem. She was used to putting together a specials menu in thirty minutes based on the week’s leftovers. Entire days to plan were completely foreign to her process.

Rachel pulled out the notebook and began another list.

• Amuse-bouche —asparagus mousse on homemade crisp
• Vegetable —braised fennel with apples
• Soup —cold corn gazpacho
• Seafood —pan-seared scallops on summer greens salad
• Meat/Game —duck three ways with something brilliant on the side
• Dessert —whatever amazing thing Melody comes up with

Okay, so it barely qualified as a menu, but it was respectable and she wouldn’t embarrass herself by having absolutely nothing. It wasn’t like she was married to it. She still had weeks to go through her notebooks, come up with some great ideas, and put together a menu that would wow the guests.

And then do it however many more times it took to land an investor.

Rachel groaned and scrubbed her fingers through her messy hair. This should be simple for her. What was with the sudden mental block?

She glanced at the clock, realized it was already five past six, and darted for her bedroom. She threw on a pair of jean cutoffs, pulled a bright-green tank over her head, and thrust her feet into shoes that were part ballet flat and part sport shoe. No time to deal with her unruly mop, so she twisted it on top of her head, stuck a pair of chopsticks through the bun, and grabbed her market tote from the closet. At the last minute, she remembered her wallet and her keys, somewhat important if she was to drive anywhere or buy anything today. If Alex thought that she’d accepted his help for any reason other than desperation, her appearance today would put that to rest.

Denver’s Saturday morning traffic was blissfully light, with more cyclists on the road than cars. Rachel found metered parking down the street from Union Station in front of a row of still-shuttered storefronts. As she made her way to the historic building, the pleasant breeze and dawn-blue light put a spring in her step. Later the temperatures would soar into the nineties, the sun shining with enough fury to crisp the skin on her shoulders when she stepped out to water her herb garden, but for now, it was the perfect farmers’ market morning.

Union Station’s facade —Romanesque revival, she’d read somewhere —was all white stone and filigreed arches, topped with an iconic vintage neon sign that she found unaccountably charming. It barely even functioned as a train station these days, with only a few Amtrak trains and a light-rail line coming through each day. Instead, it had been renovated into one of Lower Downtown’s premier shopping and dining spots.

Rachel pushed through the double doors into the expansive, gleaming-white hall, then made a sharp turn down the corridor toward The English Department. Hands down it was her favorite morning spot in the city. Common as the design scheme might be, she still loved its marble and vintage tile and weathered wood, not to mention the way it morphed from casual breakfast and lunch to elegant fine dining in the evening. It was a concept that had always secretly appealed to her —part coffee shop, part restaurant, part general store. But this was the chef-owner’s second location, his first award-winning restaurant giving him the clout and name recognition to make the concept a success. It only worked because he’d already risen to the top of the fine-dining heap and could count on his reputation to back the concept, two things she couldn’t say about herself.

Yet.

She got in line at the wood counter and ordered herself a black cold-brew coffee over ice. At the last moment, she added one of the gorgeous golden-brown empanadas in the glass display case. That was something she hadn’t considered as a menu option: empanadas. Or some sort of hand pie . . .

“That will be $6.05,” the cashier prompted her, his tone saying this wasn’t the first time he’d tried to get Rachel to pay.

“Right. Sorry.” Rachel pulled out a ten-dollar bill, waited for her change, and then tucked a buck into the tip jar.

She was picking up her order when a low voice said in her ear, “You made it. I thought you had changed your mind.”

A shiver ran down her back, and she inhaled the clean scent of soap and freshly laundered cotton before she realized she was doing it. She turned. “Just running late.”

Her gaze met familiar hazel eyes, tinged green this morning from the light and their surroundings. She involuntarily looked Alex up and down, taking him in —crisp white T-shirt, khaki cargo shorts, clean running shoes —and felt her breath hitch again. What was wrong with her? It was practically the city’s Saturday morning uniform; every guy in the entire place was dressed like that. And yet . . .

“I saved us a table outside on the patio. Let me take your food while you grab your flatware.” He took her drink and plate from her hand and headed back outside, leaving her to stare after him like an idiot.

By the time Rachel grabbed a fork and a knife and a stack of napkins, she had herself together. She slid into the wrought-iron bistro seat across from him and set her cutlery neatly beside her plate. She had to look at this objectively. He was obviously attractive. The looks that the women around them kept casting their way said that clearly enough, as did the way their gazes lingered on her. No doubt they were wondering how someone like her, puffy-eyed and looking like she’d just rolled out of bed, landed someone like him. She felt like telling them to give it a rest since she had no interest in him besides the contents of his virtual Rolodex.

