Chapter Nineteen

PRODUCT PREP. Check.

Sauté pans, serving bowls, plating kit, and knives. Check.

Clean jacket, apron, and extra side towels. Check.

Rachel stood staring at the growing pile of equipment in plastic milk crates near her front door, crossing each item off her list as she came to it. She’d been up since dawn, cutting and chopping and slicing and parboiling, ensuring she had the minimum number of tasks to complete for tonight. She was all too aware that it wasn’t only her food that would be under scrutiny, but her method, so she would do everything she could to make sure she worked as cleanly and professionally as possible. Someone might forgive a disorganized chef as long as the food tasted good, but they certainly wouldn’t invest in her restaurant.

Of course, this level of organization in any other profession would be cause for clinical treatment.

Rachel glanced at the clock and saw the hour hand was already edging toward four. Enough time to shower, dress, put on a little makeup, and then get over to Alex’s to set up ahead of the first guests.

She wasn’t sure which made her more nervous: the inaugural meeting of the Saturday Night Supper Club or the prospect of seeing Alex again.

She’d kept her distance for the past several days, claiming preparations for tonight but really needing space from both him and her feelings toward him. That could, of course, be the wrong approach. It was just attraction, after all. Chemistry tended to wear off once you got to know a person and learned all their quirks and flaws. The fact she hadn’t yet found any deal-breakers was simply proof that she hadn’t spent much time with him.

A text message beeped through on her phone, as if he knew she was thinking about him. How’s everything going? Need help with your supplies? Should I bring a paper bag for you to breathe into?

She texted back, I’ll text you to help me carry everything up when I get there. Have paper bag standing by.

Immediately, his response: Yes, Chef.

Somehow, the fact that he was thinking about her and planning ahead took some of the nervousness from her stomach. He was taking this as seriously as she was, making sure she was okay, that everything was running smoothly. This should be a piece of cake anyway. She was an award-winning chef. Her problem was one of image, not talent or execution. The menu was excellent, creative but not too high-concept, both elegant and accessible. It was a good representation of what she had done at Paisley, what she was capable of executing on a larger scale. As long as she kept her head in the game, smiled and made polite small talk, and didn’t burn anything, it would be fine.

She managed to convince herself of that through her shower and makeup. She selected a bright-blue, pleated jersey tank that no one would see under her jacket, simply because it was her favorite. Her hair got braided first and then twisted into a knot on the back of her neck, her typical no-nonsense kitchen style; though tonight she added a pair of big silver hoop earrings. She wavered on footwear before sliding her feet into her least orthopedic-looking pair of kitchen clogs. It was what she was used to, and standing on Alex’s concrete floors for hours would wreak havoc on her back without them.

And then there was nothing left to do. Time to go.

She gave herself one last once-over in the mirror, took a deep breath, and grabbed her tote. Showtime.

When she arrived, Alex was waiting for her in the parking lot, obviously taking her at her word that she would be there at six sharp. He hopped off the low brick wall and strode toward her car, looking so casually handsome in his dress pants and relaxed button-down shirt that her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Thank goodness she had tinted windows or he would see her gaping at him. She’d thought the impact of those good looks would have worn off by now, that it was simply her memory constructing an improved picture of reality, but every time she saw him, she was taken aback all over again.

God had done good work when it came to him.

She stepped out of the car and put on a confident smile. “Door-to-door service. I’m impressed.”

“I aim to please,” he said, beaming that megawatt smile in her direction. “Everything’s in the back?”

“Three crates,” she said. “And the cooler.”

He took the cooler and the heaviest of the crates, leaving the others for her, and they half-walked, half-waddled up the sidewalk into the lobby. “I hope you approve of the decor. My sister has been fussing over the details since she got up this morning and telling me I know nothing about design.”

Rachel grinned. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

“And she can’t wait to meet you. I apologize in advance for the questions you’re going to get. Dina is nosy.”

“That’s okay. I’m used to it. I have the two nosiest friends in the universe.”

