I’d never heard of the TK Hospitality Group, but by the lack of details given I could only assume it was a management company for a hotel chain in search of a chef who could prepare all the banquet and wedding food. I’d rather eat hydrogenated oil every day than stoop that low. The fare at Stonestreet’s might be unoriginal and basic, but at least I was making progress.
I jogged up the front steps, but before I could ring the bell, the massive wood door swung open. Missy stood in the entryway like a blinding ray of light. She was decked out in all white—from her glowing tennis shoes to the pristine pleated skirt to the sleeveless polo shirt—and there was not a single spot of color anywhere in her outfit. And yet she still managed to gleam just as bright as her typical Lilly Pulitzer ensemble.
“You have some gossip to dish.” Missy kissed my cheek and ushered me inside. Snatching the covered skillet from my hands, she led me into the massive kitchen, her sneakers squeaking on the polished oak floors. If not for the stainless steel Viking appliances and the television on the counter showing an Ina Garten episode on Food Network, Missy would’ve blended right into the stark white space.
“Your house is phenomenal,” I said, admiring the board-and-batten paneled walls, beamed ceilings, and the stone fireplace with an elaborate mantel in the family room.
“Dan insisted on purchasing the property a year ago. ‘It’s idyllic for raising a family,’ ” she said, using air quotes as she mimicked her husband’s stern, no-arguments-allowed tone. The movement revealed a purple bruise peeking out from under a Band-Aid on her bicep.
“You get hit with a tennis ball or a racket?” I asked, pointing to the spot.
She gazed down at her arm and frowned. “No, it’s from my recent visit to the OB-GYN. I hadn’t realized the bruise had spread so it was visible.” Something shifted in her expression. There was more Missy wasn’t sharing, and while I wanted to push, I knew she’d tell me when she was ready. Pulling her shoulders back, Missy shook her head and continued, “Anyway, even if we popped out four kids, this place is too big. But at least it’s within walking distance of the tennis courts and the club.”
“How are things on that front?” I draped my purse over the back of the chair at the built-in kitchen desk. Everything was ordered—envelopes sorted into categories, planners arranged by height and width, pens organized into type and color, glossy catalogs aligned in a neat stack. I noticed the one on top was for Restoration Hardware Baby & Child, no doubt another passive-aggressive hint sent via first-class mail from Missy’s mother-in-law.
“The same.” She hesitated, toying with the hem of her shirt. “But not to worry. Dan and I will figure it out.” She flashed a smile faker than imitation crab at a sushi restaurant.
“Did you cook all this?” I asked, gesturing to the prepoured Bellinis, individual servings of yogurt with mixed berries, rosemary roasted potatoes, and slices of bacon spread out on the breakfast nook. Impressive.
“I have a caterer on speed dial.” She winked, sliding the frittata onto a wooden board in the center of the table and cutting it into wedges. Immediately the scent of sweet Italian sausage, smoked mozzarella, and grilled broccoli rabe hit my nose, and my stomach rumbled. This was my favorite—and simplest—egg recipe. And every time I re-created it, the flavors were both as delicious as I remembered yet surprising and new.
“You are aware I prepare food for a living?” I asked. “I could have brought all of this over.”
Scoffing, Missy passed me a champagne flute and said, “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your day off. And besides, you provided the entrée. Now dig in.”
We loaded up our plates and retreated to the covered veranda that overlooked the ninth hole. A group of sixty-something men were on the green, trading turns putting. One of the guys thrust a fist into the air and tossed his visor toward the sky—he’d probably birdied or was simply thankful for finally sinking his ball into the hole.
“So, how many of those Bellinis do I need to get you to drink before you spill every sordid detail?” Missy asked, draping a napkin across her lap.
“About what?” I asked, forking off a piece of frittata, avoiding all eye contact.
“Quit playing dumb, Gwen. About all of it—lasagna at Logan’s place a few weeks ago, last Monday’s trip to the farmers’ market, dinner at your house tonight.”
“There’s really nothing to share,” I said. “We’ve kept things strictly professional.”
Except even as I spoke the words, the memory of us at his condo whirled through my mind. The way my heart had raced and my mind had become a fog when he’d sat on the coffee table across from me, his grip firm on my thighs, and leaned in close, his breath warm on my cheek, his mouth a whisper away from mine. How every cell in my body had wanted him to turn his head, erase those last few centimeters between us, and kiss me.
