Chapter Fourteen

RACHEL WAS TAKING his pushiness remarkably well. Alex had been pretty certain that she was going to refuse his company and tell him she didn’t need his input. Instead, she finished her coffee and stood, sending him a pointed look. “Well? Are you coming?”

“Yes, Chef.” He rose and tucked his newspaper under his arm.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that.”

She had slipped on her sunglasses, so he couldn’t tell if she was serious or not. He fell into step beside her as they headed across the plaza to the crosswalk. “Do what?”

“Say, ‘Yes, Chef.’ You’re not my employee, and in any case, you don’t really mean it.”

“What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

She lowered her glasses and pegged him with a direct stare. “What do you get out of this? Really? I know what you said before . . .”

“But you don’t believe I would go through this elaborate setup to have the pleasure of your company?”

She nodded.

“You’re right. If I only wanted the pleasure of your company, I would have asked you out instead of offering my place as a supper club. Which I considered, because it’s much less trouble.”

It was all truth, but once more phrased in a way that she could easily brush off. Why she had such a hard time accepting that a man might find her attractive and want to spend time with her, he didn’t know. Or maybe she got that too often and it was all they wanted out of her. That seemed more likely.

Rachel had stopped in front of a battered Toyota SUV, so he climbed into the passenger seat and waited until she got behind the wheel before he gave her a serious answer.

“I pride myself on doing the right thing. I might not always manage it, and God knows that I do the wrong thing plenty, but I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I had helped kill your career without trying to do something about it. And if there’s one thing I’ve found about my creative muse, it’s that it doesn’t do well with guilt.”

She finally focused on him. “That’s the first time you’ve told me the truth.”

“The others were the truth too; this is just the entire truth.”

“So basically you can’t work until I do?”

He nodded.

“And both of our careers hinge on the success of the supper club?” She threw him a mischievous grin, the first indication that they might be finding an equal footing. “That seems fair.”

“You’re kind of mean; do you know that?”

Now she grinned widely as she pulled onto the street. “That’s the second true thing you’ve said to me this morning.”

He grinned too. Who knew that telling her the truth —the one that he thought would make her run as far away from him as possible —would be the thing that cut all the tension between them? Clearly she couldn’t believe he would do something for her out of the sheer goodness of his heart, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. His initial offer had been altruistic, but even that had come out of his need to work.

“Are you listening to this?” He reached for the radio, but she slapped his hand before he could touch the buttons.

“Driver chooses the station. You should have thought of that before you let me drive.”

“Yes . . . ma’am.”

“I liked it better when you called me chef,” she said. “You mean ma’am even less.”

“I guess I’m going to have to suffer through this hipster music you young folk like.”

“It’s classic rock. I’d hardly call it hipster.”

“Tomato, tomahto.” He sat back in his seat, enjoying the frustrated smirk she sent his way, and stifled his laughter. He was really beginning to like this woman, and not because of the picture she made beside him, the streak of sunshine giving her dark hair a golden halo and warming her skin so it gave off a faint, undeniably feminine aura of jasmine.

Okay, not just because.

“So where are we going?” he asked. “There are farmers’ markets all over Denver.”

“Cherry Creek. The Highlands one is usually better, but it’s tomorrow.”

She navigated the Denver streets with the surety of a native, something that always made him wish he was on foot or bike with all the one-way streets, two-way stops, and never-ending road construction. This probably felt like nothing to her, coming from New York.

“Why did you come to Denver?” he asked.

“A job offer.” She glanced at him briefly before returning her eyes to the road in front of her. “One of my old bosses, Aaron Collins, is a Colorado native, and he moved back here to open a new restaurant. It did well and he wanted to open a second location, so he called me in to run it. I was working as a sous in a Michelin three-star restaurant in Manhattan, so it wasn’t an easy decision, but it felt like the right move.”

“So this was a step down?”

“Not exactly. Running your own kitchen is what most of us work for. I’d never been to Denver, so I didn’t know what to expect. There isn’t even a Michelin guide for the city. But I trusted Aaron, so I took the job, packed up my life, and came here.”

“That’s a high level of trust.”

