Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  I laughed. “I swear to give you all my arcade tickets or cook the ragù from scratch, no jarred sauce this time. Your decision.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re being so insistent about this dinner thing,” she said. “Next week after the Blizzards Bowl kickoff event, I’d be happy to sit down with you to go over the basics of restaurant management.”

  “Gwen.”

  “What?”

  “Not the same thing. Now what’s your choice? Pick one or I begin inspecting Stonestreet’s kitchen. Nightly.” I couldn’t actually hear her grind her teeth over the phone, but I imagined it.

  She stayed quiet a moment. I wasn’t sure if she was charmed by my efforts, feared contracting a child-borne illness from touching the Skee-Ball machine, or simply wanted me off her back, but she sighed and replied, “Well, Wonder Bread, I guess standard Italian it is then. What time and what’s your address?”

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  Gwen

  I pulled up to the main entrance of the Blizzards training center expecting to find Chris waiting for me at the curb, but all that greeted me was an empty sidewalk. Figures. Why would he actually follow orders and do as I’d asked?

  I parked in one of the visitor spots and tried to swallow my irritation. I’d just driven from his house halfway across town where I was supposed to pick him up to accompany him to the Mercedes-Benz dealership. Only once I’d arrived there, Chris called to inform me that he in fact wasn’t home and instead I needed to come get him at the training center.

  I walked into the reception area awash in Blizzards powder blue and silver. Graphic murals on the walls depicted various moments in team history. At the center of the lobby was a trophy case of championship memorabilia, commemorative rings, and miniature football figurines illustrating the evolution of Blizzards uniforms throughout the years.

  “I’m here to retrieve Christopher Lalonde. If he’s had his snack and his nap, please send him out,” I said to the woman at the front desk. She furrowed her brow and gave me a curious look, like she wasn’t sure if I was kidding or not. I wasn’t.

  “Did you just preschool me, Gwen?” Chris asked, appearing out of nowhere with Logan and Tony. They were dressed in identical mesh shorts and T-shirts that had Bruiser the Bear, the team mascot, throwing snowballs down a field.

  “If the Velcro sneaker fits.” I shrugged. “Was it matchy-matchy day in the weight room?”

  Tony laughed and said, “Ain’t no different from when we suit up for a game.”

  I nodded, granting him that point. Chris, on the other hand, crossed his arms, acting all affronted at my jab, and said, “Head office wanted us to take promo pictures in the new gift shop gear.”

  “How cute,” I said.

  Logan smirked at me, mischievous amusement gleaming in his eyes. As though we were sharing an inside joke, and for a moment, I wished that we were, that there was a secret only we knew. Apart from my friendship with Missy, I’d never been the type to maintain long and lasting relationships. I didn’t share private thoughts or develop inside jokes with most people. I’d never seen that as a problem, but now I wondered if I’d missed out on something deep and meaningful, something that would’ve made these past ten months better. Easier. Not so lonely.

  “Shall we do this, Christopher?” I asked, twirling my key chain around my finger.

  “What’s the hurry? Mom’s car isn’t going to disappear. We’ve got all day to pick it up,” he said in a smartass tone that made me want to flick him.

  “You may have all day, but some of us have real responsibilities and appointments.”

  “Do you have a hot date or something later?”

  Panic gripped my chest. I cut my eyes to Logan—I couldn’t help it. Did he tell Chris about me coming over to his condo tonight? As if reading my thoughts and sensing my discomfort, Logan shook his head ever so slightly, easing my anxiety. At least I could count on him to understand when things should remain confidential.

  Growing up, Chris had never been the protective type when it came to boys and me. If anything, he’d been more defensive about me infringing upon his sacred football silo, so I wasn’t worried about an errant burst of brotherly love. It was more that I didn’t want to give off the impression—to Chris or to anyone—that this dinner with Logan was anything other than professional. The last thing I needed was to be the subject of locker room gossip.

  “If by hot date you mean business meeting, then yes,” I said.

