Toronto Collection Volume 1 (Toronto Series #1-5)

by Heather Wardell

  He pushed the office door open and held it for me. "I'm Kegan Underwood, by the way," he said loudly over his shoulder. "And you're Mary, I hope."

  I stepped past him into the office and waited until he shut the door, dulling the vacuum's roar, before I said, "Right. Mary Ralston." I hoped my voice hadn't sounded weird. It felt weird. I'd been Mary Welland for six years, technically still was. Using my maiden name added yet another twist of confusion and complication to my already tangled emotions. I needed this job so badly, and I was so afraid, and now even my name didn't feel right.

  But then Kegan and I shook hands and looked directly at each other for the first time, and everything changed.

  His dark blue eyes, bloodshot and full of pain, swept away my doubts and desperation, swept away everything but him. Those poor eyes made it clear he'd been in that smoky air as much as he could since the weekend's fire, like you'd stay, struggling to accept and understand your loss, by the corpse of someone you loved.

  The restaurant reviews had shown me how hard he'd worked to make Steel a success, and now it was in pieces and he needed to figure out how to rebuild his career and life. Knowing we had that in common, and being all too aware of how hard it was, made my heart ache for him even before he said, "Sorry you're seeing the place like this. Things used to be a little...cleaner. And quieter."

  My throat tightened but I managed to say, "I know. I'm so sorry."

  I'd never felt such strong sympathy, and I saw him recognize it. "Thank you. I've never wanted any career but this, and now... Well, it's hard to be on the brink of getting everything you want and then see it fall apart."

  I nodded slowly, unable to look away from those tired but so mesmerizing eyes. "Yes, it is."

  He studied me, probably wondering what had fallen apart for me, but he didn't ask. Instead, he gestured me to a guest chair, and as we both settled into our seats he said, "I should tell you I still want to open Magma even though Steel obviously needs a lot of attention. I don't like changing my plans, and I think I can make it work. No, I'm sure I can."

  He didn't sound sure, but I said, "I'm sure you can too", giving my words all the sincerity I could muster, hoping our wishes would make it so. I had wondered whether he'd decide to postpone Magma, which would be disastrous for me, so his statement was a relief.

  "I hope you're right. So. What do you have for me? Thanks for using your own kitchen, and for letting me change the rules at the last moment."

  The original plan had been for me to cook for him on the spot with ingredients he provided, but since Steel's kitchen was out of commission he'd asked me to bring food instead. I'd actually quite enjoyed the "cook for me" interview I'd done to win my last job, coming up with new and interesting dishes to use an unexpected array of ingredients, but cooking at home was definitely more relaxing. "You're welcome. And you gave me two days' notice, which was great. I was just glad you still wanted to see me."

  I opened my insulated bag and pulled out the various containers, then set out plates and cutlery. As I arranged the food on his desk, he said, "I so love people who are organized. You even brought your own dishes."

  I looked up and smiled. "What kind of chef would expect you to eat right off the table?"

  He smiled back, and my heart skipped a beat. The energy suddenly snapping in his eyes as he focused on moving forward instead of on Steel's condition made him even more attractive. When he wasn't exhausted, those eyes would be truly breathtaking. And the rest of the package wasn't bad either. Tall, dark, and handsome indeed.

  Fine, your boss is hot. But he'll never be your boss if you don't focus. I made myself look away and finished setting out the food that would make up the better part of my job interview.

  Kegan ran his eyes over the dishes. "Nice preparation." He pulled the appetizer plate toward himself. "Tell me about this one."

  I started to explain the ingredients I'd used and my reasons for doing so, but he cut in with, "Oh, and don't be worried when I don't eat much. I've interviewed four other chefs today. Hardly any room left." He patted his flat stomach.

  "Good to know."

  He bit into the minced chicken on toast and chewed thoughtfully as I talked about the ingredients. Once I'd finished I waited as calmly as I could while he took another bite, and couldn't help noticing he wore no wedding ring. Of course, I didn't either, so it didn't necessarily mean anything.

