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For David, the most cherished person in my life, and for Amanda, my squishy plum
PROLOGUE
Gwen
Two minutes. One hundred and twenty seconds.
That was all that stood between me and the call that would change my life. Two minutes to find out if the hard work, the endless hours, the grueling nights I’d spent challenging myself, experimenting with new techniques and inventive flavor profiles, would finally pay off.
Two minutes to find out if this was the year the Michelin inspectors would finally acknowledge the cuisine at Brindille as extraordinary. If this was the year the powers that be acknowledged me as not just another sous chef in the crowded San Francisco food scene, but as a rising star among the culinary elite. Someone who could someday be as respected as Stephen Durand—executive chef of Brindille, James Beard award winner, and my boyfriend.
I’d left my position at Wolfgang Puck’s newest venture in Las Vegas four years ago and moved to San Francisco because I’d wanted to learn from Stephen’s expertise and innovation. But more than that, I’d wanted to help the restaurant join the coveted three-Michelin-star club. Be part of something most chefs only dreamed about.
A dream that was only heartbeats away from becoming a reality.
But where the hell was Stephen? He should be here, the two of us united, sharing what I hoped would be a defining victory in both of our careers.
“Don’t worry. Chef Durand’s simply running late,” I said in an effort to reassure the staff, trying to ignore the nerves tightening my stomach and the stress on their faces. We stood huddled in the large open kitchen that flowed into the dining room, each person waiting in anticipation as the second hand ticked toward three o’clock. “He’s never missed an announcement, at least not since I’ve been training under him.” My tone was calm and collected, but my whole body felt white-hot and jittery.
Had his plane from LaGuardia been delayed? I wondered, using the hem of my chef’s jacket to polish a nonexistent spot on the stainless steel expediting station for the umpteenth time in the last fifteen minutes.
The alarm on my wristwatch beeped. Any moment the verdict would come. It was unheard of, sacrilege even, for the kitchen’s second-in-command to accept news of this magnitude on behalf of the executive, but if he didn’t arrive soon, I might be forced to no matter how wrong it felt. But just as the thought crossed my mind, Stephen walked in. Dressed casually in jeans and a plaid button-down, his salt-and-pepper hair windblown, he appeared more George Clooney–esque silver fox than kitchen genius.
His stride was easy and unhurried as he approached, and his expression held no trace of anxiety or concern, only puzzlement. “What’s going on? Why are you all congregated together instead of working?” Stephen asked, looking at the twenty pairs of eyes trained on him and the food for tonight’s dinner service paused in midpreparation.
He met my gaze as if searching for a clue, and I realized with shock he’d forgotten. How was that even possible? It was the biggest day of the year in culinary circles. Christmas, New Year’s Eve, the Fourth of July, and the Oscars all rolled into one. I’d spoken to him on the phone last night, but in an attempt not to jinx the result, I purposely hadn’t mentioned anything about “the call.” Then again, our conversation had been focused on . . . more private things.
But ever since Stephen’s celebrity chef status had taken off, his attention had been diverted from the restaurant and toward other opportunities. In the last two years alone, he’d made appearances on various Food Network programs, developed a new dining concept slated to launch next summer in Lower Manhattan, and designed a cookware line for Williams-Sonoma.
Which meant that in his absence, I’d been left to run Brindille’s day-to-day operations, a responsibility I’d treated with the utmost respect and honor. Nothing in our relationship mattered more to me than the fact that Stephen trusted me to craft the constantly changing nightly tasting menu with full autonomy and authority. No single ingredient was repeated throughout the individual courses—a personal accomplishment that’d pushed my creative boundaries and forced me to be more dynamic and inventive than ever.
“Gwen?” he asked, placing a firm hand on my shoulder. “Want to explain?”
I opened my mouth to remind him of today’s importance when the phone rang, cutting me off. When no one so much as fidgeted, he asked, “Is anyone going to answer that?” Another beat of stone silence. Sighing, he scratched the graying stubble on his jaw and let one more shrill ring pass before answering.
“Thank you for contacting Brindille. Stephen Durand speaking.” There was a lilt to his voice despite the annoyance etched into his features. He suddenly turned quiet, his brow furrowing as he listened intently.
I registered what sounded like a German accent filtering through the line, the man’s speech pattern formal and clipped, but his words were too muffled for me to hear. Sweat pricked up at the base of my neck, and my heart thumped against my ribs.
After what felt like an eternity, Stephen cleared his throat and said, “I understand. Thank you.” He hung up with an abrupt click, his expression an unreadable mask.
Glances darted around the kitchen, but no one dared utter a syllable. Finally Stephen said, “That was Richard Bauer from The Michelin Guide. He wanted to inform me that Brindille will be included as a three star in the next edition for San Francisco.”
A smile spread across my face, triumph bursting through me followed by a sort of calm euphoria befitting the sous chef of a restaurant that was just awarded Michelin’s highest honor. A feat that was as elusive as it was maddening, like climbing a perpetually growing mountain with the summit always out of reach. But after years of stagnation we’d done it, and Stephen had finally captured a long-overdue dream.
