by Layla Reyne
Laughter echoed from across the plane’s aisle. “The appendage will grow back, darling. I’m surprised your father didn’t give you a shiny new one before you left.”
He swiped his glasses off the polished wood table, slipped them on, and eyed his mother. Judgmentally. In her hand was the latest and greatest mobile device. The shiniest of them all. “You’re one to talk.”
She winked and blew him a kiss before returning her attention to the phone, typing as she talked. “Just making sure the other jet is ready to go when we land in Napa. I have an early meeting in Chicago, and the plane I’m flying in on leaves again at noon to take clients to London.”
Clancy unwound his scarf and removed his coat, tossing both in his seat. He stepped across the aisle and sank into the chair opposite his mother. “You didn’t have to come all this way to ferry me ninety minutes north.”
Email sent with a whoosh, she dropped the device into the chair’s side pocket, kicked off her heels, and stood. She crossed to the minibar fridge and pulled out a bottle of Dom, along with two chilled flutes. “This might be the last chance I get to see you before Christmas.” She handed him the glasses, then used the jagged hem of her cashmere sweater to pop the cork. Once she’d filled the flutes, she set the bottle aside and took a glass from him. “Happy holidays, my beautiful, smart boy.”
“Thanks, Mom.” He tapped the crystal rim against hers. “And happy holidays to you too.”
Her green eyes, the same as his, sparkled with joy and the same pride that’d shone in them at the party last week. Clancy’s chest warmed with more than just champagne bubbles. He’d worked so hard to please his parents, wanting to live up to the kid-sized UCLA Med scrubs his dad had dressed him in for his third grade picture. Two decades later, he was finally there. He even had a picture of the nameplate on his office door saved on his phone and emails from the charity organizers in his inbox.
His smile waned and barely a second passed before red toenails nudged his knee. “What’s that about?” his too perceptive mother asked.
“What’s what about?” He ducked his chin and guzzled more Dom, snorting when the bubbles fizzled up his nose.
She wouldn’t be deterred. “That frown you tried and failed to hide.”
He toed off his own shoes and folded his legs under him, sliding all the way back in the cushy leather seat. The demands of an accelerated undergrad program, med school, and then his plastic surgery residency and volunteer oncology rotations had left him little time to take advantage of this particular parental perk. Despite having multiple planes at his mother’s disposal, he’d only flown on them a handful of times. More often, Miranda and Robert had flown to him.
“Just bummed I’ll miss Christmas with you,” he said. Also true, if not what had caused his mood to dip.
She saw right through him. “You did not inherit your father’s talent for bullshitting.”
“That was one of the things my oncology attending in med school commended.” He tried not to sound too wistful. “I didn’t bullshit our patients.”
She tilted her head, long brown strands falling out of her chignon. “How’s that going to work out for you in plastic surgery?”
He sipped his champagne, drowning the doubts he didn’t dare speak, and stared out the window, watching the plane’s wing light blink in the inky darkness.
Five blinks later. “Darling, are you sure—”
He swung his face back to her, smile plastered on. “What are you and Robert going to do without me this Christmas?”
Her concern faded, eyes growing bright again. “He’s planning a surprise.” She blushed, pale skin turning lobster red, same as his was prone to do. Miranda was ever the blushing bride when it came to her commodities-trader second husband, who she’d met ferrying to Paris five years ago. The both of them frequently on the go for work, they cherished their time together when they could steal it.
“I’m really happy for you, Mom.”
She reached out and laid a hand on his knee. “And Robert, Alan, and I are happy for you too.” She squeezed his knee, then scooted back in her chair. “We’re also happy you’re taking this trip. You deserve it.”
“I’m glad your efforts didn’t go to waste.” Clancy grabbed the champagne bottle and topped off their glasses. “Speaking of surprises, you want to tell me where I’m headed on this tour?” It kicked off in Napa Valley, where he’d met Miller and Sloan last week, but that’s all they’d disclosed so far. To him. They’d had to give the entire agenda to his mother, however, so she could record flight plans and book hotels.