  "That's great." He set down the rest of the toast. "It's spicy all right, but it doesn't just burn. The first guy I saw today should have had a fire truck following him around."

  Delighted he knew the difference, I said, "There's a big difference between spicy and hot. I like finding ways to give dishes a real kick without..."

  "Without requiring emergency services?"

  He smiled at me and I returned it. "Exactly."

  He moved on to the bean soup, and then to the steak strips I'd laced with lime and garlic and a hint of cinnamon. The accompanying citrus-flavored rice didn't have quite enough kick for him, but he did say it was close, and I redeemed myself with my spinach salad topped with shreds of peppery cheese and a spicy dressing.

  As he ate, he asked me casual questions about the food and the ingredients, and he kept his eyes on me while I answered, clearly taking in my appearance as well as my responses.

  I knew what he saw: shoulder-length brown hair caught back in a neat braid, neutral pink lip gloss and a touch of mascara with green eye liner to perk up my brown eyes, a simple interview-appropriate navy sweater and black skirt. But what did he think? Did I look like, sound like, act like, what he wanted for his restaurant?

  I wasn't sure. His image, from the sleek haircut to his elegant dark suit, was of style and class. Even his slightly silvering hair just made him look more distinguished. But I wasn't entirely classless myself, and his reaction to my food gave me hope.

  Once he'd tried everything I'd set out I said, "One more," and pulled out the dessert I'd kept in my bag so it wouldn't melt. I'd spent hours since his call working to perfect the cinnamon caramel peaches that topped my homemade chai ice cream, and I held my breath as he dipped his spoon.

  He ate what he'd taken, then looked me in the eye and slowly shook his head, a smile growing on his face. "Why the hell are you available? This is amazing."

  Relief filled me. I needed this job so badly, and now that I'd met him I wanted to work for him for his own sake too. We so clearly agreed on how spicy food should be made. "Thank you."

  The relief didn't last, though; he said, "I'm serious. Why don't you have a job already?"

  I'd hoped this wouldn't come up, but I'd known it would. "I was at Aspire, down the street, for about three months. But that ended two weeks ago, and—"

  "Why?" Those deep blue eyes caught mine, and held hard.

  For a split second I wanted to get up and slink out the door, but I pulled myself upright instead. He might as well know my beliefs up front. No point pretending to be someone I wasn't. Not any more. "I didn't see eye-to-eye with Alan."

  Kegan pulled the soup bowl closer and took another spoonful. "I'd overlook a lot of differing opinions for food like this. It has to be more than that."

  I looked at him and realized he already knew. I'd listed Aspire on my resume, not wanting to leave out the biggest and highest-quality place I'd ever worked, and no doubt he'd called Alan and knew the truth. So I might as well tell him. "I don't believe in making exactly the same meal over and over. I like to change things up a bit, make sure the patrons can still get what they like but make a few tweaks so they don't get bored. Alan didn't want any surprises. He was worried about his bottom line--"

  "Which he has to be, or his restaurant goes under."

  Not making this any easier, are you? "True. I think if the food's not catching people's attention your bottom line will suffer anyhow. I knew what I wanted to make and how I wanted to make it, and he did like my food but not the way I modified it. He wanted me to stick exactly to the written menu, even when I offered to upd
ate it daily myself."

  "Then what happened?"

  I looked into his eyes and didn't want to tell him. Having met him, I wanted this job. More, I needed it. In the ten months since I'd left Charles and moved to Toronto, I'd had three jobs, two at small diners and then Aspire, interspersed with four months of unemployment during which I lived off the money from selling my car. When I finally landed the job at Aspire I'd thought I'd found my golden goose but it had been a rotten egg instead, and if Kegan didn't hire me I'd soon have to admit my mother was right and I couldn't survive on my own.

  I nearly begged Kegan to give me the job but I could already tell he wasn't the type to respond to groveling. Instead, I raised my chin and laid it all on the line, hoping he'd appreciate my honesty. "Then I told him I would never agree with him, and I walked out two seconds before he fired me."

  Kegan tipped his head to one side and studied me. "Interesting."

