by Anthology
Sam grabbed his cell phone and dialed 911. While he was on the phone, Ivy spied a patrol car at the traffic light. Disengaging herself from Sam, she rushed to the street corner and started to wave like a maniac. She accepted she must look ridiculous, but what was a little embarrassment when faced with a potential life and death situation?
Thankfully, the officers pulled over, most likely with the intention of arresting the crazy woman. The moment they spied Sam, however, the older one froze. “Hey, it’s Knute. I was at the playoff game against the Raiders last year when you threw more touchdowns than incompletions. Nobody’s done that since Warner. Your arm was on fire.”
The second officer nodded vigorously. “And how about the Denver game with the sixty yard throw during overtime? It was a thing of beauty, man.”
Sam cleared his throat. “You’re no doubt wondering why my girlfriend flagged you down. Some guy with a gun tried to rob us.”
The officers became deadly serious and began to question Sam about the incident in earnest. As she stood beside him, inserting the occasional comment, she watched him closely. He was well-spoken and conveyed an aura of self-assurance, understated yet ever present. He inspired trust in perfect strangers without even trying and although a part of her wanted to believe it was well deserved, a niggling voice in the back of her mind made her cautious.
It was late by the time the cab stopped in front of Ivy’s apartment building. Sam opened the door and helped her out. “I’m sorry about tonight. We were fortunate the mugger was a fan, and not one of the haters. Will you be all right?”
Ivy gave him a small smile while sliding her arms around his neck. “I think I’ll be fine on my own, but I’d be better if you stayed with me.”
“Are you inviting me in?” he asked, his voice low and raspy.
“And more, unless you’d rather no—”
Sam cut her off with a deep, sultry kiss, stealing her breath. A moment later, he raised his head and stared at her with an intensity that spoke volumes. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and made to lead her through the lobby door when she offered a shaky laugh. “Don’t you think you’d better pay the cab first?”
Ivy rested her back against the restaurant’s back door, trying to catch her breath after her run. Sam leaned over her, one hand on the doorframe. A sexy smile on his chiseled lips, he skimmed his knuckle against her sweaty cheek, which she was positive was as red as a pomegranate. Not exactly her best look, but from the heat in his eyes, he didn’t care. When he had volunteered to go running with her, she’d been thrilled. Kevin had hated exercising. With Sam, it was another thing they had in common. However, while she was huffing and puffing with exertion, he was barely winded. Of course, being a professional athlete afforded him an edge, and she should’ve been proud of keeping pace with him instead of down on herself for feeling the burn.
Sam’s hand traveled to the back of her neck when the door unexpectedly opened. Ivy would have fallen if he hadn’t tightened his grip, easily holding her upright.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” Beth snickered with a telling look as she dragged the heavy garbage bag outside.
Wrinkling her nose at her friend, Ivy stepped out of his embrace. “I’m sure you remember Beth?
Sam grabbed the bag and hoisted it to into the nearby dumpster. “Of course, I do. I promised her boyfriend tickets to a game.”
Beth groaned, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “The little shit, I told him not to ask you.”
Sam shrugged, his arm snaking around Ivy’s waist. “It’s no big deal. I’d do anything for Ivy.”
“Really?” Beth arched a brow, a noticeable twinkle in her brown eyes. “Even stay with the Pioneers instead of signing with Dallas?”
“Beth,” Ivy warned, appalled she would ask such an invasive question, even though she herself was invested in the answer. Ivy held up a staying hand before Sam attempted to reply and flashed Beth a meaningful stare. “Please forgive her. She has no inner monologue and suffers from short-term memory loss. Sometimes she forgets what she’s doing. If I was forced to hazard a guess, I would say she was in the middle of prepping for lunch.”
Far from contrite, Beth offered a mischievous smile. “Okay, okay, I get the hint.”
Ivy waited for her to disappear inside before turning to Sam, embarrassed. “I’m sorry about that. Sometimes her forwardness borders on rude.”