She shook a finger at him. “Nuh-uh-uh. I’ve been sworn to secrecy.”
“By Miller?”
“Sloan, actually. She’s my kind of woman.”
Clancy didn’t doubt it, even just from his brief interaction with Miller’s wife at Goose & Gander. And from what he knew of their history from the press and gossip blogs. She was an ambitious, talented attorney and the vibe between her and Miller reminded Clancy of his parents, Miranda and Alan—still close, even after their divorce. “You two would get along.”
“And you and Miller?”
He guzzled more champagne. How many glasses were too many? Thank God all he had to do tonight when he arrived in Napa was fall into a town car, then stumble into his hotel room. Those emails would wait until morning.
“Tell me about him,” his mother pressed.
“He’s one of the best chefs in the country.”
“Yes, Clancy, I looked that much up myself. Your dad raved about him too.” She sipped her drink, eyes taking on a devious gleam. “Saw his picture too. He’s handsome, in that giant burly man sort of way.” Totally Clancy’s type, as far as guys went. And she knew it, having witnessed his bumbling high school crushes and failed college dating attempts, mostly with jocks, too many of them closeted. He’d given up on relationships during med school and residency, quickie hookups being all he had time for.
“Stop your meddlesome matchmaking, Charlotte,” he said with a wide grin. Samantha last week, Charlotte this week. He was waiting for Carrie to appear. Ever since they’d marathon-watched Sex and the City one holiday, he’d call her by the other character names whenever she started acting outside her too-fitting Miranda mold. “I’m on this tour for the food and the experience. And he’s married.”
“Yet his wife asked me about flights and hotels for a honeymoon.”
Clancy didn’t have time to rein in his surprise, the words tumbling out as he tilted forward in his seat. “What now?”
“She didn’t swear me to secrecy on that part.”
“Maybe they’re taking a second one?”
“I didn’t get the impression Miller was the other part of that ‘they.’”
Clancy slumped back in his seat and stared out the window again, mind connecting the dots. Maybe the vibe he’d picked up between Miller and Sloan was even more like his parents’ than he thought. Best friends who had fallen out of love, but who still cared deeply for each other? Amid his confusion, Clancy felt a twinge of sympathy for Miller. He obviously loved Sloan; Clancy had witnessed that with his own eyes at the tavern. Even if Miller wasn’t in love with her, Clancy had to imagine losing her would hurt. That sort of loneliness weighing on Miller, on top of his restaurant closing, as reported in all the food blogs, couldn’t be easy. It’d been a rough year for Miller Sykes. He probably needed this trip as much as Clancy.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, Clancy Rhodes?”
He rolled his eyes. “This might be the strangest conversation we’ve ever had.”
“I can’t wait for the one two weeks from now.” She winked at him and poured the rest of the champagne into his glass. “Drink up, darling. I have a feeling you’re gonna need it.”
Clancy couldn’t shake the feeling she was right. He sensed it too. Something in his life was about to change
, big-time.
Chapter Two
Miller stood by the side of his hotel bed, phone to his ear. “We’ll be there in two weeks. You’ll be back by then?”
“Yes, for the umpteenth time.” His mother sighed dramatically. “Are you losing your memory in your old age?” Her Southern drawl made the question sound sweet and genuinely concerned, not like the joking dig Miller knew it was.
“Ma, forty is not old!”
“You keep telling yourself that.” She chuckled. “And this cruise was a retirement gift from you and your sisters, or did you forget that too?”
No, he hadn’t forgotten. It was one of the reasons he hadn’t yet told his parents about his diagnosis or how he intended to deal with it. His parents had worked their asses off raising him and his three sisters. They deserved to enjoy at least one holiday free of work and worry. The other reason he hadn’t told them was because he needed to do it in person and he’d planned the last stop on this tour accordingly. He and Clancy would share their last meal together in Miller’s hometown, then the next day, after Clancy left, Miller would have the hardest conversation of his life, with his family.