“What you mean is that you’ve kept things strictly professional. I’m sure Logan hasn’t been quite so upstanding,” Missy said, as though my thoughts were plastered all over my face.
I shrugged, studying a bee buzzing around in the flower garden like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. “Can you fault me?” I asked after a while.
“Gwen!” She slapped a hand on the table, rattling the water glasses and silverware. “Is it because of that gossip column that you won’t get out of your own way?”
“The woman practically called me a whore, ” I said.
“Andrea Williams is a twice-divorced conniving bitch desperate to hold on to a social circle that will no longer tolerate her and everyone in Denver knows it.”
“I dated someone high profile and paid the price,” I said, gulping down half my cocktail. “The last thing I need is to see my name in the media again.”
Logan had said I shouldn’t give any credence to what Andrea Williams wrote or allow her to cause me pain. But she had caused me pain, reaffirming my belief that the friends-with-benefits, no-strings-attached fling Missy had suggested was a terrible idea. Stephen was considered a star in the culinary world, but that world was minuscule in comparison to Logan’s celebrity status. Logan was the darling of the NFL. A star quarterback on the brink of a championship season, and the prime target for tabloid fodder. I refused to go through that experience again no matter how sexy, charming, or irresistible I found Logan.
“Okay, let’s take Logan’s fame out of the equation,” Missy said. “Then would you feel differently?”
“I don’t know, because his stardom will never be out of the equation. Did you hear the way the fans chanted his name at the end of the Lions game last night?” I’d live-streamed the coverage while slogging through the Sunday dinner rush. “Football and the NFL are everything to him.” I speared a roasted potato wedge, breaking it into chunks and pushing the pieces around on my plate.
“Really? Because I think you’re using Logan’s celebrity as a force field,” she said, drawing a fingertip around the rim of her champagne flute. “A reason why you won’t allow yourself to get too close.”
“What else would you propose I do, Missy?” I asked. She was acting like this was all so simple, like I could just snap my fingers and my past would be forgotten. For all I knew, apart from doing a favor for Chris, Logan had hired me only because he’d wanted to get me into bed and not because I was the right chef for the job.
“Admit that you feel something for him and it makes you scared,” she said.
My chest tightened at her declaration. “I’m not scared. I’m smart.”
“Then why are you cooking dinner for him at your place tonight if you’re trying to maintain professional boundaries?” Missy raised an eyebrow, daring me to challenge her. “You even brought your ideas notebook with you today, which you only do when you’re serious about something.”
She had me there. But what could I say? Logan had this way of throwing me off balance and leaving me dazzled. And sleeping with the bos
s—again—and getting attached when his priorities and passions were clearly on the game—always on the game—was the height of idiocy.
“Gwen, you’re making this way more complicated than it needs to be,” Missy continued. “Logan is not Steve. Yes, Logan owns the restaurant, but your success as a chef has nothing to do with his success on the field, and vice versa. So who cares what gossip Andrea Williams spews?”
The truth was, one of the things I liked most about Logan was how different he was from Stephen. The lighthearted teasing. The genuine inquiries and concern about me and my life. The way he always seemed to seek me out—pursued me, almost, when he could whistle and a horde of women would come running.
“The real question is do you have feelings for Logan?” Missy asked. “Yes or no?”
“It’s not—”
“Yes or no?” she pressed.
I fidgeted in my seat. “Yes,” I admitted finally. What Missy didn’t understand was that there was safety in protecting yourself, in holding pieces of yourself in reserve. Someday, when everything fell apart, you might need them to put yourself back together.
Nodding with a satisfied expression, Missy tucked a hair behind her ear and said, “Then everything else outside of that is just noise. But tell Logan your concerns. If you don’t want to be publicly linked, say so. If you don’t want to commit to anything serious, say that, too. Logan’s not the type to discount your feelings. Remember the whole point of you coming home was to hit reset on your life. So do it.”
“Ugh. I’ll consider it.” I threw a strawberry at her that she batted back across the table.
“Okay, so now that we have that settled. On to the big news.” Missy pulled out a newspaper from under her place mat and opened it to a page marked with a neon-pink paper clip. “I know you’re avoiding all media these days, but you’ll want to read what was printed in today’s food and entertainment section.”