“Congratulations on the honor.” Closing the distance between us, I drew him in for a kiss, flutters erupting in my stomach. The entire staff was aware we’d been involved for over two years, and while Stephen preferred to keep strict personal and professional boundaries, in this moment, I didn’t care.
But he jerked backward, his expression a mixture of disgust and anger. “Are you kidding me with this shit, Gwen?”
“About the Michelin star?” I asked, my triumphant smile wobbling as a wave of confusion crashed over me. Why wasn’t he ecstatic, relishing in his success? “It’s wonderful, Stephen.”
He grabbed my wrists from around his neck, pinning them at my sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His tone was hard and cold as stone and so full of contempt it hurt more than his grip. “How dare you.”
Releasing me with such force that I stumbled a bit, Stephen stepped away from me, his whole body vibrating. There was a wild energy about him I didn’t recognize and didn’t like, not when it was directed at me, not when it tipped the scales from the hot-blooded temper of an executive chef to the cold fury of a man betrayed.
“This is great news,” I whispered, ignoring the stares of the staff, who seemed torn between morbid curiosity and the desire to flee. “What you’ve always wanted.” Why was he so upset?
“But it’s not mine, is it?” Stephen said in a snide tone he usually reserved for ever
yone but me. “I gave you artistic input over the menu, and this is how you repay me?”
“Of course it’s yours.” My voice sounded strange, raspy and foreign, my throat tight. “Everything I’ve done has always been for you.”
He shook his head, clenching and unclenching his hands. “Did you honestly think you could steal my kitchen from me? Steal Brindille from me?”
“Stephen, what are you talking about . . .” I glanced around, pleading with my eyes for someone to tell me this was a cruel joke, but the staff just stood there watching in stunned silence, horror now written on their faces.
“Whatever you think you’ve achieved here was built off my work, my reputation, my effort, you conniving bitch,” he said, his voice ringing out like a slap.
A low buzzing filled my ears as I registered his words. It felt as if a hole had been blown through my heart. How could he possibly see my attempt to help as an attempt to oust? I thought we were a team, that he believed in me, trusted me.
“Stephen, let’s move into your office. We can talk about this,” I said, certain this was all a giant misunderstanding, that if he’d let me explain he’d realize my motives had been honest and sincere. That everything I’d ever done was because I loved him.
“There’s nothing you can say I want to hear.” His tone was detached, robotic, but I knew at any second it could snap—I’d been witness to it on numerous occasions. “Collect your knives and go, Gwen.”
“You’re firing me?” I asked, wondering how this all got so convoluted and out of hand.
“I’m certainly not promoting you,” he said, like I was a child who’d never mastered common sense.
“But my whole life’s in San Francisco. I want to be here with you.”
With a sweep of his arm, Stephen sent knives, stainless steel mixing bowls, and a few porcelain plates crashing to the floor. I jumped, my breath lodging in my chest, only registering that I’d begun to cry when I tasted the salty wetness on my lips. This couldn’t be happening—I was trapped in a nightmare and soon I’d wake up and Stephen would be here with me, laughing and celebrating that he’d finally reached his lifelong goal.
“I don’t give a damn, Gwen. I never should’ve hired you. At best you’re a mediocre talent desperate to make your name off the hard-earned success of others. At worst you’re a backstabbing opportunist. Either way, I want no association with you.” He spat the words as if I were a tainted good luck token, as if all of our history had meant nothing—as if I’d meant nothing. “And after the industry learns about what transpired here today, about your blatant disregard for authority and knowing your place, I doubt even Applebee’s will consider you for a position. Now get the hell out of my restaurant.”
He brushed past me as if I were as inconsequential as a piece of litter, shouting, “Back to work!” as he went, the kitchen staff jumping and skittering to obey him. I peered around—though what I was searching for, I couldn’t guess. It didn’t matter what sort of connection I’d forged with these people, none of them would defend me. In a culinary environment as competitive as San Francisco’s, jobs were hard to come by, even for the gifted and experienced. If Stephen blackballed them the same way he had me just now, it’d result in missed mortgages, devastated families, and unimaginable stress.
With shaking hands and blurred vision, I withdrew my phone from my pocket as I shoved my way to the rear entrance of the restaurant and out into the murky East Bay afternoon, swallowing the failure clogging my throat and the tears streaming down my face.
I couldn’t call my mother—she’d never approved of my decision to follow in my father’s footsteps to become a chef to begin with. And I couldn’t call my father—he’d thought working at Brindille and my relationship with Stephen foolish and a mistake for my career.
But I could call my brother, the one person in my life who wouldn’t pass judgment. Chris and I didn’t claim to be close—we were just too different—but we were twins, which carried a certain degree of support and loyalty, no questions asked. Besides, given the number of times I’d bailed Chris out of his own bad decisions with girls and school and curfew, he’d probably be delighted to finally return the favor, even if it’d been months since we’d last spoken. With trembling fingers, I dialed, grateful when he picked up on the second ring.
“Chris . . .” My voice cracked with the strain of the agony I was barely keeping at bay.
