Dine With Me

by Layla Reyne

  Miller glanced his direction, curiosity, fear, and hope all swirling in his blue eyes that looked ghostly in the pale light. “He’s okay now?”

  Clancy jostled a shoulder against his, grinning. “He’s dating a pastry chef we met on one of our dinners out.”

  “And you’re going to work with him?”

  “After this trip.” A small cringe slipped out before he could stop himself. “Did I just do that?”

  Miller chuckled. “Yeah, you did.”

  Clancy pushed his glasses up and got them moving again. “Too much wine. And a story for another dinner.” They stopped at the edge of the garden, close together as they waited for a car to pass. “Speaking of, you want to tell me where we’re going next?”

  Miller’s eyes flickered down to his mouth, and in the flash of passing headlights, there was no way he didn’t notice the blush burning up Clancy’s cheeks. “I’ll tell you where we’re going next.”

  “Where?” Did he sound breathy?

  “To bed.”

  Did he have any breath left?

  “To sleep,” Miller added.

  Clancy stuck out his bottom lip, pouting, and got the reaction he wanted. Miller’s deep, sexy laugh played on in his dreams all night long.

  Chapter Three

  Miller waited in the back seat of the town car, sipping a coffee and listening to the rain patter on the roof overhead. When his travel companion finally appeared, Miller had to grin at the stark contrast from last night. Clancy trudged out of the hotel, a half hour past late checkout, carrying his TFL goodie bag in one hand and dragging his rolling suitcase behind him with the other. His mop of thick brown hair stuck out in every direction, his eyes were hidden behind a pair of battered Oakleys, and he was dressed in a mishmash of layers—last night’s cashmere overcoat, a gray hoodie, a navy tee with a giant rainbow Psycho Bunny logo, together with tattered jeans and a pair of Chucks.

  He looked an adorable, hungover mess. And yet still stunning.

  While the driver loaded Clancy’s bags into the trunk, Clancy opened the door and fell into the back seat.

  Miller mimicked taking his photograph. “Clancy Rhodes, cover model.”

  “Don’t judge. It’s a travel day.” He ducked his chin and peered over the top of his sunglasses. “How much plaid do you own?”

  “Don’t judge,” Miller parried back, as he unbuttoned his pink plaid blazer. “I promise the hangover won’t be as bad after the other stops.”

  “I’m not hungover.”

  Miller reached into the paper bag at his side, pulled out a muffin, and waved it under Clancy’s nose.

  Clancy rolled down the window and stuck his head outside, sputtering as raindrops splashed his face.

  Laughing, Miller set the muffin on the armrest between them and loosened the extra coffee from the holder. He waited for Clancy to wipe off his glasses. “Let’s try this first,” he said, holding out the cup to him.

  Clancy accepted it and took a long swallow. “Ah, humanity.”

  Miller nudged the muffin toward him. “Get something in your stomach. It’ll make you feel better.”

  After another gulp, Clancy traded his coffee for the muffin. He peeled back one half of the wrapper and broke off a nibble. He chewed slowly, like he was solving a puzzle, then held the muffin up, close to his face. “It looks like a bran muffin.” He passed it under his nose. “Smells like a bran muffin.” He popped in another bite. “But it tastes better than any bran muffin I’ve ever had.”

  “From an LA boy, that’s high praise.”

  He continued to gobble up the muffin. “Where’s it from?”

  “The Model Bakery. When you texted you were running late, I snuck out right quick. Just wait for the English muffin.”

  “Oh!” Clancy shifted suddenly in the seat, then cringed, as if his exclamation and abrupt movement reminded him of his hangover. “I’ve heard about those,” he said more quietly. “The doughnut ones?”

