A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series)

by Grace, Sorcha

  But I did know one thing for certain. I loved William Maddox Lambourne. I loved him so much it hurt when we weren’t together. Our texts this morning had been nice, but it was killing me that we were still fighting.

  I reached into my bag, looking for something to take my mind off the state of my relationships, and pulled out the stack of mail. I had several thick catalogs—Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, Restoration Hardware, Chefs Catalog…that one was for work. The last piece of mail was the large envelope. I looked at it more closely and noted it had only my name and address on it. It had been mailed in Chicago just a couple of days ago.

  I ripped it open and pulled out three proof sheets. I hadn’t even considered Fresh Market might return the proofs of my asparagus and cherries shots with comments. I flipped the sheets over and gasped. These weren’t pictures I’d taken. I stared instead at pictures taken of me.

  They were candid shots of my everyday activities—images of me walking alone, walking with Laird, running by the lakefront, juggling bags as I got out of my car, walking up the front steps to my building. They looked like they’d been taken on different days and at different times—I could see the varying amounts of snow in the background, indicating whoever was watching me and snapping away had been doing so on a regular basis.

  I tried to remember if the envelope had been in the pile Beckett amassed during my days in Napa or if I’d pulled it from my mailbox and, if so, when. But I couldn’t remember at all. Maybe William had intended to tell me he was having me followed and this was how he’d planned to share it with me. But what was the point? To show he was having me watched even during the mundane, routine parts of my life? To demonstrate that he could keep tabs on me because he could? What the fuck. Didn’t he have anything better to spend his money on? And what did this prove anyway—other than he was a bit obsessive? I stuffed the photos back into the envelope and sighed. We were only going to work if this kind of shit stopped.

  I arrived at Morrison Hotel only three minutes late for my meeting with Hutch, which had to be some kind of record for me. The restaurant was housed in an ordinary-looking, two-story, red brick store front. Morrison Hotel was arched across the front window in big white letters drop-shadowed in red. I stepped inside and squinted slightly until my eyes adjusted to the dark. It was small and intimate, and I had a view of the entire layout from the entrance. It appeared empty, but I could hear voices and sounds coming from the kitchen, which I could see was in the back.

  I studied the sleek, modern lines. The exterior of the building didn’t suggest the interior at all. The floors were stone throughout and the tables were polished dark wood. Some had already been set in preparation for dinner with crisp white tablecloths and wine glasses. Tables lined either side of the center aisle framed on one side by plush banquettes and by simple metal and cushioned navy chairs on the other. The ceiling, ornamented with wooden and metal arches, was open, and sleek industrial lighting spotlighted the tables, while circular fixtures gave the entire restaurant a soft glow.

  I had only been standing in the entrance for a moment when a leggy brunette in a tight black skirt and a white blouse walked toward me. “You must be Catherine Kelly,” she said, heels clicking on the stone as she crossed the restaurant.

  “Yes.” I still had my hands in my pockets to keep them warm, but I took one out and she shook it. “I’m here to see Hutch Morrison.”

  “He’s waiting for you. I’ll take your coat.”

  I wasn’t quite ready to give up the warmth of my coat, but I shrugged it off and let her hang it on an antique coat rack near the door. She led me into the restaurant, and I figured she was taking me back to the kitchen to meet Hutch. But as my gaze swept the room, my spine began to tingle, and when we neared a booth that had been hidden from the entrance by a dark blue partition, I knew right away the man seated there was Hutch Morrison. He looked exactly like his picture—cocky, confident, and sexy as hell. He was blond, tan—interesting since it was deep winter in Chicago—and heavily inked. As I neared, he gave me a slow, sexy smile, which made my heart thunk in my chest. For a moment I was a bit dazed.