Alex juggled his load and pressed the elevator button with his elbow. “Do you need more than a half hour to set up? I put seven on the invitation, but one couple is perennially early.”

“Nope. We’re good. Everything’s ready.” She didn’t tell him that she had a list of tasks, timed to the minute, stuffed in her pocket in case she got overwhelmed. It had been a long time since she needed a cheat sheet, but it had also been a long time since she worked with a new menu in someone else’s space. Catering and private cheffing were far different than cooking in a commercial kitchen. She’d made sure to adjust for the residential cooktop and standard oven when she made her schedule.

The elevator leveled out at the top floor, and Alex leaned against the door to keep it open while she moved her boxes out. No sooner did his hand touch the condo’s door handle than the door swung open to reveal a pretty young woman.

“There you are! Do you need any help?”

“Nope. This is it.” Alex hustled his crates over to the kitchen, then returned for Rachel’s. “Dina, this is Rachel Bishop. Rachel, my sister, Dina.”

“Nice to meet you.” Rachel shook the girl’s hand, looking her over surreptitiously. She upgraded her initial impression from pretty to beautiful, no surprise considering her older brother, with pale skin and dyed-dark hair tied up into a bun on top of her head. Bright swaths of purple showed through the brown, several industrial piercings marked her ears, and the edge of a tattoo peeked around the side of her neck. Pretty much on par for every server Rachel had worked with. Unlike many of those, however, she was dressed professionally in conservative black slacks and a crisply pressed white shirt.

“Can I help with anything? I’m sitting on my hands until everyone gets here.”

It wasn’t an idle offer; she seemed to be really eager to help. Rachel nodded toward the crates. “You can help me unpack if you wouldn’t mind. I need to get the fish from the cooler to the refrigerator.”

“I’d love to.” Dina hefted the cooler onto the countertop and began taking out the seafood, which had been cleaned and nestled in individual plastic bags of ice, while Rachel unpacked metal ninth pans filled with prepped ingredients.

“I appreciate the help tonight, Dina. Alex tells me you came all the way from LA for this. I hope it didn’t ruin your weekend plans.”

“No, I jumped at the chance. I wanted to see my brother. And this woman that he’s going all out for.” Dina stole a look at her. “No offense.”

“None taken.” She sent a wry look toward Alex where he was straightening the sofa cushions. “Your brother has an overdeveloped sense of honor, I think.”

“He does. He’s a good guy. Which is why I wondered why you two aren’t dating yet. You are into guys, aren’t you?”

Rachel gave her a bemused look. “Yes. I’m into guys. I just have a rule about dating people I work with. It never ends well, and this is kind of like working together.”

“That makes you the smart one, then,” Dina muttered. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

“Sometimes we have to learn the hard way.” Dina didn’t seem to have a filter, but Rachel liked her all the same. She had a good-natured, if direct, way about her. No doubt she made good tips as a server. She wondered if this “hard way” was the reason Dina had come a thousand miles to help with a dinner party.

“Rachel, do you want to take a look at the roof deck before you get started?” Alex came over to the island, giving her a significant look.

“Good idea. Dina, can you finish unpacking these? I’ll sort through them when I get back.” Dina nodded, and Rachel followed Alex to the staircase and up to the roof.

“Sorry about that,” he murmured over his shoulder. “She’s been trying to drag details out of me since she flew in last night. Doesn’t believe me that there are no details to tell.”

“No problem.” Rachel didn’t want to acknowledge her disappointment that Alex was dismissing the possibility so thoroughly when she’d done the exact same thing a moment ago. They emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and a delighted smile broke onto her face.

“This looks amazing.” While the setting had been casual for the Fourth of July party, today he’d arranged the outdoor seating into groupings, creating little pockets of privacy with the potted plants. The Edison lights still crisscrossed overhead, waiting for dark to fall so they could light up like tethered fireflies. Combined with the breathtaking views, it would be the perfect way to end an evening.

“I can’t take all the credit. Bryan and Dina helped. Well, Bryan mostly mocked me. Come to think of it, so did Dina.”