  Miller nodded. He’d already indulged in the fluffy, buttery goodness, slathered in apple butter, sweet with a hint of spice. How could he ever risk that? The simple pleasures of fresh baked bread, homemade jam, and an exceptional cup of coffee. Or the splash of salty sea in an oyster or dollop of caviar. The heady richness of classic sauces like hollandaise and bordelaise. The pure umami smell and taste of white truffles, shaved over pasta or in a sundae. The way wine could pair so perfectly with food, the Conterno last night worth every penny he’d spent on it. He didn’t go a day, a meal, a snack without analyzing flavors, without losing himself in thought over it, without thinking of new ways to work with it. It wasn’t just what he did for a living; it was who he was. A life without taste and flavors, for a chef, for him, would be no kind of life at all. He wouldn’t recognize it, wouldn’t recognize himself, and that was not how he wanted his life to end, in six months or in sixty years. The cancer would kill him, but it wouldn’t kill who he was—a chef. The treatment might and that thought was scarier than even death.

  Long fingers gently clasped his arm. “Hey, Miller, where’d you go?”

  He cleared his throat and thoughts with a wash of coffee. “Just thinking about our next destination.”

  “You gonna tell me where that is now?”

  He glanced again at Clancy, whose color and energy were returning. Good, he’d need the latter especially. “How about when we get on the plane?” Miller offered. “Maybe.”

  “Only if you give me that English muffin,” Clancy bargained.

  “Deal.” He dug one out of the bag, together with the knife and container of apple butter, and passed it to Clancy. “Go easy, though, if you get altitude sickness,” Miller warned. “And that’s all you’re getting out of me,” he added before Clancy could ask for more details.

  Clancy scrunched up his nose. “You sit on a throne of lies.”

  They were both still laughing when the car reached the Napa County airfield a few minutes later. By the fretful look on the waiting steward’s face, Miller guessed they wouldn’t be laughing much longer.

  “Wonder what’s going on?” Clancy said.

  All this rain had probably complicated matters at their destination.

  Sure, enough... “Dr. Rhodes, good to see you again,” the steward said, then hand out to Miller, “Mr. Sykes, I’m Toby, I’ll be taking care of you and Dr. Rhodes on this trip. Unfortunately, we’ve hit a bit of a snag. It’s white-out conditions in—”

  “Where we’re going,” Miller said, cutting him off.

  Toby blushed and put his fingers over his mouth.

  “Someplace with snow?” Clancy said, brow raised in campy fashion again. “And with high altitude. Hmm...” He faked a Rodin pose and everyone laughed, even poor stressed-out Toby.

  “Truly, sir,” the steward said. “My apologies. Won’t happen again.”

  “No worries,” Miller replied. He knew the circumstances of this trip were unusual. “I already gave away the high altitude bit.”

  “Well, we can’t get in there at the moment,” Toby said. “Things may clear up later tonight, but probably not until morning.”

  An inconvenience, but not one that would throw off the trip too much. A little less time for Clancy to sightsee tomorrow before dinner, but if they left early enough, only a few hours would be lost. “We don’t have dinner reservations until tomorrow night, so we’re clear there.”

  “Should I contact Ms. Essley about arrangements for tonight?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Clancy said, already pulling out his phone. “How many rooms does your crew need?”

  “We’re fine, sir,” Toby said. “We’ll check back in to the hotel close to the airport here so we can ready the jet when it’s time to go. We’ll give you a heads-up an hour or so before wheels up?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Toby ascended the steps int
o the plane, and Clancy turned to Miller, phone raised. “Let me call Mom. She’ll work something out for us.”

  Miller covered his hand. “Just ask her to give our next stop a heads-up. I don’t want to lose the reservation. As for today, here, I’ll handle that.” Twenty years in unpredictable kitchens had taught him to think fast on his feet. They were on his home turf, there were a wealth of options for him to treat Clancy too, but with the chance, albeit slim, that they could still depart tonight, he needed something flexible. Sounded about right for a picnic. “Think you can eat some more?”

  Clancy smiled gamely. “Isn’t that the point of this trip?”

  Picnic on, and Miller knew just where to get everything they needed.

  * * *

  Clancy didn’t know where to look. The riot of color pouring from the vegetable-filled crates to his left, the giant pink wall and cases of cupcakes directly across the space, or the bowling alley length of culinary vendors to his right. And there was a second aisle with more vendor stalls down the other side of the space. “Holy shit.”