“That’s the kind of man he is. Cooking isn’t like the corporate world. The best chefs are teachers. Their hope is to train you well and send you off to learn from someone else. If my performance reflected well on him with other chefs, they’d send their protégés to him, and so on. It’s kind of expected that you’re going to move on once you’ve come up through a good kitchen. So I trusted that if he was telling me it was a step up, it was a step up.”

It was a foreign concept to him. Universities had tenure, and corporate cultures were all about employee retention. Purposely turning over your best staff to a competitor? Anywhere else it would sound mad. Executives fretted over that sort of thing all the time.

“And that’s where you won the Beard award?”

“He gave me full control over the menu. I stayed true to his concept, but the actual vision was mine. When I got to Denver and realized the whole seasonal cooking approach that had recently become popular in New York was gathering steam here, I wanted to do something new and exciting with it. First we were nominated for best new restaurant, but we didn’t win. I got nominated for best new chef. And didn’t win. And then two years later, I actually won. Believe me, it was completely unexpected. I was pretty sure it was going to be a case of ‘always the bridesmaid.’”

“So when did you decide to go out on your own?”

“When my sous was ready to take over, I felt like it was time to move on. I found investors, the location, worked up a business plan, and Paisley was born.” Pink rose to her cheeks. “I’m talking too much.”

“No, I like it. This is new to me. I kind of thought someone went to culinary school and came out being called chef.”

“Maybe that’s the way it works now, but I went the old-school route. Worked my way up from the bottom . . . Oh look, a parking spot!” She cut herself off as she whipped into a curbside parking place. “We’re going to have to walk. I hope you don’t mind.”

She climbed out and waited for him to do the same, then locked the car behind them. They fell into step together and no one spoke, but for the first time it was a comfortable silence.

“So, do you have a goal for this trip?” Alex asked finally.

“Now that you’ve sprung a two-week deadline on me, I need to get my head together and settle on a menu.”

He could understand the need for inspiration. This trip was certainly serving that purpose for him, though the ideas it was inspiring were probably not ones that were fit to be put down on paper.

They turned the corner and the market appeared, row after row of vinyl awnings set up in the parking lot of the mall in the center of town, throngs of people already crowding the aisles at this early hour. Rachel dove into the madness like a farmers’ market veteran, bypassing some stalls in favor of others, though he couldn’t distinguish any difference between them.

“Ooh,” she exclaimed, weaving her way close to a particular one with bushels stacked on risers, French market style. “Look at this. Have you seen anything so gorgeous?”

“What is that?” The vegetable looked like a mutant celery, with fernlike fronds sticking out at crazy angles.

She stared at him. “It’s fennel. You know, fennel? It tastes like anise.”

“And I should know what anise tastes like because . . .”

She thrust it in his face. “Take a whiff.”

“Licorice?”

“Yeah, kind of.” She buried her nose in the fronds, then held it up to the stand’s proprietor before shoving it into one of her mesh bags.

“Well, now that you’ve molested it, of course you have to buy it. What on earth are you going to do with it?”

“It’s not that unusual. It would be great with a mixed greens salad, diced up to flavor a vinaigrette and the fronds used as a garnish. Or braised with shallots and served as a side to fish or a really good sausage. Or maybe shredded with apples and kohlrabi for an interesting slaw . . .”

He could practically see the wheels turning in her mind, her face brightening and her eyes lighting with excitement. It started a warm feeling in him that he didn’t care to explain. He waited until she paid and then let her steer him back into the flow of pedestrians while they looked for the next find.

It came two stands later, when she declared a bunch of beets “absolutely gorgeous” the way most women would talk about a Cartier diamond. “These are Chioggia. It’s an Italian heirloom variety, and they have these wonderful red and white stripes. I’d probably thinly slice these and serve them raw. But these golden ones . . . Can you believe the color? I wouldn’t expect to find these beautiful small ones this late in the season.” Those went into the string bag too, a growing collection of fragrant, leafy vegetables that burst from the wide-open mesh of her carrier.

“What about these?” He reached around her for a bunch of tricolor carrots, the typical orange bundled with purple and yellow. “I’ve never seen purple carrots before.”

Someone bumped into him from behind, jolting him up against her. His arm automatically closed around her waist to keep her stable, pressing their bodies together from shoulder to knee. He swore he felt a sharp intake of breath, a softening against him, before she moved away. Or maybe that was just her getting the wind knocked out of her from the impact.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s getting crowded.” Rachel took the bunch of carrots from him and examined them a little too carefully.