His melancholy silence went on too long, prompting Michelle to ask, “Are you okay, sweetie?” Her mother’s intuition had pinged—accurately—from three thousand miles away. “With Sloan moving on and the restaurant closing, I know things have been tough lately.”
“You don’t have to worry about me, Ma.” Ever again. She’d worried and sacrificed more than enough already. “Enjoy your cruise, and just promise me a pecan pie when I get home.”
“It’s a deal. Love you, sweetie.”
“Love you too.”
He pocketed the phone and reached for the bottle of pain pills on the bedside table. The knot in his throat, real and emotional, didn’t make getting the meds down any easier, even with a giant slug of water. He twisted the lid back on and set the bottle on the table, hoping the meds would be enough to get him through tonight’s meal. He glanced at the bedside clock. Five minutes until he had to walk next door to get Clancy, five more to walk across the street to the restaurant, fifteen until their reservation. He’d never cut a departure this close before, hyper-aware of what late and missed seatings did to a kitchen, but staying this close, they had more than enough time to reach their destination. He’d told Miranda and Sloan he didn’t need a hotel room—his place was just down the road in Napa—but the two women had insisted he stay in Yountville too.
Miranda had told him in no uncertain terms that a town car would pick him up that afternoon. Then Sloan had tacked on, “The trip should start there, for both of you. Check in, get some rest, and enjoy your dinner,” in that half pleading, half order voice still so much like it’d sounded when she was sixteen, asking him to marry her so they could leave town after he graduated. She’d had a bright red handprint on her cheek and purple finger bruises on her arms and wrists, but in that moment then, she’d been more concerned with reining in his seething, protective instincts, hungry for vengeance on her behalf, than on her own trauma.
Shaking off the unsettling memory, and the last of the melancholy from his call with his mom, Miller looked instead to the night ahead. In retrospect, staying at the hotel worked out better. Entering the restaurant with Clancy would forestall any questions from the staff, many of them friends and colleagues, about his own restaurant closing or about why his charcoal plaid suit fit a little loose. That awkwardness avoided, and hoping that none cropped up between him and Clancy either, he looked forward to tonight. There was something special about introducing a true foodie to one of the best restaurants in the world.
Knock, knock, knock.
Miller glanced again at the clock. Five minutes gone while he’d been stuck in his head. Five minutes lost. The quick rap against the door came again.
“Just a minute.” Miller tweaked his whiskey barrel cuff links and patted down his pockets. Phone, wallet, keys. Panic crashed through him; keys were missing from the ring. Emptiness followed; he’d met with the attorney yesterday, to turn over the restaurant keys and sign the divorce papers.
Two endings, one more to go.
But not tonight.
With a sharp shake of his head, he buttoned his jacket, picked up his overcoat, and headed for the door, slapping off the gas fireplace on the way. He opened the door...and failed to restrain his smile.
Whereas Miller had gone with a more casual, admittedly flashy suit—to distract from the weight loss, and to avoid a tie, because evil—Clancy wore a three-piece number that was dark and sharp, befitting a Hollywood plastic surgeon, as was the slim-fitting cashmere trench he wore over it. It hung well on his tall, lean frame, fitted to a T over his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and long limbs. He looked closer to his thirty years dressed up like this, but the elegant suit and coat couldn’t contain the exuberant kid inside. From the black bow tie decorated with champagne bottles, to the bright green eyes behind black-rimmed glasses, to the big grin that split his clean-shaven face in two.
“I know you said you were coming by my room, but I couldn’t sit still any longer. I mean, honestly, I haven’t sat still since check-in when you told me where we were going tonight.”
No shit. Clancy was bouncing on his toes again, the shiny patent leather of his Oxfords squeaking.