  Miller nudged him out of the way of the entry doors. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been to a farmers market before.”

  Sure he had. Year-round farmers markets were a major benefit of living in California. But this—Oxbow Public Market, according to the sign atop the long brick and glass building—was not rickety stands and pop-up tents. “This is a farmers market on steroids.”

  “Welcome to Napa.”

  “I could spend days here.” Ogling the Italian pastry case within arm’s reach, tasting the olive oils on display at a stall halfway down the aisle, and was that an oyster bar at the far end of the building? “Holy shit.”

  Miller laughed. “I’ll give you an hour.”

  Clancy swung his gaze back to his tour guide. “Rude.”

  Also rude, the satisfied grin on Miller’s face, the way that pink plaid blazer fit him just so, and the determination that lit his blue eyes and the deep lines that crinkled around them.

  “Come on.” Miller grabbed a basket and started toward the vegetable stand. “We have provisions to get.”

  “Do provisions include cupcakes?”

  He’d taken two steps toward the pink-branded Mecca when Miller yanked him back by a handful of jacket.

  “There’s a reason the cupcake place is at the front, in the far corner. You have to make a loop first—check out everything else—before dessert. Last stop, promise.”

  Point taken. Didn’t stop Clancy from pouting as he pushed up his glasses and followed Miller into the stacked crates of produce. “So, what’s the plan?”

  “Well, since we may still have to jet at a moment’s notice, I thought we’d grab some things here and have a picnic. No reservations needed.”

  Clancy covered his excitement with a gruff, “Not bad, Sykes, not bad.” He played like he was only mildly impressed when in fact it was a genius idea. And perfect after the twenty-course feast last night.

  Miller saw right through his charade. “Not bad?” Laughing, he shoved the shopping basket at him. “You hold while I work.”

  And work he did, all of it fascinating to Clancy. Peeling back corn husks and smelling the ears until he gave up, bypassed the “fucking out-of-season corn” altogether, and moved on to the peppers, testing firmness and comparing colors. He was less picky about the bunches of rainbow carrots, radishes and endive he added to the basket. A handful of assorted greenery later, they checked out and started down the aisle.

  Easily distracted, Clancy lagged behind often—tasting olive oils, sampling locally-made gin, drooling over a display case full of chocolate truffles, and staring longingly at the coffee importer’s selections. He exerted all his willpower to not buy a pound of everything and caught up with Miller at the cheese merchant.

  “Tell the truth.” Miller gave Clancy a stern look as he dumped the lot of wedges and rounds he’d already collected into the basket. “Anything goes? Nothing on the no-no list?”

  “Nothing.” Clancy swept a hand over the refrigerated case. “Do your worst. Bring on the stinky cheeses.” In his experience, the stinkier the better.

  Miller shot out a hand and grabbed one of the circular wooden boxes labeled Époisses.

  Clancy grinned. “My favorite.”

  One corner of Miller’s mouth ticked up. “Good to know.” He dropped the cheese into the basket and turned back to his hunt.

  Thank God because Clancy’s knees had gone liquid in the wake of that sexy leer. It took a good minute to get his legs back under him, and by then, Miller had returned with more cheeses, almonds, and fruit paste.

  “I take it this is the basis of our picnic?” Clancy asked.

  “The best kind.” Miller claimed the basket and headed to the counter. “We’ll grab some meats and bread to go with next door.”

  “Which of these is your favorite?” Clancy asked, as they unloaded the basket for the cashier.

  Miller held up a wheel wrapped in wax paper and twine. “O’Banon.”

  He peeled back a flap so Clancy could see inside. Expecting cheese, Clancy was surprised to see green leaves instead.

  “Goat’s milk cheese from Indiana that’s wrapped in bourbon-soaked chestnut leaves,” Miller explained.

  “Very cool. Why that one?”