“It’s your place, so of course you get to take the credit. I won’t tell anyone.” Rachel glanced at her watch. Already a quarter past six. She needed to get going with her mise en place if she was to stay on time.

“I’m throwing you off schedule.”

“No. Well, yes, but that’s okay. Have I thanked you yet? I really appreciate this.”

“Don’t thank me until you wow them. Which you will.” He nudged her arm, his smile giving her a warm glow inside and beginning the next round of butterflies.

“I hate this part. And I love it. Even in the restaurant, it was like waiting for the curtain to go up on opening night.”

“You have nothing to worry about. They will be as impressed by you as I am.”

If she could see her reflection, she’d find her cheeks had turned pink; she was sure of it. “I always avoided publicity because I tend to stick my foot in my mouth.”

“Relax. You don’t have to sell yourself. Your food will do that. Just have fun. Be yourself. They’ll love you.” He cocked his head. “Although . . .”

“Although what? You’re making me nervous.”

“You should lose the jacket.”

She looked down at the crisp white garment. “Why? People are used to seeing chefs in jackets at events.”

“Exactly. I don’t want them to think you’re the help. You’re the cohost who happens to be cooking as well.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure. Now take it off.” He gave her a wicked grin, to which she just narrowed her eyes. But she did as he asked, handing over her apron first and then unbuttoning the long placket.

“Much better.” He shook out the apron and stepped forward to wrap it around her waist again. She dared not breathe while he had his arms around her, forced herself not to react at the barest brush of his hand against her skin while he wrapped and tied the strings in front of her. It was a thoughtless gesture that had suddenly become one of the most intimate things she’d ever experienced.

She couldn’t hold her breath any longer and it came out in a shaky exhalation that gave away far more than she’d intended. His gaze moved to hers, and she saw the exact moment he caught her thoughts, his eyes darkening. So he felt it too. Maybe that shouldn’t please her quite so much.

“I think you’re right,” she said finally. “Much better. However, I wait too much longer and we’re not having dinner. Shall we?”

“After you.”

She clambered down the stairs back to the main floor, taking the opportunity for a mental reset. Mind on the food, not on her cohost. Not on the fact she swore his gaze had dipped to her mouth for a split second when only inches had separated them. Not on the fact her heart was beating so hard that he could probably see it through the thin fabric of her shirt. Focus on the first task, and then the one after that. It wasn’t Alex she needed to impress tonight.

By six thirty on the dot, everything was ready, glass bowls of prepped ingredients arranged neatly on the counter next to her cutting board, freshly sharpened knives laid out on a side towel. At six forty, the first knock came at the door.

Alex strode by the kitchen island on his way to the door and gave her a wink. “Showtime.”

So it began. After the first knock, it didn’t stop for the next twenty minutes. Alex brought each group of guests to the kitchen to meet Rachel, introducing each with a summary of how he knew them and an interesting fact about them. Alex was a good host, skilled in striking up a conversation, though he quickly moved them away to mix drinks at the bar cart on the opposite side of the room. Soon, the room was pleasantly full, eleven guests plus Rachel, Alex, and Dina, the latter circulating through the room offering drink refills to the guests. Inevitably, a few guests wandered to the barstools at the kitchen island, where Rachel was working on the first course.

“You’re the chef who got destroyed on Twitter,” said one woman about her age —Margot, the art director, Rachel recalled —then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

Rachel grimaced. “No, that’s me. Note to self: verify press credentials before speaking to anyone with a camera.”

Assured that she hadn’t offended her, Margot leaned across the island with her drink. “What are the apples for?”

Rachel had had some experience doing demonstrations at food and wine festivals, so she’d purposely left herself some prep work that was both nonessential and allowed her some quick use of very sharp knives. “These are part of the second course. Fameuse variety. Have a taste.” She pushed a piece of apple to the edge of her cutting board with the spine of her knife and waited as the woman nabbed it.

“Ooh, that’s sweet. I can’t wait.”