Miller was amused, but also cautious. He didn’t know Clancy, didn’t know how he’d react at the restaurant, among people who were Miller’s friends and colleagues. And while maybe he considered Clancy’s exuberance charming, Miller could also see it being regarded as over-the-top. Granted, The French Laundry staff knew how to read a room and table better than any place, but to some extent, this was still Miller’s reputation involved. Clancy was his guest, and with Miller’s name taking a hit already from the restaurant closing, caution was warranted.
Miller beckoned Clancy to enter and closed the door behind him. “Couple of ground rules,” he said. “And I mean no disrespect in putting them out there. This would go for anyone.”
Clancy shrugged one shoulder, smile unfaltering. “None taken, Chef.”
“One, don’t call me Chef.” It hadn’t been the first rule Miller had in mind, but as soon as the word was out of Clancy’s mouth, the rule was out of Miller’s. Clancy had called him “Chef” at G & G last week. Miller should have put a stop to it then, but he’d been too tongue-tied by the unexpectedly attractive prospect standing beside his table.
Clancy was similarly tongue-tied now, though more from confusion, judging by the deep groove between his dark brows.
“I know that’s what’s been advertised here,” Miller said. “A culinary tour with a chef, and people tonight and along the way are going to refer to me as that. But for you, I want the food and destinations to be the star, not me. Ask me all the questions you want about the food, cooking, restaurants, et cetera, but I need to know you’re on this tour for that experience, not for me.”
The confusion on Clancy’s face cleared, the lines and brows smoothing out. “I can do that, Ch—” He paused and smiled shyly. Far too attractive. “Sorry, it’s a respect thing on my part too, but I get it... Miller?”
He chuckled. “Yeah, ‘Miller’ is good.”
“Second rule?”
“Respect the waitstaff’s time.” Too often, guests didn’t fully appreciate the mechanics of the restaurant, or how different the experience was for diners and staff. “You’re a foodie and a doctor. You’re gonna have questions.” Clancy made a head exploding gesture with his hands, and Miller couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cringe. This could go either way. “They’ll be more than happy to chat and answer them, but remember, they’ve got a job to do. And like I said, you’ve got me to fill in the blanks.”
“Easy enough,” Clancy said, and Miller’s worry eased. That potential speed bump had been Miller’s primary concern. He didn’t want to dampen Clancy’s fun and enjoyment, but
there had to be some limits, which Clancy seemed perfectly fine with. “Any other rules?” he asked.
There was one other, though not a rule so much as dispelling a myth that Miller, as a chef, fucking loathed. “If someone has ever told you to leave a tiny bit of food on your plate as a gesture of respect to the kitchen, don’t listen to them. And don’t do it. It’s a load of horse shit. If you’re full, then fine, don’t force yourself. But if you want to eat it all, by all means, eat it all. Nothing I liked better than seeing empty plates come back to the kitchen.”
“If someone ever told me that, I didn’t listen. It’s fucking idiotic.”
“Good,” Miller said with a sharp, satisfied nod. “I’m glad we have an understanding there.”
“I understand that every bit of food I can get in my belly is going in there.”
Miller had no idea where it was all going to go in that trim body, but he looked forward to seeing Clancy try. “Then we’re all set.” He shrugged into his overcoat and opened the door for Clancy. “Shall we get the belly stuffing underway?”
“Two and a half hours of it.” Clancy patted said belly as he stepped into the hallway. “I can’t wait.”
“Revise that.” Miller pulled the door closed behind them. “Four hours.”
“Four? All the reviews I read said to plan for two and a half.”
“Those people received menus. We won’t. Think you can handle it?”
“I’m game.” The eagerness in Clancy’s eyes was a good sign. Miller’s experience with people who said they “eat it all” was that their no-no list was in fact a mile long. He didn’t sense that was the case with his companion, which boded well for tonight. And the trip as a whole. If it was true.