  “It’s the most well-rounded goat cheese I’ve tasted. The bourbon-soaked leaves mellow out the bite without making it too sweet.” Miller handed the round to the cashier. “Why the Époisses for you?”

  “Funny story.” He took the insulated bag from the cashier and followed Miller toward the rear exit door. “I didn’t date much in school.”

  Miller’s brows raced north. “Really? Social guy like you? I figure you could talk to a tree.”

  “Talking takes energy, and I had none.” Rain reduced to a light mist, they leisurely crossed the parking lot to a set of adjacent buildings. “I did undergrad in three years but even accelerated, it was easy, compared to medical school. That was the first time I really had to work. Add rounds on top of that and...” They turned the corner and Clancy momentarily lost his train of thought, distracted by the smell of fresh bread.

  “And what, Doc?”

  The nickname brought him back. Or was it the swooping sensation in his belly? Clancy couldn’t tell, the two so closely connected. He locked his knees, fending off weakness, and distracted himself with the rest of his story. “I would’ve rather gone to dinner with my dad or gone to a club to pick someone up. No pressure, either way.”

  Miller rested a hip against one of the picnic tables. “Do I want to know how gooey cheese fits in here?”

  “Gooey, stinky cheese.”

  “Sykes!” A shout rang out, interrupting them. “What’ll it be?” A hipster-looking fellow in a rubber apron stood in the doorway of The Fatted Calf, the butcher shop next to the place where the heavenly fresh bread smells were coming from.

  “Doing a picnic,” Miller replied. “Little bit of this, little bit of that.”

  “I got you,” the young man said.

  “You want bread too?” came a woman’s voice from the neighboring bakery.

  “Yes, please,” Miller called back. “And a few more English muffins.”

  Clancy’s gaze darted to the sign above the screen door. The Model Bakery. More doughnuts. “Best. Picnic. Ever.”

  Miller snapped his fingers in front of Clancy’s face, yanking back his attention. “Only if you tell me the rest of the Époisses story.”

  “Fine,” Clancy groaned, resting against the table next to Miller. “So, second year of med school, this girl I dated first year and was still friendly with sets me up on a date with her cousin who’s new in town. He’s cute and nice enough, but he keeps going on and on about venture capital—for med devices, mind you, so he was trying to be relevant to my interests—but I was literally two seconds
from falling asleep in my soup. I had three hours before I had to be back at the hospital. All I wanted to do was sleep. You want to know how to end a date real fast?”

  Miller laughed out loud. “Order the stinky cheese.”

  Clancy held up nine fingers. “Works nine times out of ten.”

  “Count me as the one time it doesn’t,” Miller said with a wink, before pushing off the table and entering the butcher shop.

  Clancy stood frozen by the table, needing the extra support as he coached himself not to read too much into Miller’s teasing words, into the nickname and earlier leer. Reminding himself of the ground rules. This tour was about the food, not the chef, no matter how interesting Miller Sykes continued to be.

  * * *

  Some lessons were harder to learn than others, especially when the promised picnic turned out to be at Miller’s house. At least that’s where Clancy assumed they were. Pink box of cupcakes in hand, he followed Miller up an internal staircase that was decorated with framed, signed menus—many To Miller and Sloan. The French Laundry, Alinea, Le Bernardin, El Bulli, among a dozen others.

  “This is your place?”

  “For a little while longer.” Miller unlocked the door at the top of the stairs while, behind them, the driver was unloading their bags into the downstairs rooms Miller had opened directly after entering.

  “Is Sloan here?” Clancy asked.

  “She lives in San Francisco.”

  Not a direct answer, and even more confusing. Those menus indicated she did once. Clancy wanted to ask where exactly Miller and Sloan’s relationship stood, wanted to get clarity on this mystery that seemed essential to something else he was also missing. He bit his tongue about that, but not about the other tidbit Miller had dropped.

  “You’re moving?”

  “Selling this place.” Miller pushed inside, arms loaded down with their shopping bags. “We don’t need this much space here anymore.”

  “Are you also moving to—” Clancy’s question dropped as he crested the stairs and got a look at the top floor.