“Local Colorado produce,” Rachel said with a conspiratorial smile, then turned to Margot’s companion. “So, Roger, Alex said you are a news producer? Sounds interesting.”

“Not as interesting as what you do,” he said. “But it pays the bills.”

Handsomely if that ring on his fiancée’s finger was any indication. She couldn’t help wondering if he was one of the people Alex intended as a potential investor. “I’m going to send out the first course now. Do you want to grab the bread baskets and ask Alex to call everyone to the table?”

“Sure.” Margot grabbed one of the baskets on the island, glad to be of help —another thing Rachel had learned from her demo experiences. It didn’t matter what the guests did as long as they felt like part of the production.

Roger went upstairs to retrieve the guests who had gone to the roof deck with their drinks, while Rachel pulled the glass dish from the oven and began portioning the baked tomatoes onto pristine porcelain dishes Alex had on the shelf. For someone who didn’t cook, he certainly had all the right equipment for it. The kitchen was set up as she would have done it herself, all things within easy reach, sensibly organized for maximum efficiency. She let herself think about cooking for him in this space for a bare minute before she ditched it and put her mind back on the work.

Guests began converging at the table, and Dina materialized gracefully to explain the amuse-bouche that had already been set at their places.

Alex caught Rachel’s eye and gave her a nearly imperceptible nod. Even though she had printed out menus and placed them on each plate, she still needed to talk. She moved to the head of the table, reminding herself she’d done this sort of thing every day with her staff, and waited until the chatter died down. “For the first course tonight, we’ve got heirloom tomato tian with truffle-thyme breadcrumbs. With the exception of the seafood, everything we’re eating tonight has been grown or raised on family farms in Colorado.”

Murmurs of appreciation went around, and people picked up forks as their plates were set before them. Rachel returned to the kitchen and cleared the remnants of that first course, wiped down the countertops and cutting boards, reset her mise en place. Course number two. The whole time, she darted looks at the faces of the diners, noting whether their expressions were pleased, disgusted, or neutral. Some of the guests were difficult to read, but mostly she registered positive responses. The conversation picked back up again, laughter beginning, the tone noticeably brighter than it had been several minutes ago. That was the best indication that the food was good —the lightening of moods, the breaking down of inhibitions.

A cold dish was next, smoked trout with horseradish and apples; it plated up quickly and gave Rachel time to prepare for number three. The scallops, served over artichoke puree with sautéed wild oyster mushrooms, were a tricky proposition because they required a quick sear while she was getting down the puree so everything went out hot. She put down pans on two burners, cranked them up, then took hot plates from the warming drawer. The scallops went on in stages, giving her enough time to plate each pan and have Dina whisk them away to the table as they were finished. Total time to serve the entire table? Four minutes.

She’d found her groove at last, Dina’s expert assistance letting her work like she would in her own restaurant, quietly calling her for pickup of the plates as she finished them. Meanwhile Alex presided over the table, opening the properly matched bottles of wine and passing them around, steering the conversation when it lulled. She was beginning to get used to the sound of his voice tickling at the edge of her awareness, a pleasant tenor that made her smile whenever it deepened in laughter. Now that she’d listened to him all night without being a participant in the conversation, she thought she could hear the bare edge of a Russian accent, so slight that no one who wasn’t looking for it would ever pick it up.

“Rachel.” Alex waved her over. Her heart jumped into her throat as she moved to the table.

Craig —a wine distributor, if she recalled correctly —looked up at her. “This ricotta cheesecake is magnificent. What is it that I taste? I pick up the raspberry in the compote, but I can’t place the other flavor.”

Rachel smiled conspiratorially and leaned down to reply, “It’s fresh fig.”

He brightened like she’d given him the secret to some unsolvable puzzle. “That’s exactly what it is. Truly a surprise, young lady. Lovely food.”

“Thank you.” She looked around the rest of the table, unable to keep from beaming as the rest of them added their compliments.

