Dine With Me

by Layla Reyne

  Clancy crossed his arms and ducked his chin, glasses sliding down to the end of his narrow nose, his lips pressed into a stern line beneath it. “They’re back now. That’s all that matters!”

  “I don’t know him, but I feel like you’re mimicking your father.”

  Clancy dropped the exaggerated outrage and pushed his glasses back up his nose, grinning. “Because I totally am.”

  They both laughed, and the tension eased, making more room for the view, human and landscape. And for the smell. Miller’s stomach gave another interested rumble.

  “You up for some food?” Clancy gestured to the table. “I ordered some things that should be easy on your stomach, relatively. Bison barley soup, fresh bread, pasta with rabbit sugo. The bison will be a first for me, and the carbs will help you with the altitude sickness.”

  Sounded like he was buying that explanation, or at least going with it. The last bit of tension faded and Miller collapsed into the chair closest to the fire. “Will dessert help too?”

  Clancy claimed the other chair and started pulling lids off plates. “I don’t know, but I also don’t know the point of a meal without it.”

  Miller bumped his shoulder. “You might be all right, Doc.”

  He tried a few bites of the bread first, sinking his teeth into the thick texture of the country-style levain. For Miller, it was second only to New England’s light and fluffy Portuguese-style sweet bread as far as mouth feel went. And this levain had a touch of sweetness too, honey in its making, that was a nice complement to the hearty wheat. And perfect for dipping. He broke off a piece and dunked it in the soup, testing that on his stomach. When he was sure a revolt wasn’t in the making, he traded bread for spoon and was halfway through his own bowl before glancing over to find Clancy done with his.

  “I take it you liked the bison?”

  Guilty eyes shot up. “Sorry, I kind of got lost in it and my manners went poof.”

  “That’s a compliment any chef would want to hear.”

  “It’s just so much better than the vegetable beef soup I’m used to in hospital cafeterias.”

  “Shh!” Miller said, finger over his lips. “Let us never speak of such heresy again.”

  Clancy shrugged. “It’s safer than the mystery meat.”

  Miller willed the images of graying meat away. “I’m thinking Campbell’s in a pop-top can, as much as it pains me to say, is safer than both those options.”

  “Too right,” Clancy said with a nod. “And this soup was a major step up from either version.”

  “How so?” He liked hearing how Clancy’s foodie descriptions varied from his own more technical analysis.

  Clancy swiped his bowl with a hunk of bread and popped it in his mouth, chewing and contemplating. “No one ingredient steals the show, but it’s also not a mush like the hospital stuff. The barley gives it texture, the vegetables crunch and flavor, the bison is meaty, but not overly so, and not wild like I expected. Not sure about the peas, though.”

  Miller chuckled, then slurped his last spoonful, really concentrating on the flavors. “Bison isn’t as fatty as cow, so you get more of the beef flavor without the grease. It’s clean, so to speak, but expensive, so it’s not used as often. As for the broth, it’s pretty simple. Carrots, onions, and celery lend flavor to the beef stock, as does the bison itself. Basic seasonings—garlic, parsley, a splash of red wine vinegar, salt and pepper. Nothing fancy, just extremely well-balanced.”

  “And the peas?”

  “The peas are there to look pretty.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “It’s blasphemy for a chef to say, but I’m of the mind they don’t serve much purpose once you pass toddler.”

  Clancy hooted with laugher.

  “Tell you another secret,” Miller said. “This is actually my second favorite view.” He cast his gaze out the window, as he spun pappardelle pasta around his fork. “The place I wanted to go inside the park was closed for the season.”

  “How many times have you been here?”

  “Only one other time, but it’s special, for more than just the view.” Miller reached up and pulled the cap off his head. “Got my first piece of plaid here.”

  “You mean they didn’t wrap you in plaid the day you were born?”

  Miller shoved his shoulder. “Hardly, my mom fucking hates it.” He set the cap on the table and took another bite before continuing. “But being from the Southeast, on the coast, Sloan and I had no idea what cold really was until we stopped here on our way out to California.”

