by T. Neilson
Finally, at around seven thirty, Ginger growled at him. “Get lost,” she snarled and chased him away from her station. “I will call you when he arrives.”
And he trusted her, of course. He’d never put someone he didn’t trust in a position like Ginger’s, but that last half hour dragged itself across the clockface like it had two broken legs. And then 8:00 p.m. happened. And 8:05. And 8:15. And just as he was tying himself in knots and wondering if he needed to pull out his phone and check that the time on the clock in the kitchen was correct, he saw them.
Saw Luke, actually. Simon had thought that every year you worked in a kitchen aged you two—but not Luke.
Luke hadn’t aged at all. He still had that thick, raven-wing hair that was just a little long. Even in culinary school, Simon’s fingers itched to tuck Luke’s hair back from his face. His broad brow was only a little more creased than it had been the last time Simon saw him, and he still had that smooth, bronzy Argentinian skin. Even from across the room, Simon could see the easy smile, the humor that lit his almost-black eyes, and the lean line of him.
Here was a man who had spent his life with food but had not let himself go to seed. His white shirt was open at the collar, revealing the sinews of his neck, and he had rolled up the sleeves, as though he intended to pitch in once he got behind the kitchen door. His trousers were clearly bespoke. They hugged his muscled thighs and gave a tantalizing amount of information about the rear end they were concealing.
Simon was suddenly reminded of the last time they’d seen each other—Luke’s perfect whites forgotten, his rakish hair mussed and sticky with sweat, his mouth reddened. Simon pushed the memory away as hard as he could. Jesus. The last thing he needed was a semi in the dining room. Besides, Luke was not alone. The guy walking beside him said something, and Luke laughed. That was Cole Doren, Simon thought, mentally placing the guy’s face with his social media profile. Behind them came the third member of the party, Mazurek, the guy who made the reservation. He looked uncomfortable in his off-the-rack dress pants, and even at a distance, Simon could hear his shoes squeaking softly as he walked.
Ginger smiled and chatted, got them laughing, and then led them toward the kitchen where, one by one, they disappeared into the little alcove that separated the chef’s table from the kitchen and the main dining room. He stared at the door for a while, until Ginger came over and stood in front of him.
“They’re here,” she said flatly. “You need help putting those eyeballs back in?”
He laughed, a little uncomfortable. “I’m, uh….” He found himself breathless, as though he’d sprinted up the hotel stairs with a load of laundry in his arms.
“Hey.” Ginger sounded a little concerned and a lot softer. “Are you okay? I mean seriously?”
“It’s just that I haven’t seen him in years,” he whispered. “And I….” He was out of words and couldn’t make another sound.
“Old love?” Ginger asked. Her voice was barely a whisper, but she might as well have yelled it.
Simon glanced at her in horrified shock and then realized it had been a guess, however wild and wrong it was. He shook his head. “Oh no. No. I just….” She waited, and he wished she would fill the words in for him, but she never did. “I just haven’t seen him in the flesh since culinary school, and he’s done such amazing stuff. He’s a celebrity, and I just feel….” He shrugged. The word he wanted was inadequate but Christ, that was not something to say to your dining-room staff, especially not in the middle of service. “A little out of my league,” he said at last. That wasn’t exactly what he was thinking, but it was true.
Simon had built Brasserie sur le Lac from his parents’ French fine-dining establishment. But they had based the brasserie on nouvelle cuisine, and by the time Simon took it over, nouvelle cuisine was so passé it had become a joke. He kept the French twist and the fine-dining service as a nod to his family, but he updated the menu. Though he hadn’t been to New York or Paris or Tokyo or Buenos Aires, he wasn’t a complete rube. He knew he couldn’t compete with those meccas, so he embraced the slow-food movement.
They did country dishes, with local flavors, simple plates. Molecular gastronomy and Parmesan foam would have scared the locals away and killed the business when the tourists went home for the winter. But old favorites like steak and potatoes kept the locals coming back and kept the brasserie up and running. But now… now with a major food critic and a Michelin-starred chef sitting down to dine, Simon felt like an idiot. So what if the steak was grass fed, and the frites were truffled? The menu was literally meat and potatoes.