“It’s all right. Believe me, she’s not the first person to ask. Negotiating contracts is the dirty part of the game. The rest, well, it’s up there with my other favorite activity.” Sam tilted her chin up, his hand sliding down to her bottom as he made to drag her close.
Although desperately wanting to give into his seduction, she made to pull back. “Sam, I’m all sweaty.”
“And you’re about to get even sweatier,” he said, lifting her off the ground. “Let’s go back to your place.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I have a better idea. There’s a shower in my office and a sturdy lock on the door.”
His cell phone rang, ruining the moment. “Sorry, I’m expecting an important call.” Setting her on her feet, he retrieved his phone, grimacing as he read the text. “Crap. It’s my agent. I have to leave.”
She smiled, her mind understanding but her body miffed at losing the opportunity to make love with him again. “Dinner, tonight, at my place?”
He nodded and grasping her hand, kissed her palm. “Dinner, tonight.”
Ivy slid the mouse across the Pioneers logo mouse pad. The team colors reminded her of Sam’s eyes staring at her across the span of the pillow, green with a hint of gold. She recalled the way he’d smiled at her, his hand sliding along her skin, touching her bare—
Beth came into the office and plopped down in the ratty office chair. “I don’t have to ask how last night went. The heat wave hit me the second I opened the door and saw the way he was watching you. Whew”—she waved a hand before her face—“that was hot. He’s hot. I’m jealous.”
“He is, isn’t he?” Ivy blushed, pulse thrumming. “You shouldn’t be jealous. Your boyfriend is cute too.”
“Yeah, he is and he has a very big pe—”
“Personality?” Ivy cut her off. She was used to the crude bantering from the kitchen staff with Beth being the worst instigator.
“Yeah, personality.” Beth giggled, raising a suggestive brow. “And Sam? How does his personality measure up?”
“Given what you learned about him so far, what do you think?”
“He’s perrrfect,” Beth purred, snickering at her own goofy impression. “I bet he even poops potpourri.”
He probably does, was Ivy’s immediate internal response before she admonished herself. They’d been acquainted for less than a week and already she was allowing her insecurity to put a damper on the relationship instead of reveling in its potential.
“Okay, I recognize that look. There’s the infamous but,” Beth said, shifting in her chair, all traces of humor gone. “You’re overthinking this. As much as you’d like to wish otherwise, Sam’s not perfect. This is the honeymoon phase of the relationship, a time when even the tiniest idiosyncrasies are easily excused or overlooked. The expression love is blind exists because it’s true. You should know.”
“Which is why you think I’m fishing for reasons to put him at a distance, and maybe you’re right. I tell you, Sam is—well, Sam is—” She inhaled a steadying breath, the need to confide too strong to resist. “All right, Beth, here’s the deal. This stays between us, nobody, not even your boyfriend better hear about it. This morning I did the morning after thing, get up earlier than him and fix my hair, brush my teeth, etc. Of course I was extra concerned about it because I knew I’d look like shit since between the incredible sex and my angsting about the guy with the gun, I didn’t sleep. So I’m certain he didn’t get up before me, yet he slept like the dead, sans snoring. When he woke up, he didn’t have morning breath, or bed head, not that he could because his hair is
really short and of course he looks sexy as hell with a beard, so obviously no detriment there—”
“Hold the phone,” Beth said, cutting off Ivy’s rambling discourse. “What guy with what gun?”
“Sorry, I forgot to tell you.” Ivy explained the details about the robbery. “I mean, I was totally freaking out. Sam remained cool throughout the ordeal.”
“And you’re upset because he’s not a wuss, doesn’t snore, and has good hygiene?”
“Actually after I gave him a toothbrush, I started to talk about my horror stories of the orthodontist and he told me he has some weird kind of enzyme in his mouth. It repels plaque and he doesn’t get cavities. Strange, huh?” Ivy clicked on the internet icon.
“Hum,” Beth said, turning on her own computer. “Yeah, it’s weird, but in a good way. If this works out and you get married and have the requisite two point five children, think of the money you’ll save.”