  “You drove cross-country? Was this when you moved out?”

  He nodded. “It was the first time either of us had had a break in ten years, so we made a vacation out of it. Stopped in Nashville for the music and chicken, in Kansas City for the steak, then came up here for the national parks. It was September, so we didn’t expect it to be so cold, but winter came early that year.” He ran a hand over his top mop. “I had a full buzz cut back then, and the steam was coming off my head.” Sloan had teased him mercilessly being his own heat source. Finally, he’d stopped into the hotel gift shop for some sort of hat, desperate to keep the heat in. “The plaid called to me, what can I say.”

  “And thus the addiction was born...” Clancy cracked up laughing. “It’s a great story. And not at all what I expected.”

  Seemed to be a trend whenever Miller visited here. But even with the cold then, and the nausea now, both trips were turning out okay.

  Clancy waved a hand at the view, the room, and the spread in front of them. And at the plaid cap. “I’m not complaining, about any of it.”

  Neither of them complained about the rabbit sugo either. It took them a while to get through it, between the debate over how to eat pasta and another flavor breakdown, but it was enjoyable company, easy discussion, and Miller felt better than he had all day.

  Until Clancy got up to retrieve the dessert from the fridge and Miller spotted the scalpel on a nearby table. Had he been that bad off before? “Did you think you were going to have to do surgery?” he asked with a nod toward the knife.

  “On you, no.” Clancy set down the two plates of cheesecake and fished something out of the front pocket of his hoodie. “And if you ever do meet my father, please don’t tell him I used my graduation scalpels for this.” He held out his hand, waiting for Miller to do the same, then dropped a carved block of wood into Miller’s palm.

  Carved in the shape of a wolf. No, not a wolf exactly. A direwolf, with a mane like scales and a mouth full of fearsome teeth. The detail was amazing. “You made this?”

  Clancy nodded. “House Stark’s sigil, right?”

  Another memory from earlier came floating back to Miller. Him sitting on the edge of the bed, rambling about losing Sloan, while Clancy removed his shoes and got him settled. He’d spilled more than he should to a guy he hardly knew. His and Sloan’s relationship was complicated; not everyone got it. Maybe Clancy would, but with his stomach settled and happy, Miller didn’t want to bring the food or topic back up. Instead, he ran his fingers over the intricate carving. Clancy had only just today seen the wood carving demonstration, and yet, it wasn’t a wholly unfamiliar skill. “You’ll make a hell of a plastic surgeon.” Having glanced back up, Miller didn’t miss Clancy’s seemingly instinctive cringe. “There’s that face again.”

  Clancy covered his face with his hands. “I have no talent for bullshit.”

  “That’s not a bad thing. Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Miller set the carving on the table.

  Clancy picked it right up, turning it over and over in his hands. “Honestly,” he started, more quietly, “I don’t ever remember choosing to be a doctor. My dad put me in kiddie scrubs for third grade picture day and that was it. I was always going to be a doctor.”

  “You don’t want to be?”

  “No, I want to be. I l
ove it.” Clancy’s voice was a study in contradictions. Miller believed that he did want to be a doctor, but the “but” was very loud. “And growing up, I always wanted to work with my dad.” And louder still.

  “But now?” Miller prompted.

  Clancy set the carving back on the table and guilt of a different sort drifted through his eyes. “I’m not sure I want to do plastic surgery anymore.”

  “It’s not all Nip/Tuck level bad, is it?”

  Clancy chuckled, and Miller was glad for it. “Not at all. There’s a lot of good in it, actually. I spent most of my residency specializing in reconstructive work, working with cancer patients. Dad’s cool with me keeping up some of that work in private practice and he set me up to work on a big cancer benefit in the spring.”

  Miller fought not to squirm in his chair.

  Clancy, lost in a memory, thankfully didn’t seem to notice. “But working with cancer survivors, hearing their stories and what they go through, years of hell, I can’t help but wonder if I could help more earlier. Maybe I could save them some of those hellish years. I’ve kept up a volunteer rotation on the oncology ward, broader than just plastics, learning and helping out as I can. It was my favorite rotation during med school.”