  Hutch stood, unfolding his long, lean body and easing to a standing position right in front of me. And then it struck me why I was reacting to him so strongly: he reminded me of Jace. They were about the same height, and had a similar build and coloring. I might be with a tall, dark, and handsome man now, but blond and ripped had always been my type. Jace’s hair had been naturally blond, and Hutch’s looked more light brown with blond streaks from the sun, but the two men really did bear a resemblance. Of course, with all the tattoos, Hutch looked a whole lot edgier and more than a little dangerous. He wore a close-fit black v-neck t-shirt, and I noted the tats peeking out on his upper chest.

  I took in his corded, defined arms, also covered in tattoos. I could imagine those arms braced on either side of a woman as he knelt above her in bed. I took a shaky breath and tried to banish the image before I looked too closely and had to admit the woman I pictured him pleasuring was me.

  “Thank you, Madison,” he said, dismissing the woman. His eyes never left my face. “Miss Catherine Kelly?” His voice was the same one I remembered from the phone, slow and soft. The way he said my name, in that Southern accent, was completely disarming.

  “Hi,” I said. Hi? That was so not the way I began business meetings. If Beckett were here he’d be sniggering already. “I mean, yes. I’m Catherine. You must be Mr. Morrison.”

  “Sweetheart, I told you on the phone. Mr. Morrison is my daddy.” He took my hand and led me to the booth. “You can call me Hutch.”

  “Alright, Hutch. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

  “Likewise. Let me take a look at you.” He gave my hand a little tug before I could sit on the cushioned seat. “Black.” He grinned at me. “My favorite color. I hope you have that tight little body from working out and not starving yourself. I intend to feed you, Catherine.”

  “I”…” I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I should probably have been offended, but I found myself smiling. “I’m not really hungry, but I wouldn’t mind some coffee.”

  His smile turned mischievous. “Oh, that’s sacrilege. You can’t come into a chef’s signature restaurant without an appetite.”

  I flushed, embarrassed I’d been so careless with my words. He was right, of course. I didn’t mean to offend him before our meeting even began. I started to apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I—”

  “Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I know you’re hungry. You just don’t know it yet. But you will.” He winked at me. “Wait until you try my cooking.” Before I could answer, he tugged me toward him. I realized he hadn’t ever released my hand. He did now, moving a hand to the small of my back and holding me against him as we made our way into the kitchen. We were so close that I felt like we were long-lost friends.

  I also felt his body against mine. It wasn’t only his arms that were muscled and defined. I was pretty sure he hid hard washboard abs and a tight chest under that t-shirt. And there was something so intoxicating about the way he smelled—woodsy and smoky.

  The kitchen was just a few steps away, and it was seriously awe-inspiring, even for a novice like me. It was big, much bigger than the kitchen at Willowgrass. It was completely open too, so diners could see just about everything that was going on. Cooking as theater. It was bright and spotless, the stainless steel appliances gleaming, the white surfaces immaculate. It looked meticulously organized and like a perfect stage for Hutch’s brand of elegant, refined cuisine. A chef in a white coat and black trousers nodded when we entered. He was at the other end of a long, gleaming, stainless steel center table finely chopping vegetables, likely the mise en place for the night’s service. Above the table, cylindrical light bulbs hung in glass cases, reflecting softly off the steel.

  “This is majorly impressive,” I said.

  Hutch smiled at me. “This is home.” But for someone who was home, he looked a lot more se
rious than he had in the restaurant’s seating area. He moved confidently around the counter where food was expedited and toward the ovens and stove tops. He looked completely at ease and also completely focused. I could tell he was a man who was intensely passionate and dedicated to his art.

  At the other end of the prep table, Hutch began to mix ingredients, and while I sort of paid attention to what he was doing, mainly I watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed and released.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  “A little sampling from our upcoming menu. Brown sugar and cinnamon beignets with a simple blueberry compote and café au lait with chicory. Sound good?”

  “It sounds fantastic. Now I understand why it’s so hard to get reservations here.”

  He glanced up at me. “We don’t take reservations, honey,” he said. “We sell tickets.” He moved toward the stoves, heating the oil to cook the beignet dough he’d just prepared.