  Watching me commit career suicide was interesting? I didn't know what to say.

  "Why couldn't you compromise with him? Change up one recipe a month or something?"

  I shook my head. "He wouldn't have let me, and it wouldn't have been good enough anyhow. If I get an idea for how to improve a dish, I want to go for it. Otherwise I'll know it's not the best I could do, and I think the patrons deserve the best."

  He nodded, then picked up my resume and gave it a quick scan. "Excuse me one second."

  Feeling a bit deflated at his lack of response to my honesty, I said, "Of course."

  He picked up his cell phone. "Tess, hi, it's Kegan. You and Jen went to Aspire for me, right? I could look up the date, but do you happen to remember it?" He waited for a response, then said, "Thanks. That's what I thought. Got to go. Say hi to Forrest for me."

  He set down the phone and smiled at me. "The last time I had Aspire checked out, my friend raved over the food. I was almost afraid she'd never come back to Steel again. You were working there then."

  I blushed. "I'm so glad she liked it."

  "She has good taste. And you're so right about what patrons deserve. Alan's always been an idiot. He should never have let you go."

  My blush became uncomfortable. "Thank you."

  "Don't mention it. But do mention this: what other dishes do you think would suit Magma?"

  I nodded, glad we were moving past my work history. "I know Steel is known for top-quality food, and you want Magma to be the same only spicier."

  He nodded, and I said, "I'm not sure how closely you want their menus to match, but I was thinking you could duplicate Steel's menu except with the kick turned way up."

  He got up and left the office, calling back, "I was thinking that way too." He returned with a menu and pulled his chair over beside mine. "I do want to redo Steel's menu as well, but for now, here's what we've got. Walk me through it."

  He chose various dishes at random, and I came up with ways to spice them up. After a few, he said, "You know your seasonings, don't you? How'd you learn all that?"

  "When I was thirteen, my mother had to go back to work because my dad lost his job. I ended up doing the cooking since my brothers couldn't handle it. Our budget was pretty low and using the same base ingredients every day got boring, so I tried out different herbs and spices to make my meals more interesting. Nobody else liked hot food, but they'd eat spicier stuff if it didn't burn. So I learned how to do that."

  He nodded and glanced at my resume. "Formal training?"

  "Just a one-year college program."

  I didn't want to tell him anything else, but as I heard how cold and dead I sounded I knew I'd have to, and sure enough he said, "By choice, or..."

  I took a deep breath. "No. I wanted to go to the culinary academy in Ottawa. They did a presentation for my high school graduating class. I hadn't known what I wanted for a career but I decided during their talk to become a chef. I did the college program so I could get kitchen jobs and start saving for my year's tuition for the academy."

  "A few thousand bucks, I assume?"

  "Try closer to fifty thousand."

  Kegan sat back in his chair. "For a year?"

  I nodded. "Plus living expenses."

  "No wonder you needed to save. So what happened?"

  I pressed my lips together, trying to find the right words. "I wanted to go by the time I was thirty, but I got married when I was twenty-eight and we needed money so he could get his business degree, and..." I shrugged.

  He frowned. "But after he had the degree? Why didn't you go then?"

  Why indeed? That was precisely the question I'd tried, with no success, to get Charles to answer. Why can't I go now?

  First, he'd said I needed to take care of his aging parents. Once they passed away a few months apart it was my parents that Charles claimed needed my support, although I'd eventually realized he liked having a full-time maid and cook and didn't want that to change.

  I'd berated myself daily since I left him for letting him take control of my life and dissuade me from following my dreams, but my whole marriage had been like that story of a frog in steadily warming water: at first it had been comfortable letting someone else guide me, and familiar since my mother had always told me what to do, and by the time I realized I was boiling I'd been in too deep to get out.

  I couldn't tell Kegan any of that, so I said, "Money, mostly. But I have a new plan. I'm going to start saving again, and I hope to get to the academy before I turn forty-five." At my current rate of savings I wouldn't get there much before I turned forty-five hundred, but I kept that to myself. I didn't want to discuss it any more, so I made my voice bright and said, "And I have all but one of their cookbooks and I read them all the time for tips and inspiration, so I'm getting at least part of the experience now."