No, he had been right the first time. The unflappable chef was flustered by him.

That probably wasn’t a great thing for him to know.

“Where now?” he asked. “You’re running out of room.”

She pulled out two more string bags exactly like the first. “I come prepared. But I’ve got enough to begin now. If I can’t come up with something amazing with this beautiful produce, I should just throw in the towel.”

“So you’re done?”

“I think so.”

“Good. My turn.” He grabbed her by the elbow, not missing her flinch as his fingers touched her bare skin —he prayed it wasn’t from repulsion —and tugged her down the aisle to his favorite attraction at the market.

“Funnel cakes?”

“Yes, funnel cakes. Why are you looking at me like that? They’re delicious!”

She lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you were the type.”

“And what type is that, exactly?”

“Just . . .” She waved a hand up and down. “I figured you subsisted on protein bars and plain chicken breasts.”

“I’m flattered. I think. But yes, I like real food. And I like things that don’t qualify as real food, like funnel cakes.”

Alex stepped up to the window of the truck, the scent of hot oil and frying dough and cinnamon sugar enveloping him. “Two please?”

“Just one,” Rachel put in behind him. “I’ll take a little bite of yours.”

“You really aren’t putting an adequate amount of trust in me.”

“Hey, I put churros on the menu at Paisley for summer.”

“But you probably did some fancy French thing with it.”

She actually looked embarrassed. “I made them from pâte à choux and rolled them in sugar and garam masala.”

“I rest my case.” He handed over a bill, received a massive tangle of fried and sugared dough in return, and drew her aside. “Now. Taste.”

Rachel moved in close enough to rip off a small piece and put it delicately in her mouth. She tried to hide her smile as she chewed, but it was useless. “That’s really good.”

“I told you.” He took his own piece and sighed with happiness. “Really, what’s there not to like?”

“Maybe we should have gotten two.” She ripped off a bigger piece this time and munched it while they walked back toward the end of the market where they had parked. He had to resist the urge to offer to take care of the sprinkling of sugar that lingered on her full bottom lip. Definitely not a good idea.

“So tell me —” he changed the subject as quickly as he dared —“what inspiring dishes have you come up with from this trip?”

“I don’t know yet. I’ve got plenty of ideas for dishes, but they all need to work together as a whole. I’m tempted to do a golden beet borscht —what?”

“I’m Russian, so I’m fine with the idea. But I’m not sure anyone else is going to go for borscht.”

“That’s because they haven’t tasted my borscht. Of course, it would be a shame not to use any of the heirloom tomatoes. Maybe a baked tian with some sort of crunchy topping . . .” She sighed happily. “You’ll practically be able to taste summer.”

He watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked back to her car. She radiated contentment with her string bag of vegetables and sugary fingers. He didn’t believe it was because of his presence. Had the supper club given her a sense of purpose? She seemed so far from the guarded, suspicious woman he’d confronted at the food truck pod, he had a hard time believing she was the same person.

“Thanks for letting me come along,” he said when they reached their parking space. “That was fun. Got me out of my writing cave for a while.”

“Thanks for the company. You make a good farmers’ market wingman. Maybe I’ll take you along next time.”

“You know where to find me.”

They fell into another comfortable silence on the way back to Union Station, one that this time he was loath to break with idle conversation until she pulled up behind his car in a paid corner lot.

“I’ll call you when I have a menu. Maybe we should meet at the end of this week to talk about the decor and the service and all that?”

“Absolutely. Just let me know.” He smiled at her and climbed out of the car with an odd sense of loss. “Friday morning maybe.”

“You’re on.” Rachel gave him a little wave and watched until he reached his car, then backed her way out of the tight lot.

Alex shook himself. Rachel was the last person he should be interested in romantically right now. But the feeling of longing in his chest was suspiciously familiar as he drove to his empty condo, parked, rode the elevator up to the top level.

He sat down at his computer in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and began to type. The writing that flowed out of him, however, was something that he could never publish.

For one thing, it didn’t contain even a hint of cynicism. And for another, it revealed far too much of his interest in a beautiful stranger.