  “Damn, girl, why you gotta play me like that? You know you can’t fight our love,” Tony said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and wiggling his eyebrows at me. I laughed.

  “Give it up, my friend,” Logan interjected, looking almost jealous. “Gwen’s too much woman for you.”

  “And don’t you all forget it.” I stepped out from beneath Tony’s grasp and grabbed Chris by the shirtsleeve. “Let’s go.”

  Without glancing behind me, I could feel Logan’s gaze on my back as I led Chris to my Nissan Sentra. I hadn’t even put the car in gear before he had the window rolled down and the radio blasting hip-hop. It amazed me just how different we were, despite our similar features and DNA.

  A steady stream of vehicles flowed in and out of the Mercedes-Benz service department when we arrived. I circled the parking lot but every spot was taken.

  “Why don’t you valet? It’s complimentary,” Chris yelled above the music, bobbing his knee up and down to the rhythm.

  I sighed and hit the radio off button, my ears ringing. “Because valeting at a car dealership is moronic.”

  “Sure you aren’t just ashamed of this ancient clunker you still drive?”

  I opened my mouth to tell him that my Sentra was vintage, not old, but then I caught a glimpse of a couple strolling to an SUV in the next row and floored the gas pedal.

  “Easy there, turbo,” Chris said, gripping the handle above his door like he might fly out of the passenger window. “I’d prefer to avoid running over people.”

  “Shut it. You’re the one who’s had more speeding tickets than a NASCAR driver,” I said, pulling into the space and killing the engine.

  We walked into the customer lounge area and joined the line of people waiting to speak with a service advisor. A man in a black polo and khakis peered up from the paper he was writing on, did a double take, and practically tripped over himself jogging around the counter to shake Chris’s hand.

  “Wonderful to see you again, Mr. Lalonde.” He beamed at my brother with a smile so big I figured he strained his cheek muscles. “Your mother’s sedan should be ready shortly. Can I get you something to drink while you wait?” he asked. Either I’d somehow become invisible or this guy was so starstruck by Chris’s presence that he’d lost his manners.

  “I’m fine, Harold,” Chris said, then turned to me. “Gwen, you want anything?”

  “A water would be great,” I said.

  The man seemed momentarily startled, but nodded before scurrying away.

  “You’re quite the celebrity around here,” I said, claiming one of the leather chairs by the TV, noticing the whispers and stares all pointed in our direction.

  “Part of the territory of being the best.” Chris settled into the seat beside me and stretched out his legs. “Thanks for getting me at the training center. The offensive line had a last-minute request from the Make-A-Wish Foundation for a behind-the-scenes tour. Hence the matching outfits.”

  My eyebrows rose in astonishment. Not just because Chris had showed gratitude—an emotion I was convinced he was allergic to—but because I’d wrongly assumed that my detour had been an inconsiderate oversight on his part rather than the result of a good cause.

  “How many organizations like that do you participate in?” I asked.

  “As many as time affords,” he said, like it was no big deal, like he wasn’t surprising the hell
out of me right now. “During the season I limit my involvement to two charities above and beyond what the team already does. But in the off-season I try to contribute wherever I can.”

  Though he often brought it upon himself, I realized that occasionally I was a little too quick to write Chris off as a giant man-child who was both selfish and immature. Something I needed to work on.

  “I had no idea volunteering was something you cared so much about,” I said.

  “Really I’m in it for the ladies.”

  I punched his shoulder.

  “I’m kidding,” he said, ducking out of the way before I could hit him again. His face sobered. “It’s just . . . most of these kids are battling so much. Cancer, unstable home lives, poverty. And if I can offer them a reprieve, no matter how small, or act as a role model, then I have a duty to do so.”

  For the first time maybe ever, I saw my brother in a new light, one that was kind and generous and not self-serving. Someone I wanted to know better, be closer to.

  “I’m proud of you, Chris,” I said, hoping he could hear the sincerity in my voice. “Listen . . . I know I told you thank you at the time, but I want to reiterate again how grateful I am that you secured me the job at Stonestreet’s.”