  “My friend Beckett mentioned something about tickets. He’s a food stylist and a big fan of yours.”

  Hutch looked over his shoulder, a knowing grin on his face. “I bet. So you haven’t eaten here?”

  “No.”

  He turned toward me. “For shame, Miss Catherine. We’ll have to change that.” He moved to the prep table again and began doing something with blueberries. “The way Morrison Hotel works,” he said, never taking his attention from the food, “is that you buy a ticket to one of my food events. Right now the theme is ‘London Calling.’”

  “So what kind of food is that?”

  “It’s my kind of food. I was really interested in exploring the French influences in Marrakech and I also love London pub fare. You know, fish and chips, bangers and mash, mussels, roast beef. Really hearty, traditional English food. I explored the different flavor profiles and textures and came up with some of my own techniques for combining them, then I made it all work. That’s what I do.”

  Hutch gave me a satisfied grin as I stood there, speechless.

  “The upcoming theme is ‘Sticky Fingers,’ and that’s going to be Southern and Creole fare. Much more down home for me. A little simpler too. I’m from Alabama, you know, just outside of Mobile.”

  “Thus the beignets.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be exploring the food of my youth for a while, but I’ll move on to something else in three months or so. I decided to go with tickets because I knew reservations would be impossible to get anyway. This was going to be the hottest restaurant in Chicago the minute the doors opened.”

  “That’s pretty cocky,” I said before I could think.

  “I’m only cocky about three things, Catherine, and those are things at which I excel. One is cooking. When you taste this little snack, you can be the judge as to whether I’ve oversold myself. But back to the restaurant.” He moved again to the stove, working on his beignets. I had forgotten he was even cooking. He was so relaxed and confident. He reminded me a lot of William in the kitchen.

  “If you want to eat at Morrison Hotel—well, not you, darlin’, you can be my guest anytime—you buy a ticket for the theme. It’s going to cost you about a hundred and fifty bucks or thereabouts, depending on what we’re serving and whether you want wine pairings. You pay in advance, and your place is reserved. You don’t have to wait to be seated. You don’t have to flag the waiter down at the end of the meal and ask for the bill or face that awkward moment when no one is sure who is going to pay. That’s all taken care of. You just bring your appetite and sit back and wait for the show.”

  I leaned my elbows on the prep table and watched his back as he removed the beignets and dusted them with cinnamon and brown sugar. He turned, placed them on the table, and drizzled the compote beside them. They smelled so delicious, I wanted to reach over and tear a piece off. “Sounds like a good system,” I said. “What about people with dietary restrictions? Vegetarians or gluten-free?”

  He scowled at me and then reached for two large coffee cups. “We make it pretty clear we don’t accommodate that sort of thing.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Because every dish on the menu has been carefully constructed and prepared so that it’s the best. People come here to experience my vision, Catherine. If we start taking out ingredients and substituting others, it’s not my vision any more, it’s theirs. That’s not what Morrison Hotel is about.” He handed me a cup of coffee, which smelled better than any coffee had a right to. “Don’t tell me you’re a vegetarian.”

  “No,” I said.

  “Thank God. I heard you were from California.” He gestured toward the restaurant, and I led the way. Behind me he balanced his cup of coffee and the plate of beignets. “I never considered you might be one of the granola eaters. Not after I saw those cock kebabs.”

  I felt my face heat. I didn’t know why. There was no reason his verbiage should embarrass me. Beckett called them cock kebabs too, and I didn’t blush with him.

  We sat at the booth where he’d been before, Hutch on one side and me on the other. The beignets were between us. “So tell me about the project you want me to work on,” I said.

  “Oh, no, sweetheart. Pleasure before business. These beignets aren’t going to taste as good if they’re cold. Eat up.” He lifted one and raised it to my lips, so I had little choice but to open my mouth and bite. As soon as I tasted the brown sugar and cinnamon on the flaky warm dough, I closed my eyes.

  “This is delicious.” I licked my lips to catch the sugar on them with my tongue.