Ginger reached up and straightened his collar, brushed imaginary fluff off his shirt, and then, quite discreetly, gestured to the dining room, which was currently full and turning over like an engine. “Look at this place,” she said softly. “We might not have a Michelin star but we do have reservations two years out, and we have all that in spite of the fact that we’re in the middle of nowhere. This isn’t New York, sure, but you do okay.”
His heart swelled with gratitude. “Thanks, Ginger.”
“Go get ’em, tiger,” she answered and gave him a small but very firm push toward the chef’s table.
SIMON stepped into the little room. You can do this.
“Luke,” he said, a little too loud, maybe, but at least he sounded confident. “Luke Ferreya, look at you.”
“Simon!” Luke had taken the seat at the table with the best view into the kitchen, but he leapt up at Simon’s intrusion, arms flung wide, all graceless, boyish charm. He enclosed Simon in a hard-chested, hard-armed, leather-and-sandalwood-scented hug and then held him out at arm’s length and pressed his lips against Simon’s cheek. They were a warm, soft counterpoint to the cultivated stubble on his chin. It made Simon almost dizzy—the nearness of him, that saddlery and sandalwood smell that he would have known anywhere. Luke had always been impeccable, gorgeous, big and brash, and even though he was born and raised in Wisconsin, he had embraced his Argentinian heritage with gusto. And straight though he was, even Simon had to admit that it looked good on him.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” Simon asked as he waited out the familiar backslapping that always came with greeting Luke. “Who’s minding the store?”
“I retired,” Luke told him, laughing.
“Retired?” He didn’t exactly squeak it, but it didn’t come out as casually as he hoped.
“Well, I sold the restaurant. I needed a change.” He held Simon out at arm’s length again and seemed to study him. “This place agrees with you,” he said. Simon felt himself grow hot, pleased with the assessment.
“I finally found my niche,” he answered. Luke laughed again, slapped his back with one meaty hand again, and then turned him to face the other two guests.
“Simon Love, these are my friends Daniel and Cole. Daniel is a secret agent who does all kinds of terrifying law enforcement activities.”
The guy in question turned faintly red and coughed. “I’m not… I mean I am, but it’s not as exciting as it sounds. There’s a lot of paperwork. Hi.” He shook Simon’s hand.
“And this is Cole. A food critic.”
“I know who Cole Doren is, Luke,” Simon teased.
Cole offered his hand, and Simon shook it. Luke leaned over to Simon and added with a stage whisper, “Don’t be afraid. He’s perfectly tame. Actually a very nice guy. And on vacation too.”
Cole grinned a lopsided, somewhat dorky grin. “I’m not working, I swear,” he said.
“I wish you were,” Simon said, reaching for the showman’s confidence that anyone who dipped a toe in fine dining needed in bulk quantities. He jerked his thumb toward the kitchen. “I think Mark’s summer menu is a thing of beauty, but we’d be happy to hear your opinion.” He tried not to look at Luke as he spoke, but he felt himself turning back to him, like a flower turning toward the sun. “Everything’s local, seasonal, as fresh as it gets—we caught the trout ourselves this morning.”
&
nbsp; Cole made a small, happy noise. Daniel scratched at the back of his neck. “I’m… kind of a burger guy. I’m not a big fan of—” He squinted, as though remembering something distant and ghastly. “—algae beads.”
Simon nodded. “Can I recommend the steak?” he suggested. “Local beef, grass fed. Nothing fancy, but very good. The secret ingredient is butter.”
Daniel brightened, but Luke made a face.
“Pah.” He waved his hand. “American beef is veal.”
And now Simon knew he had a leg up. He grinned at Luke. “Not ours,” he promised. “We took a lesson when you got your first star. Our beef is mature. More like—” He was talking directly to Luke now. How had that happened? “—beef in Argentina. Aged in the field, aged in the locker, and much more robust than the usual fare.”