The cucumber-mint sorbet came out next, more an intermezzo than a full course. Then dessert: Melody’s elegant pistachio financiers. Rachel had topped the tiny French almond cakes with homemade orange blossom ice cream and garnished it with candied citrus peel and chopped pistachios. She could swear she heard a couple gasps of delight when Dina put the plates down in front of them.

And then, like that, it was over. Three hours of focused work, being in the spotlight along with her food, and everyone was moving up to the roof deck for after-dinner drinks. She began to clean up, but Dina pushed her out of the way. “I’ll do these. You go up and mingle. There were a lot of whispers about you between courses, so I think you should go be social.”

“Thank you, Dina. You were absolutely perfect. I’d hire you in a second if you were available. And if I could actually offer you a job.”

“I would take it. I think you made my brother even more popular than he was before.”

Rachel removed her apron and folded it on the counter, then checked herself over to make sure her clothes were clean and her makeup intact. She climbed the stairs to the roof deck, where the party was still in full swing, people laughing with glasses in their hands and the lights glowing like stars overhead.

“Come meet your adoring public.” Alex’s voice in her ear was close enough to make her heart jump all over again. He pressed a glass in her hand with the whisper, “Lemonade,” and then steered her toward a group with one hand on her lower back.

“Chef Rachel, the woman of the hour!” one man said. His name sailed straight out of Rachel’s head in the face of his ebullient greeting. “Alex was just telling us about the difficulty with Paisley. What exactly happened there?”

“Just a nasty bit of politics and an unfortunate interview with a tabloid. We decided it was better that they buy me out of the restaurant while I worked on some new concepts.” An abbreviated and whitewashed version of the truth if she’d ever given one.

“So what’s the new concept, if I might ask?” Mystery Man’s wife, Sophia, asked.

“I’m still working on the details while I look for the right partner. But I’d most likely continue along the lines of modern Continental with a farm-to-table ethic.”

Alex whisked her away to another group, who simply wanted to compliment her food and take a selfie with her, to which she of course agreed. A few guests wanted to know her culinary background and were surprised she hadn’t gone to school, then were impressed by the list of restaurants in which she’d worked in New York. It seemed that Manhattan’s fine dining cred extended all the way to Denver, at least within certain circles. And then she and Alex were bidding the guests good-bye as joint hosts, giving her the weird sensation that they were a couple sending them away from their shared home.

As soon as the door closed on the last guest, Rachel swept the remaining dishes into the sink. She waved off Dina while she rinsed plates and transferred them to the dishwasher. “I’d say that was successful.”

“More than successful. Look.” Dina showed her phone screen. “You’re trending.”

“What? Who started the hashtag?”

Dina grinned. “Alex and I might have tweeted and Instagrammed each dish as it went down.”

Rachel grabbed the phone. “Wait. You’re kidding. You two have more than thirty thousand followers combined.”

“The power of social used for good and not evil.” Alex beamed, clearly delighted with himself. “Look at all the people who are asking how they get an invite to the next one.”

Rachel leaned back against the counter, overwhelmed and overcome. “You guys . . .”

“No, we didn’t do anything. You did this. Rachel, it was probably the best meal I’ve ever had. You really outdid yourself. Roger was asking what kind of investment you were looking for, even though I don’t think he has the kind of money you’ll need. But he knows people who do.”

Rachel’s attention fixed on Alex. Her vision was getting surprisingly blurry. “Thank you.”

Dina pushed away from the island. “I think there are still some glasses upstairs. I’m going to go check.”

Alex didn’t seem to notice his sister’s departure. “Hey, no tears allowed. This should be a celebration. Your food was amazing and you were magnetic. Everyone knew they got a glimpse of something special tonight.”

“I have to admit, the meal was pretty impressive.”

“The meal was nothing short of spectacular.”

She threw her head back and laughed, her mood swinging back hard enough to give her whiplash. She impulsively threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you. I could practically kiss you right now.”

“And I’d be perfectly okay with that.” His voice turned husky as he pressed her a little closer.

She immediately pulled back. “Alex . . .”