  “I do like watching you eat. Now try it with the compote.”

  I opened my eyes and watched as he swirled the beignet lightly in sauce. With William I would have obediently opened my mouth again, but this time I took the beignet from Hutch and tasted it on my own. “Mmm. Interesting. I wouldn’t have thought of pairing blueberries and beignets.”

  “It works, doesn’t it? My grandma used to make something like this and it reminds me of summer, of foods of my youth. Sometimes simple is perfection.”

  “It’s amazing.”

  He sat back and sipped his coffee, looking satisfied. I sipped my own coffee and then had to have another sip.

  “You like?” he asked, brow raised.

  “It’s perfect. Just the right amount of sweet and strong.”

  “You definitely have to come back and dine with us, Catherine. If you agree to work with me on the book, you’ll dine here often.”

  I smiled and sipped the coffee again. It was really good. Way better than the instant stuff I made or the lattes I consumed at Starbucks.

  “That was your cue, darlin’. We can talk about the book now.”

  “Oh! Sorry.” I sat straight and leaned forward. “So tell me about it.”

  “I’m going to do an e-book with a narrative about the restaurant, and I want fabulous pictures to accompany it. I told you our next theme is ‘Sticky Fingers.’ I want you to photograph it all: the restaurant, my team, the process of creating and assembling the dishes, and the food. That’s the important thing. I want the food to look fucking awesome. That’s why I need you.”

  I was intrigued and a little intimidated. “It sounds fabulous, but it’s also a really big job.”

  “I don’t do anything halfway. It’s a huge undertaking and it’s going to get a lot of attention, but I think you’ve got the right eye for it. I didn’t pull your name out of a hat. I asked around. I did my research.”

  “Then you know I haven’t done anything like this before.”

  He sat forward, arms on the table between us. “I know you’re the person I want. I’ve seen good things. I’ve heard good things. I’m impressed, Miss Catherine Kelly, and I don’t impress easily. I know Ben Lee. He’s the one who first suggested you.”

  “Ben was really sweet to take me on at the last minute. I owe him.”

  Hutch shook his head. “Take a look at your photos in Chicago Now. Those figs were damn sexy, Catherine, almost pornographic. Then take a look at the waitlist to get into Willow
grass. Your debt is paid.”

  I felt my face heat again. I had the feeling Ben’s cooking, more than my photographs of his raw figs with blue cheese and drizzled with warm, spiced honey, was the reason Willowgrass was so successful. But Morrison Hotel was on a whole other level. It would be huge to have my name associated with it and with a chef like Hutch. He was internationally revered and what I’d seen from him in the kitchen reminded me of what I’d seen in so many of the best surfers. Determination, razor focus, absolute dedication. Hutch would not be an easy man to work with. “I’m definitely interested,” I said.

  “Good. Take your time and think about it. Ask your Mr. Lambourne his opinion. He’s been in here more than once.”

  I blinked in surprise before it occurred to me that Ben might have mentioned my relationship with William. Still, I hadn’t expected the conversation to move to him—to William. “He’s not my Mr. Lambourne,” I said. William wasn’t anyone’s to claim, least of all mine at the moment. Hutch cocked an eyebrow.

  I gestured futilely. “William and I…we’re…” I faltered. What exactly were we now?

  “Now this is interesting. He’s a lucky man if he has you, Catherine, but I kind of like the odds better if he doesn’t.” He winked at me.

  I almost laughed. Hutch had a way of flirting that was more fun than predatory. He was a lot different from William in that way. But if he and William were in business together, I needed to know that up front. “Is William an investor in Morrison Hotel?” I asked.

  “Oh, no, darlin’. Lambourne is a good guy, and he definitely has his hand in eateries all over town, but this ain’t one of them. Morrison Hotel is all mine. I don’t want you in order to get to him. I want you because you’re the best.”

  “Alright. What do you need from me? A proposal?”

  “You read my mind. See, we work well together already. And Catherine, I’ll want that ASAP. I want to move on this.”