  He shrugged and picked at the hem of his shorts. “Don’t sweat it.”

  “No, I’m serious,” I said, angling my body toward his. “You helped when I really needed it and when you didn’t have to. No questions asked. I won’t forget that.”

  Pink colored his cheeks. I’d never seen my brother embarrassed before, unaccustomed to praise that had nothing to do with his football abilities.

  “Just don’t burn the place down. That’d be awkward,” he said with a laugh, though that was the least of my concerns when it came to Logan and all the things that could become awkward between us.

  “Not to mention expensive,” I added.

  “Well, if you did destroy Logan’s place and you asked nicely, I might let you borrow money from me. I did sign a five-year, fifty-million-dollar contract, after all.”

  And just like that, his cockiness was firmly back in place and all was right with the world again.

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  Logan

  The doorbell rang as I finished arranging the lasagna ingredients into an assembly line after checking my list for the fourth time. Wiping my hands on a dish towel, I crossed through the kitchen and opened the door. Gwen stood there in head-to-toe black—black long-sleeved shirt, black skinny jeans, black ankle boots—her hair thrown up in a ponytail. A bottle of red wine was tucked under her arm. She clearly hadn’t dressed up for the occasion but looked exactly how I’d hoped.

  “I know this isn’t a dinner party, but my mother taught me to never show up at a host’s place empty-handed,” she said, entering the condo without fanfare. “Since I knew I’d need alcohol to get me through this meal and figured you either had cheap beer or malt liquor, I brought an actual adult beverage.”

  “But no wineglasses? Guess you’ll have your choice between a coffee mug or a red plastic cup,” I said with a wink, snatching the bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon.

  Gwen was nothing like anyone I’d ever invited home before. No high heels or flirtatious smile, no lipstick kiss on the cheek, or a less-than-subtle touch to my forearm as she brushed by me on the way in. No flowery perfume or hair so overdone I was afraid to mess it up. Everything about Gwen was organic, tempting, and what I’d been missing all these years.

  I was screwed.

  She lingered in the foyer, glancing at the view of the sun disappearing behind the mountains through the floor-to-ceiling windows in the great room and at the gallery wall of family photographs that went up to the upstairs bedrooms.

  “This way,” I said, leading her through the condo. I cut a corner too close, tweaking my knee slightly, and I winced.

  “Getting old, Wonder Bread?” she asked with a smirk, stepping around me.

  “Something like that.”

  I followed her into the kitchen and smiled when she gasped at the modern space with top-of-the-line finishes and appliances. My condo was nice but nothing compared to the gaudy mansion Chris had bought in Cherry Creek. Sometimes I swore he thought he was trading in Monopoly money without any real consequences. I’d seen too many athletes squander their financial future on stupid investments and poor decisions. The NFL paid handsomely but not without a price or an expiration date, and I didn’t want to be another cautionary tale. Another thing Mom had imparted to me and Dad had heeded. It’s why he still lived in the house I’d been raised in.

  “Why is there Bolognese sauce, egg yolk, and ricotta all over that pristine surface?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the mess I’d made. “Certainly you were warned that Carrara marble is meant for hotel bathrooms, wealthy families who prefer take-out restaurants, and, apparently, athletes with more money than sense to recognize that this material is as porous as a dead sea sponge.”

  “I wasn’t, but now I’m aware.” I uncorked the wine and set it aside to breathe, annoyed that my interior decorator had never mentioned how easily the marble stained.

  When I turned around, Gwen had parked herself on a bar stool, her elbows braced on the countertop, her chin resting in a palm. One corner of her mouth was curved upward, and there was an amused expression on her face that I hadn’t seen since high school but instantly remembered. One that said, “Wonder Bread, you’re an idiot.” One that, even after all this time, still managed to hit me where I least expected. If a wry smile had the power to stun, I could only guess how a rare, full-fledged grin from Gwen would affect me.