He sighed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he reached up and began to remove the pins from her knot with agonizing slowness, until her braid unwound down her back. “We’ve been dancing around this since we met.”

“But we work together —”

“I don’t see either of us getting paid for this.” He unraveled her braid, his fingers combing through the still-damp strands and sending shivers down her back. “I’m convinced that you can’t think like a woman while you have chef hair.”

She laughed, but the sound came out breathy and not at all with the derisive tone she had intended. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is most definitely a thing. Now. What does Rachel Bishop —not Chef Rachel —want to do?”

Rachel stared up into his face for a long moment. There was desire there, no mistake, but there was also amusement and endless patience. He was not at all what she had thought he was, not when she had first read his byline and not when he made his initial offer to help her. Even now, when the lightest touch in her hair had her trembling, he wasn’t going to push his advantage.

She should do the sensible thing and walk away, keep this relationship strictly friendship, preserve her autonomy. And yet she was edging closer to him as if drawn by an irresistible magnetic force. “Things are just starting to go my way. What if we get involved and then the supper club suffers . . . ?”

“Don’t overthink it, Rachel.” His breath came warm on her cheek, so close his lips would be on her skin if she moved a millimeter toward him. The knowledge struck her with a wave of longing so strong it nearly took her off her feet, too strong to resist. She let it sweep her into him until their lips met. And then their arms were around each other, fingertips caressing, mouths exploring with delicious, torturous patience. All of her earlier objections melted away beneath his touch. She’d wanted this for longer than she cared to admit, and now that she was in his arms, she couldn’t remember why she’d resisted it.

“Hmm,” a teasing voice said behind them. “So much for the rules.”

Rachel pulled away, already-heated cheeks flushing deeper, but Alex kept his arm around her waist.

“You have rotten timing, Dina.” Alex’s teasing tone held a hint of annoyance. “You couldn’t have pretended to pick up glasses for a few more minutes?”

“I should be going anyway.” Rachel stepped back, and this time, he did let her go. She found her plating kit and knife bag, glad they were already packed —her trembling hands didn’t lend themselves to handling sharp objects. She piled the cases on top of the clean dishes in the crate and hefted them. “Could you two grab the rest and help me out to the car?”

Keep it professional. It’s bad enough that you initiated it, even worse that Dina walked in on you. You can at least act like it didn’t matter.

But it did matter. She would be lying to herself to think otherwise. She had crossed a line with him from which there was no coming back.

“Dina needs to shut off all the lights upstairs.” Alex gave his sister a pointed look and lifted the other crate and the ice chest. “Come on, Rachel. I’ll walk you out.”

They rode the elevator down in silence, Alex seeming perfectly comfortable with it even while she suffocated beneath its weight. “Alex —”

“No overthinking, remember?” He bent down to drop a quick, not-quite-chaste kiss on her lips, right before the elevator arrived at the ground floor and the doors slid open. “We’ll need to set a second date, you know.”

“A —a what?”

“For the supper club. Now that your food blew up the Internet, I expect every last person I know to beg an invite. Do you think you could come up with another menu for two weeks from now?”

The change in topic stunned her. She shook off her post-kiss daze. “I expect I could. That puts us into late July, so I’ll have different produce to work with. Let me see what I can do.”

“And I’ll start filtering the requests. You may want to think about what you’d charge for a prix fixe menu like this in your restaurant and I’ll put it out.”

“Wait, I thought —”

Alex grinned at her. “One more like this and I expect the Saturday Night Supper Club will be the hottest ticket in town. The more you charge for it, the more everyone will be dying to be a part of it. Trust me on this one. Now you’re in business.”

“Then that makes us partners.”

“I’m hoping it makes us more than that.” He bent down, but this time, his lips only grazed her cheek. “Good night, Rachel. Congratulations again.”

“Good night, Alex.” She climbed in her car, put it into gear, and pulled away from his building, slipping into the dark night. She tried to sort through the successes of the evening, think about the next steps, but every time her mind drifted back to Alex and that prematurely interrupted kiss.