  Miller couldn’t stand it any longer. He was sure the second Clancy glanced his way again, he’d see the truth in his eyes—that Miller was looking at the same hell in his future and had opted for a much shorter one instead. Standing, he avoided the quick whip of Clancy’s gaze and skirted out between their chairs. “Cheesecake requires coffee,” he said, heading toward the kitchen. Then diverted the conversation back to Clancy’s decision, not his. “If you like oncology better, why are you going into practice with your dad?”

  “Because it’s what’s expected, just like being a doctor was.”

  Miller finished filling coffee mugs and returned to the table. “I get it.” Oh did he get it. He gathered huckleberries and cheesecake on the end of his fork and savored the velvety sweet bite and burst of tart flavor, before he spoke a more sour notion, one he’d only previously discussed with Sloan and his other best friend, Greg. But this Clancy would definitely understand, and if Miller could save him from making the mistakes he had... “Even before I opened my own place, other chefs and staff were talking about the fine dining restaurant I’d open.”

  “It’s not the restaurant you wanted?”

  Miller shrugged. “Honestly, I don’t know. Like you, I don’t remember making a choice. That’s just the way it was going to be.”

  Clancy raised his mug, grim understanding on his fire-lit face. “Expectations, tough to live up to.”

  Miller clinked back in downtrodden solidarity. “Nothing great about them.”

  Chapter Five

  The snow was definitely not as fresh here in Chicago as it had been in Wyoming, but even mounded on the roadside and caked in grimy sludge, it made Clancy smile. Being back in the town he considered his second home always did. He’d never met friendlier people, never eaten better pizza, and never found a place that was more fitting for his social, jet-setting mother. Given his connection to here, Clancy hadn’t expected Chicago to be on the tour. Silly of him. The Chicago food scene was ever expanding and finally getting the recognition it deserved. But the fact his mother hadn’t mentioned it, hadn’t even called him last night after they’d arrived at Midway and made their way to the hotel, had him looking around every corner, expecting her to pop out at any moment.

  “You’re all smiley but jumpy at the same time,” Miller observed beside him, correctly.

  Clancy glanced over at the too-handsome gentleman in the town car with him. Beard trimmed, blue eyes bright, the gold in them fetching, and color back in his cheeks, Miller looked a million times better than he had the night before last. They’d delayed their flight out of Jackson Hole yesterday until early evening, giving Miller more time to recover and Clancy time to buy plaid, Teton-themed gifts for everyone. They’d even snuck in a late lunch in the restaurant, and Miller had been right—the view was fucking spectacular, the snow-covered mountains and valley floor glistening under the bright midday sun. Then today, Clancy had woken early and gotten a jump start on his Chicago to-do list while Miller had slept in. Well-rested and altitude sickness passed, Miller seemed back to his usual self, dressed in the pink plaid jacket, a starched white shirt and dark jeans, ready for their next meal out. Looking like that, Clancy sure would like to make a meal of—

  Mental brakes!

  Wait, was he supposed to slide into a skid? Because yes, he’d skid into—

  BRAKES!

  “Hey, Doc.” Miller’s concerned voice supplied the road blocks his own mind failed to. “You with me?”

  “Just expecting my mom to appear out of nowhere.”

  Miller laughed. “It’s a couple months past Halloween, and I wasn’t under the impression she’s a witch.”

  “She’s definitely more the kooky fairy godmother sort, kind of like Carol Kane in Scrooged, but with better clothes and an Amex Black Card. The fact she hasn’t shown up yet should worry us both.”

  Miller laughed harder, and the deepening grooves at the corners of his eyes were vying for most attractive feature, though the beard and top mop of curls he’d woefully tamed back into submission were all duking it out for spots on the medal stand. “You could have gone over there today.”

  “They had a trip planned for the holidays. I didn’t want to interrupt, if she and Robert are even still in town. And I had other stops I had to make today.”