  “What?” I asked as I began layering ingredients into Mom’s tried-and-true casserole dish.

  “Nothing. Just curious as to when the groveling starts. This dinner is meant to act as an apology, after all. Or is it meant to educate you on how the restaurant operates? I can’t keep track, what with how often you’ve changed the reasoning for why I’m here,” she said, her brow furrowed as she watched me work. This must’ve been unchartered territory for her, sitting on the sidelines while someone else prepared dinner.

  “I don’t grovel. What you get is a home-cooked meal. As promised. After, we’ll talk business,” I said, though I had no intention of following through with the last part. I’d invited her here because I wanted to get to know this more mature and even more attractive version of my best friend’s sister. Discover now, as an adult, if she’d be willing to finally open up to me in a way she never had growing up, share a small glimmer of her life before she’d moved back home.

  I finished arranging the lasagna, covered the casserole dish with foil, and popped it into the oven. Grabbing two stemless glasses, I poured us both some wine and slid one over to her.

  “Is this typically how you conduct business?” she asked, gesturing to the lit candles, immaculately set table, and soft jazz music filtering through the surround-sound speakers. “It seems more like you’re in the early stages of plotting your signature panty-dropping performance. Oh! Is there a dance? A little touchdown celebration?”

  Of course Gwen would see straight through my typical date-night act that was obviously bullshit—it had to be for it to have worked so seamlessly on Nicole. She’d practically fainted from swooning so hard over the display, which should’ve been red flag number one. Why had I been so stupid to even try it on Gwen?

  “That’s for dessert,” I said. “Along with a bottle of champagne I can only assume you’ll find cheesy.”

  She took a sip of the Cab and said, “And here I thought you believed bubbles were only found in Jacuzzis.”

  “I didn’t realize you liked to get slippery and wild, but if that’s your thing, I can certainly ensure that happens,” I said, picturing her hot, wet, and naked in various compromising positions. It was impossible not to.

  “Oh, I intend to stay well and clear away from
anything where body secretions and diseases fester.” Her voice remained confident, but her poker face needed improvement. The slight blush coloring her cheeks called her bluff, and I wondered if any guy had ever showed her just how damn badly she was wanted. If she’d ever allowed anybody to get that close.

  Surely someone had tried. God knows I’d spent the better part of my teenage years desperately giving it a shot. And even though I’d stolen that kiss in high school, she’d still kept me at arm’s length. But now Gwen was here in my kitchen, snarky, sassy, and so damn sexy that I knew I’d regret it the rest of my life if I didn’t at least attempt to scale those walls again.

  “That’s too bad,” I said, striding around the counter to stand in front of her. She swiveled on the stool to face me, her knees grazing my thighs, sending a jolt of electricity up my leg. “I was looking forward to solving one of life’s great mysteries.” I leaned forward, hovering over her, and fought off a satisfied smile as Gwen shifted in her seat, spreading her legs a fraction and drawing me in closer.

  “I doubt soaking in a hot tub will impart any wisdom as to why Barbie gets breasts while Ken is denied even rudimentary equipment,” she said, her tone strained, almost forced, as if she were struggling to maintain her composure.

  “No.” I took a long pull of the Cabernet, then braced a hand against the cold marble next to her shoulder, transfixed at how her pupils dilated, swallowing the band of brown. I leaned in farther, my mouth a fraction away from her ear. “But I’ve always wanted to know, black or something unexpected?”

  She jerked away, bumping her elbow on the counter and rocking the stool. “What?”

  I shrugged, despite the current of energy buzzing through me. “Your bikini. Would you sport black like everything else in your closet or a shade a little more interesting?”

  Gwen stood, erasing what little space there was between us. Her unwavering gaze stayed locked on mine. “The only time I don’t wear black, Wonder Bread,” she said, splaying her fingers against my chest, the heat of her palm soaking straight through my T-shirt, “is when I don’t wear anything at all.” She winked, then sidestepped out of my reach, leaving my head spinning in her wake.