“I don’t believe you,” Luke said, laughing.
“You taste it and tell me afterward.” Simon grinned.
“I will.”
Luke dropped down into his seat again, looked at his friends, spread his hands, and sighed happily, all at the same time. “My friend Simon,” he said to the other two. “I haven’t seen him in the flesh for many years. How many years?” He glanced at Simon.
Simon pretended to need to think about it. “About ten, I guess.”
Luke nodded. “About ten. Sounds about right. We went to school together. He’s as earnest and hardworking as any American under the sun and smart as Daedalus too. But he has two left hands and terrible knife skills.”
Simon laughed, genuinely and heartily, and God, when was the last time he’d laughed like that? Who was the last person who ribbed him about anything? And that definitely deserved a ribbing. What he did to the bell pepper in that knife-skills class was both hideous and hilarious.
“But,” Luke went on, “he always did have good judgment and excellent taste.” Luke looked up at him again, his dark eyes warm and fond. The laughter that had bubbled in Simon calmed and thickened into something else. He felt warm all over, as though someone had poured melted chocolate into him. “I’m so glad you found your calling.”
“You haven’t even tasted the amuse-bouche yet,” Simon demurred.
“I don’t need to,” Luke answered. He was still looking at Simon with those warm, black eyes, his expression so soft, his mouth just smiling. “I know you. I trust you. I’ll love it.”
What was happening to him? Simon was looking… no, staring… no, gazing at Luke. He was gorgeous, always had been, and not just because of his looks, but because of that passion, that delight. He realized he wanted to answer passion for passion, and he wished bitterly and brutally that he had returned Luke’s greeting kiss.
What?
He caught the thought before he could squash it. Wait, what?
He pushed the thought away with a force that was almost physical. Stupid thing to think. After all the drama with his family, he’d been struggling to get through the summer. Yesterday he caught himself muttering softly under his breath—Just get through Luminara. Then you can go to fucking Bermuda if you want. He really did need a vacation. He was exhausted, maybe starting to crack up.
His mouth was as dry as the bread oven, and he had to clear his stoppered throat before he could make a noise. “I’ll, uh.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll send your server over to you,” he said in a croak.
“Don’t disappear on me like last time.” Luke smiled and laughed as he said it, as though it were a joke. But his eyes were fixed on Simon’s eyes, and the smile didn’t reach them.
Simon laughed as though he didn’t get it and plastered on a bright, professional smile. “I will be at your service,” he promised. Thank God Ginger arrived at that moment, menus in hand.
Chapter Three
LUKE Ferreya had lost sight of Simon, but that didn’t stop him from keeping an eye out for him.
Simon had appeared to say hello and then again, briefly, at the door to the chef’s table room. Then he vanished again. Too bad. There was something about the close proximity of the table to the kitchen—something that was supposed to be an attraction—that set Luke’s teeth on edge. He knew what went on in kitchens and he’d given up cooking because he was sick of it. But the food was excellent, and Simon’s kitchen was loud and cheerful, the kind of noisy that came from a well-oiled machine, not the difficult silence that came with a kitchen in trouble, or the angry roaring of a chef losing his shit on his staff. That helped.
Still, try though he might to focus on Cole and Daniel, he was aware that he was still instinctively listening for the signs of trouble in the kitchen and tensing every time he thought he detected something. At least when Simon was in sight, there was something he could focus on that he didn’t loathe.
“How’s yours, Luke?”
Cole pointed with his fork at Luke’s plate, where a steak with personality lay partially consumed. Simon was right. The beef was excellent—maybe the best beef he’d had since the last time he was in Argentina. It wasn’t as rich and gamey as the beef there, but the cow had clearly been well reared, well fed, well aged, and well cooked. He could appreciate it, even if he wasn’t able to appreciate the table. “Very nice,” he answered. He found himself looking past Daniel, toward the main dining room, and wondering where Simon was. Then he realized he was being rude.