  “Such as?”

  Clancy crossed his legs toward Miller and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I have this routine, any time I come to Chicago. Places I have to see, things I have to do, foods I have to eat.”

  “Of course you do.”

  “Hey!” He shoved Miller’s shoulder playfully. “We don’t have Garrett’s fresh-tossed cheddar cheese and caramel popcorn in LA.”

  Miller shifted in his seat, likewise crossing a leg toward Clancy, and the back seat of the car seemed to shrink. “You can buy giant bags of multi-flavor popcorn at Costco.”

  “Not the same as Garrett’s.”

  “Okay, I’ll take your word for it,” Miller said with a smile. “So, did you eat and visit everything you wanted today?”

  “I’ve still got pizza and a hot beef sandwich on my list.”

  “You can knock those out tomorrow while I’m in meetings.”

  “So then, those aren’t on the menu tonight?”

  “I see what you did there.” Miller tapped his foot against Clancy’s. So close, it was all Clancy could do not to tap back. “You haven’t figured out where we’re going for dinner?”

  “Only that we’re slowing down way too early to be near Alinea.” Granted by slowing down, it wasn’t much slower than the usual rush hour crawl, but the five percent of his brain that hadn’t been mooning over the handsome man next to him had noticed the town car cutting through traffic toward the curb after they’d just crossed into Gold Coast. “Not that I’d mind going there again.”

  “I got that from our garden walk the other night.”

  “Sorry.” Clancy ducked his chin. “The foodie gets excited by the creativity.”

  “Hey.” Miller tapped his toe again and waited for him to look up. “I want you to get excited about that. Isn’t that why you’re on this trip?”

  Yes, it’d started that way but after five days with Miller, it wasn’t the only reason for Clancy now. And it wasn’t just Miller’s handsome mug. Clancy enjoyed his company, even Monday night, over room service, conversation, and the view. He also wanted Miller to understand he’d enjoyed that soup and pasta at dinner, and the bison pastrami sandwich he’d had at lunch, as much as he’d enjoyed TFL’s oysters and pearls.

  “I know not every restaurant on this tour, not any other restaurant period, is going to be The French L
aundry or Alinea.”

  “I know,” Miller said, smile dimming. “Those expectations we talked about...” His mind was clearly back there with him Monday night.

  “Yes, but I wouldn’t want them to be,” Clancy said, giving in and bumping Miller’s foot. “A juicy, simple burger can be just as creative as molecular gastronomy, as long as it’s done well.”

  Miller’s face lit up. “Glad to hear you say that.”

  And made Clancy’s stomach rumble on multiple accounts, two competing hungers, but the food one was barreling through the road blocks now. “We’re going to a burger joint?”

  “Not yet.”

  Now Clancy was intrigued, though it appeared he was out of time for guesses. The car pulled into a turnoff and came to stop.

  “Not a burger joint,” Miller said, “But this place does simple extremely well.” He shot a smile over his shoulder as he stepped out.

  Clancy followed and saw the sign as he straightened.

  Morton’s The Steakhouse.

  Clancy mentally face-palmed himself, not wanting to walk in with an actual red mark on his forehead. Morton’s was a Chicago-born institution.

  “No one does a steak better,” Miller said by his side. “And your mom said you’d never eaten here.”

  “Let’s change that.”

  * * *

  The waiter slid a sizzling plate with a massive tomahawk steak on it in front of Clancy, and Miller wished he’d had his camera ready. The doctor’s eyes grew round as saucers, then narrowed, brows snapping together above them. Granted, Clancy had picked the monster steak from the meat cart an hour ago, one of the great vestiges of Morton’s, but that had been before the fresh baked onion loaf, the jumbo shrimp cocktail, and the wedge salad smothered in Roquefort dressing. Miller had no idea where Clancy was putting it all in that trim tight body, and by the inquisitive look on his face, Clancy was trying to solve the same problem. He’d tackle it and succeed, no doubt.