He unhooked his sunglasses from the collar of his shirt and slipped them on, giving her a glimpse of defined biceps and proving she was a big fat liar.

“Eat.” He nudged her plate toward her. “We can talk business when you’re done. I’m enjoying the sunshine before it gets too hot.”

Already too hot for my taste. She stifled a grin. At least she was maintaining a sense of humor about the whole thing.

Rachel cut into the empanada with her knife and fork and took a bite. “The spinach one is my favorite.”

“You should try the chorizo. It’s inspired. Although I’ve probably had all of them a dozen times.”

Here she thought she was setting the meeting on her own home turf and it turned out to be his as well. “You come here often?”

“At least once a week since it opened.” He swept a hand toward the plaza and the sidewalk beyond. “It’s one of my favorite places to people-watch.”

“I’m surprised I haven’t run into you. Melody, Ana, and I meet here almost as often. Ana works up the street.”

Alex sat back in his chair. “The three of you have known each other a long time?”

“Six years. Or rather, I’ve known them for six years. Melody was a pastry assistant at my first restaurant here in Denver, but she and Ana have known each other for longer.”

“A formidable trio, I’d say.”

Rachel smiled. “Something like that. We complement each other’s strengths and weaknesses. Despite our crazy jobs, we manage to get together a couple times a week. More now that I’m not chained to the restaurant.”

“Is that how it felt? Chained?”

“Are you psychoanalyzing me, Alex?”

He chuckled, having the grace to look embarrassed. “Sorry. Bad habit. I’m always curious about the words people use. Especially interesting people.”

She skimmed right over the implied compliment. “What about you? What do you do when you’re not writing?”

“That’s a double-edged question. I’m either writing all the time or not writing at all. And when I’m not writing, I’m doing anything I can to keep myself busy.”

“Ah, so that’s the reason for the early-morning invitation.” Rachel polished off the empanada and leaned back in her chair too, cradling her glass in her hands.

“Actually, I have news. I took a quick poll of the first guest list, and it looks like the inaugural event for the supper club will be two weeks from today.”

Rachel coughed as her iced coffee went down the wrong way and spluttered until she could regain the power of speech. “What? Two weeks? No, I can’t possibly . . .”

“You’re going to have to. It’s the only weekend we’ll get a decent turnout until the end of July. You’re telling me that you can’t come up with a menu in two weeks?”

“Of course I can come up with a menu in two weeks. It’s all the other things. First we have to settle on a theme. Order the food. Figure out the decor and the plating to match the theme. Then I’ll need waitstaff to help —”

“I’ve already got the last one under control. My sister is going to be in town, and she’s volunteered to help. She’s a struggling actress in LA, so she has a lot of experience as a server.”

He’d been that sure she would agree? She supposed she’d never had a choice, anyway, since their schedule was dictated by their guests, but somehow she’d thought she’d have more time to prepare.

“What exactly are you afraid of here, Rachel?”

“I’m not afraid.” She narrowed her eyes. “You’re analyzing me again. What are you, a shrink?”

“Yes.”

“Very funny.” She sipped her coffee, then realized he wasn’t smiling. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“I got all the way through a master’s degree in psychology before I realized I had no interest in clinical practice. I guess I should be happy I figured it out before I got too far into my PhD.”

“Must be nice to be able to walk away from an education like that.” Too late, she realized how accusatory it sounded.

“Trust me, my parents were furious. They’re academics, so naturally they figured I’d either choose counseling or teaching. When I said I was going to be a freelance writer, I thought they were going to try to have me committed.” He cracked another smile, that irresistible dimple peeking out. “That’s a shrink joke, by the way.”

As if she hadn’t had enough reasons to be wary of him, now she knew he could probably read her like a book. “So have you been analyzing me all this time?”

“Of course not. At least not really. I only use my powers for good.” He leaned forward. “Relax, Rachel. Just because I’m trained in psychology doesn’t mean I’m going to start telling you that you’ve got control issues. Anyone who spends time with you could tell that, psych degree or not.”

Rachel’s mouth dropped open in shock until she realized he was joking. She threw her crumpled-up napkin at him. “You’re such a jerk.”

“I know. My mad psychology skills make me incredibly self-aware.” He grinned broadly. “So, are we going to go or what? We don’t want to miss first pick of the vendors.”

“You’re going with me?”

“Of course I am. You don’t think I’m going to oversee my investment?”

“What investment? Your reputation, you mean?”

“Oh no. These are my friends, not paying guests; therefore I pick up the tab. Not for your experimentation, of course, since you could consider that the cost of doing business, but I’ll expect an itemized invoice the night of the dinner.”

She stared at him. “I can’t figure you out, Alex.”

“I’m flattered that you’d try. Now we better go. I’ll even let you drive.”