  "All but one?"

  My voice might have been bright, but apparently I wasn't. "Um, yeah. I don't have the newest one."

  "Don't like the topic?"

  I could have agreed, but I found myself not wanting to tell this man anything but the truth. "It's only been out a few weeks, and I kind of can't afford it right now. But I have lots of other cookbooks to read, so it's all right. I'll get it some day."

  Kegan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He rubbed his forehead, then said, "Good for you."

  Before I could speak, although I had no idea what to say in the face of his strange reaction, he frowned. He looked down at my resume, then back up at me, his eyes narrowed. "How old are you?"

  Technically an illegal question, but I had a feeling I knew where he was going with it. "Thirty-four."

  He picked up my resume again. "I'm thirty-six," he said absently. "So you graduated from high school fifteen years ago or so, right?"

  When I admitted this was so, he said, "And got married six years ago. But you have no work history from your marriage until the last ten months. What were you doing?"

  "I did cook throughout, for friends' weddings and parties and that sort of thing. But otherwise, I was married."

  He looked up. "And that's a full-time job?"

  "Not always. But it was for me." I couldn't quite keep the bitterness from my voice.

  "Are you still married?"

  I shook my head, then qualified it with, "Separated since I moved here in January. We'll be divorced next January."

  "So you quit him, and you quit Aspire. Are you a quitter, Mary?"

  I heard a chuckle in his voice but I didn't see anything funny. "I quit whatever's holding me back and making my life unbearable. Otherwise, I'll work until I drop."

  Kegan blinked twice. "I apologize. Stupid thing to say. I'd have quit Aspire too if I'd been unlucky enough to work for Alan, and your ex-husband doesn't sound much better. I was trying to make a joke but I should know by now I'm no comedian. Can you forgive me?"

  As I took a breath to accept his apology his eye twitched and I realized again how exhausted he was. "Of course I forgive you. Have you had any rest since the fire?"

  He leaned back in his chair. "As little
as I can manage. I need to get Steel running again. I've promoted someone to replace the... idiot chef who let the fire happen in the first place, but the building itself is in bad shape. They haven't told me yet when it'll be ready to open again, but it sounds like weeks. Still, I want to be here in case there's anything I can do."

  "Thank you so much for meeting with me with everything else going on."

  "The pleasure was all mine. Now, you're my last interview for Magma, so I'll figure out what I'm doing and give you a call tonight. All right?"

  I nodded.

  "Let me help you pack up the rest—" He broke off. "Did I eat all that?"

  I grinned. I'd noticed him picking away at the food while we discussed Steel's menu but I hadn't said a word, not wanting to make him stop. "All except the last bit of the peaches."

  He picked up the dessert dish and made short work of the remains. "There," he said, slipping the bowl into my insulated bag. "I do love how everything's got spice and flavor and yet I don't need to drink Lake Ontario to quench the flames."

  I pushed myself carefully to my feet and began gathering my containers. My right leg had for some reason been getting sore and tight whenever I sat for too long, and I wanted to give it a chance to recover before I had to walk. "Thank you. I'm so glad."

  Once I'd packed up Kegan gestured for me to leave the office ahead of him. On my way out I glanced into an arched doorway across the hall and gasped.

  "Yeah. It's messed up."

  I stood frozen. "Messed up" didn't come close to describing the kitchen. The stainless steel countertops bore mounds of ash and tangles of burned wires, and the cabinets were blistered from the fire's heat and blackened by soot. The equally blackened ceiling over the stove hung in strips of paint and plaster, except where it had given way completely to reveal charred pipes and wiring dangling between ruined support beams. Even the appliances were scorched, some looking beyond repair, and I had no idea what color the floor was beneath its layer of filth.

  My eyes filled with tears and I turned away, unable to bear looking at the devastation another second. Realizing it must be a million times worse for him, I murmured, "I'm so incredibly sorry."