“Gwen, what’s wrong?” he asked, the sound of roaring wind and traffic muffling his voice. It was only now I realized that he was probably driving down the highway after a Blizzards practice in his ridiculous Porsche convertible, not a care in the world.
I took a deep breath and explained everything, though not even my brother’s creative swearing could ease my anguish.
Finally, Chris said the only thing I needed to hear. “Come home to Denver. I’ve got this.”
CHAPTER
ONE
Gwen
ten months later
The heady, smoky aroma of sizzling steaks enveloped Stonestreet’s kitchen. Opening night and my first shift as an executive chef and I had my choice of preparing a special of bacon-wrapped meat loaf, coconut-crusted shrimp, or spaghetti and meatballs. Plus a whole slew of uninspired, run-of-the-mill offerings. Not exactly what I’d trained for at Le Cordon Bleu Paris. And not exactly what would make my chef and restaurateur father beam with joy.
I topped a seared filet mignon with butter and slid the finished plate across the pickup window into a server’s awaiting hands. He exited through the swinging door, the jazz tune being played by the live pianist filtering in from the packed dining room. Humming tunelessly along to the music, I dipped a teaspoon into the newest batch of béarnaise sauce warming on the stovetop.
Stephen would no doubt have a hearty laugh if he could see me now. But then what had I expected from a stereotypical athlete-owned restaurant? At least it was a job, one Chris had secured for me in my desperation, and in my hometown no less. And at least my name wasn’t on the signage to further smear my reputation. I only had to survive one year, maybe two, before the situation in San Francisco would be forgotten and I could start over somewhere better.
“Two wedge salads,” I called to the line cook at the cold prep station, a little piece of my soul dying. I’m classically trained, for heaven’s sake! Yet here I was, reduced to parroting dishes that’d been around since the midtier steakhouse boom of the 1990s. Somehow in the blink of an eye, I’d become the culinary equivalent of acid-washed jeans. All because Stephen had thought my talent blunted his knife.
“Yes, Chef,” the line cook shouted back, smothering half a head of iceberg lettuce with enough blue cheese dressing to render it soup with a side of waterlogged, flavorless greens.
“Here’s the kitchen. Think the locker room of the restaurant.” I recognized the voice—deep and commanding, the kind that only ever projected absolute confidence—before Logan Stonestreet waltzed into my domain, part of the Colorado Blizzards offense lumbering behind him. Logan looked like he strolled straight out of central casting for a Disney football flick and into the NFL. As quarterback of one of the hottest teams, he was tall, muscular, and athletic, capable of taking hits, breaking tackles, and torquing his body to deliver the ball with accuracy and velocity.
Logan led the group behind the counter, crowding the already-tight space. As if orchestrated, two rows of white-capped heads peered up, the entire staff scowling at the intruders before silently returning to their duties. Amazing how a bunch of life-sized sports figurines could suck the momentum out of a room.
“And here’s a serrated knife.” The high-carbon, stainless steel blade shined under the bright LED lights. “Touch anything and lose a finger.” I smiled sweetly at Logan, though I meant every word. He might be one of the best to ever wear the uniform and technically the owner of this establishment, but in my kitchen, Logan didn’t rank above dishwasher.
I needed him out. Immediately. A well-run kitchen was an organized machine. Precise, efficient, and entirely predictable. Life might be messy, but the kitchen never surprised me, never betrayed me. Logan’s mere presence threatened that.
“Dang, Logan,” Tony said, whistling. “Your chef’s a sassy one. It’s hot.”
Tony played right guard and was the size of the commercial refrigerator in the prep area. From everything Chris had shared and the media had confirmed, Tony was as powerful as a jet engine, more stealthy than a shadow, and the only guy a player needed to protect his blind side. And from what I had observed from television press conferences, he also seemed eternally upbeat, no matter the circumstances. I wondered how he balanced it all.
“Might want to watch what you say about my sister, dude, especially when she’s wielding a sharp object,” Chris cut in, shooting him a warning look. “Gwen’s known to get a little riled up.”
My sous chef, Amy, squeezed past them, the sauté pan of seafood risotto grazing his striped dress shirt, and I swore Tony was milliseconds away from dipping a pinkie into the creamy rice. My hand twitched, prepared to remove an appendage if necessary.
“You’re one to talk, Christopher. Your temper is as short as a matchstick,” I said, placing a steaming plate of roasted leg of lamb with pomegranate glaze on a tray. It was that temper, coupled with his explosive speed off the snap, that made Chris such an effective and irreplaceable wide receiver. “And I only get riled up when people infringe on my workspace. Now, unless you’d all like me to take this jagged edge to your soft spots, I suggest you get back in the dining room.”
“Aw, come on, Gwen, I thought we were friends.” Logan flashed that charming grin, the one that seemed to mesmerize every girl who crossed his path. Normally he was one part blond, blue-eyed wonder boy, one part relaxed casual—if he wasn’t such a damn good football player, he’d have raked in a killing modeling for the Gap. But tonight, he exuded sexual charisma in an expertly tailored Armani navy suit with a white-collared shirt partially unbuttoned and wingtip oxfords. The clean-cut side part and hair still long enough to comb fingers through certainly didn’t hurt his Adonis-like image.
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