“Cole? Yours?” he asked.
“I wasn’t going to do any work while we were here, but honestly, this trout and beer pairing is amazing.” He sat back in his chair and smiled. “I might have to write a little something up.”
“Inspiration strikes,” Daniel said, smiling fondly at Cole.
Luke felt a little pinch of jealousy. He’d known Daniel for years. They had both worked at a summer camp as teenagers—Daniel as a counselor and Luke as a line cook. They’d hit it off at once and pranked each other mercilessly all that summer with everything from putting cornstarch in the flour to snakes in sleeping bags. They’d stayed close ever since. Even when Daniel went into his wild and crazy bounty-hunter life and Luke took a deep dive into food, they somehow managed to stay in touch.
A few years earlier, Daniel somehow landed Mr. Right. Apparently it happened while he was on the job, and there wasn’t a recipe for something like that. It was a lucky accident, like wild yeast picking your sourdough starter and making it magical. Luke couldn’t replicate what luck had provided for Daniel, and he was happy for his friend—happy, and a little jealous too. While Daniel was heading into comfortable middle age with a hot widower who was also a serious food critic, Luke’s life was coming spectacularly apart. Those fifteen and sixteen-hour days in the kitchen had destroyed his relationships, his leadership in the kitchen—iron-fisted and vicious—had ruined his friendships, and his refusal to take time off had finally alienated him from his family too.
Could he come to Christmas dinner? Of course not. He had a special menu at the restaurant that day. His sister’s wedding in Buenos Aires? No, the kitchen could not do without him.
He’d reached his professional peak with a second Michelin star just as his life was hitting bottom. That was the summer he started sleeping in his office and hating everything—his work, his staff, his food, his suppliers. More than once he woke up with a voice more like Barry White’s than his own because he’d shouted himself hoarse yelling at his staff. The focus of his entire life had narrowed to a point that kept diminishing from his kitchen to that dish to this plate to that single pea that would not sit just so on a tower of salad. And finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. One morning he dragged himself out of the camp bed he kept in his office, reached for his chef’s coat, and couldn’t make himself put it on. That was the beginning of the end.
“It’s burnout. It happens,” Leo, his sous, told him. “Take a break. Go away for a month. Make someone else head chef for a while.”
But he could no more appoint someone else head chef than he could put on the whites himself. Who he was had become so tangled in the business, and there was so much passion and pride involved, tha
t he couldn’t stand the thought of walking into the kitchen and not being the one every eye was trained on. He changed the name on the sign that autumn and sold the place to Leo that spring. Six months later he still didn’t know who he was or what he wanted. But he knew he never wanted to run a kitchen again, and that was a start.
So here he was, vacationing with a couple so cute they could give onlookers diabetes at fifty paces. Daniel, who was a rough-as-sandpaper gun enthusiast and professional tough guy, and his willowy, awkward-cute boyfriend who he was doe-eyed over. They weren’t sticky sweet in public, but he’d have to be blind to miss those adoring glances, the unspoken promises, and the passage of a silent joke running quick as lightning between them. They had rented a suite in the hotel with all the amenities while Luke availed himself of a bed-and-breakfast at a ranch with a view over the lake. He was glad he had. The place reminded him of summers spent on the family ranch in Argentina, riding horses for hours on end. Maybe it was time to get back to that. Maybe the outdoors was what he needed—a cure for all those years spent entombed in a hot and windowless kitchen.
“Paging Lucas Ferreya,” Daniel was saying.
Luke blinked and came back to the present. He shook his head. “Sorry.”
“I hope you weren’t worrying about the kitchen,” Cole said shrewdly.
Luke laughed. “Not at this exact moment,” he answered.
“Just for most of the meal?”
Luke nodded. “It’s true.” He shrugged. “I can’t help it. You can take the chef out of the kitchen—”
“But you can’t make him drink,” Daniel finished. “You’ve been sipping that for an hour. Are you on a budget?”