An unexpected thrill at the prospect of having children with Sam made Ivy smile. She wanted to get married sooner rather than later. She had wasted too much time on her last relationship, and now it looked like she had met the right guy at the right time. Maybe, her doubting inner voice said and she pushed it aside. Typing in her e-mail password, she found a message in her inbox from the editor of Seasoned Chef magazine. She clicked on it, her heart pounding as she scanned the contents. Hitting the printer icon, the Xerox hummed out a copy. She grabbed the paper and spun her chair around.
“Beth, you won’t believe this. The editor said she spoke with somebody at their parent company, the Cooking Network, about the feature story. They want me to guest star in a new series. According to this, each week they’ll pick four chefs from a particular city to compete. The proceeds are donated to a charity of my choice. I’ll be on TV and in a magazine.”
“You’ll be on TV, in a magazine, and, it appears, in the paper as well. There’s an article in the Seattle Times online about the mugging.” Beth clicked on the caption under Sam’s picture.
Ivy sucked in a breath. She had accepted the idea of the spotlight shining on her culinary talents, but it scared her to death to think of her private life being splashed all over the internet. “What does it say?”
Beth frowned in obvious disappointment. “It says Sam and his friend, the noted restaurateur Ivy Turin – impressive—were mugged at Seattle Center. Then it goes on about his upcoming contract, blah, blah, blah. Too bad they didn’t mention the restaurant, but I suppose we’ll get even more publicity once you’re on the Cooking Network.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I need to focus on Seasoned Chef first. It’s next week and I still haven’t decided on a dessert.”
“You have to make your mint tea crema brulatta; it’s the best. About this thing with Sam, stop trying to find fault. There are worse traits to be had in a guy then success and a decent personality.”
Chapter 5
The Seasoned Chef magazine film crew commandeered a section of Vicenzo’s dining room for the upcoming photo shoot and critics’ review. In addition to the article, the magazine’s web site would include a recorded segment with a top food critic. It was early, barely 8:00am, and Ivy was already feeling the pressure. She had been told to prepare three samples of each course, one for the photographer, one for the video feed, and one for the critic to sample. She had prepped as much as possible the night before, cooking off the main dishes for her staff to sample.
Sliding back the cold drawer on the line, she scanned the contents. Beth had outdone herself with the quality of the handmade pasta. Unfortunately, she had stayed late making it and wouldn’t be in until closer to the shoot time.
Ivy opened the dessert case and eyed the perfectly set crema brulattas with satisfaction. Removing the cellophane cover, she lifted a ramekin and smelled the rich scent before placing it back on the sheet pan. She gripped the sides of the pan and as she tried to maneuver it out of the case, she bumped the upper shelf hard with her shoulder. The contents slid to the back of the case and she let out a squeak of dismay when the container of Maraschino cherries tipped. A gush of red, syrupy juice sloshed over the side and splattered onto the desserts below.
“Good morning.” Sam greeted her, flashing a cheerful smile.
Tears of frustration and disbelief burned her eyes. How could she be so careless? “It was until I spilled cherry juice everywhere! And now it’s less than three hours until the photo shoot and even if I make a new batch and cool it in an ice bath, there’s no guarantee it’ll set properly. This can’t be happening.”
Sam grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “It’s all right. You can do this. Photo shoots never begin on time. If you start now, you can beat the clock.” He kissed her forehead and, turning her around, swatted her playfully on the butt. “Now hop to it.”
Ivy snatched up the ingredients and laid them on the counter by the stove. She placed the pan on the burner, preparing to fire the dish when the production assistant peeked her head over the line. “Chef, we need you out in the dining room.”
“Now?” Ivy fought a wave of panic. “My sous chef isn’t—”
“I’m sorry, but we need to keep on schedule if you want to open for lunch on time,” the chipper assistant said.
“Not a problem,” Sam said, moving beside Ivy. “I’ll start this.”
“Don’t you have an appointment this morning?” she asked, torn between guilt and obligation.
“Now what kind of a boyfriend would I be if I abandoned you in a moment of crisis?”
“A pretty crappy one, I suppose.” She retrieved a three by five index card with the recipe on it and handed it to him. Allowing her fingers to slide along his firm bicep, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you for the offer, but have you ever made crema brulatta before?”
Holding up the card, he raised a challenging brow. “I think I can follow a simple recipe.”
“Chef,” the assistant reminded, head bent as she texted on her phone.
Ivy went into the dining room and was directed to a table in the back corner. The producer, a tall leggy blond, was waiting. “Chef Ivy, I’m so excited to meet you. Please, sit. I’m confident we have everything we need for the article unless, of course, you have some news you would like to share?”
She asked the question with a coy smile and Ivy froze, a horrible suspicion crossing her mind. The woman had obviously heard about her dating Sam and no doubt was snooping for an exclusive. Ivy predicted this would happen eventually but she wasn’t prepared to answer questions about their relationship because she wasn’t sure where it was headed. Regardless, she had been dating him for two weeks. She should’ve prepared herself for the inevitable. Now there was nothing left but to play it out. “No, I’m good.”
Upon first acquaintance she had thought the woman was pretty, but like a wolf on the prowl, her features sharpened. White teeth flashed and intense blue eyes bore into Ivy. “You realize, Chef, we’re always looking for ways to promote our magazine and, in turn, raise awareness for a variety of worthy causes. When our editor realized you were friends with Sam Rockney, she called in a favor at the network. Of course they agreed to have you as one of the featured chefs. Women like cooking shows; men like football. I think it might benefit both of us if he were to agree to make a special appearance in your segment. My assistant said he was here. Do you mind if I ask him?”
Ivy inhaled a deep breath and pasted on a false smile. “Actually, he merely stopped by for a few minutes, but I will gladly pass on your request.”
“Chef, the photographer needs you,” the assistant said. The producer flashed an annoyed look. Ivy was grateful for an excuse to leave.
Following the assistant, she slipped out her phone and called Sam. “How’s the dessert coming?”
“Great, the cavalry’s here. Beth just walked in.”
Ivy sighed with relief. “Awesome. Listen, Sam, I appreciate your help, but you need to leave now. The she-wolf producer wants to meet you and—”
&n
bsp; “Enough said,” he cut her off. “I’m out of here. See you later, love.”
Ivy entered the kitchen, her temples throbbing from a dull stress headache. Removing her hat, she went to the sink and splashed water on her face. The photo shoot was over and the crew was in the process of breaking down the equipment. After patting her face dry, she inspected herself in the mirror. She looked exhausted. Between the photographer’s demands, the critic’s perpetual bland expression as he sampled the food, and the producer trying to garner information about Sam, she was ready for the day to end. Unfortunately, lunch time was right around the corner.
“Well?” Beth asked, wiping her hands on a bar towel as she came from behind the line. “How did the critic seem? Did he say anything?”
“Not to me. Of course we won’t know how he liked the dishes until we see his segment. He tasted the food here, but he’ll do the voice-over in the studio. I’m glad the dessert came out decent.”
“It looks good,” Beth said, opening the dessert case to grab the last ramekin of crema brulatta. “Again, I’m really sorry. I should’ve been the one to make this.”
Waving a dismissive hand, Ivy grabbed a spoon to taste it. “The dessert thing was unfortunate, but fixable. Besides, considering the way the film crew devoured the sample, my perfect boyfriend did a good job.” She took a bite and as it melted on her tongue, the flavors began to expand, subtle spices, familiar yet different.
Ivy felt sick. “It’s not mine,” she said, shock making her mind spin. “It tastes different. Better. No better than better. Mine is excellent, but this…” A slow burn overcame her initial shock and her temper flared to life. She waved the spoon in the air. “These are the flavors the critic will be rating me on and they’re not mine. This day’s been unbelievable. First I find out he’s the real reason I was chosen for the Cooking Network and now he out cooks me.”