Missy slid the newspaper over to me. CHEF LALONDE BRINGS FLARE TO STONESTREET’S STEAKHOUSE read the headline with a grainy picture of me in crisp chef’s whites situated beneath it—a promo shot Logan had insisted having taken for the restaurant. Immediately my stomach dipped in a sickening lurch. I noticed Missy had highlighted several passages and doodled smiley faces around certain words, but it did nothing to alleviate the anxiety coursing through me.
When had the Denver Morning News critic even visited Stonestreet’s, anyway? In the restaurant industry, it was common practice for a server to inform the kitchen when a suspected critic was seated in the dining room, but no one had uttered a peep. I’d need to talk to the waitstaff about that tomorrow. And why hadn’t my sous chef, Amy, called me? Surely she’d seen the review.
With my heart pounding, I quickly skimmed the article. There was a brief paragraph about the ownership, blah-blah-blah, a couple of paragraphs covering the ambience and tone, yada yada yada, and then, finally, a few paragraphs dedicated to the food and . . . me.
“ ‘Chef Lalonde is the real hidden gem behind this latest athlete-backed eatery, offering a unique spin to otherwise familiar food,’ ” I quoted aloud. “ ‘She is so great, in fact, it’s unfortunate the classically trained chef was let go from the San Francisco eatery where she cut her teeth after it earned a coveted third Michelin star to become the executive chef of a restaurant that will be remembered for its NFL quarterback owner and not its menu. One thing is clear, Executive Chef Lalonde is an underused talent in a sleepy market.’ ”
Wonderful.
I folded the newspaper and handed it back to Missy. “Here, I’m done. I don’t need to read the rest.”
Missy tilted her head at my response, confusion apparent in the wrinkle between her brows and in the hard set of her mouth. “Why are you upset? That was a fantastic review.”
I snorted. “More like a backhanded compliment. Though as far as those go, it could be worse.”
“Stop acting like a twit and be positive for once.” This time it was Missy who chucked a half-eaten slice of bacon at me. “The critic loved the food you’re creating.”
Except I wasn’t creating, not really. Merely regurgitating and tweaking recipes that, while meaningful to Logan and his mother’s memory, I’d mastered in sixth grade.
“I know the food is good,” I said in frustration. “Even I won’t deny that.”
Missy crossed her arms over her chest, staring at me as though I was as insufferable as Veruca Salt. “But?”
I leaned forward. “But I don’t want to prepare good food, Missy. I want to inspire and transport people. Fill them with a sense of wonderment and take them on a culinary adventure with one bite. I want people to be in a constant state of guessing, always questioning and never knowing what dish is coming next.” I was nearly shouting, but I didn’t stop. “Cooking is about so much more than the ingredients. It’s a story and an experience and an expression of memory, point of view, and emotion. And I want guests to feel all of that!” I sighed and collapsed back into my chair, deflating like an underbaked popover. “Which is what I was doing, right up until Stephen screwed me. All this review does is remind me of what I had—and what I lost.”
“Then go find it again, Gwen,” Missy said. “But get naked with Logan first. It’s clear you need the release.”
* * *
That night I was a frazzled wreck, my conversation with Missy on repeat in my head, when Logan knocked on my door five minutes early.
I’d spent the better part of an hour arguing with myself over what I should wear. My nicer work pants and white chef’s coat seemed too uptight, but my usual black shirt and skinny jeans felt too casual. I wanted to impress Logan, let him know I was taking his nightly specials board proposition seriously, but not too seriously. Ultimately I’d settled on sleek black pants and a cream polka-dot blouse, my hair in a loose, messy bun at the nape of my neck.
Ugh, why the hell did I care so much? They were clothes.
“Come in,” I shouted from the kitchen. My entire thousand-square-foot bungalow could fit inside Logan’s great room, so there was no point answering the door—my words would carry.
A beat later Logan stepped into my small entryway, the lazy evening sun sinking below the horizon still a brilliant haze around his shoulders. “Gwen?” he asked, his voice overloud in the tiny space.
At the mere sight of him, my heart pulsed in my throat. He appeared freshly showered, his blond hair damp and combed back. He hadn’t shaved, and the scruff on his jaw gleamed golden against his tanned skin. I wondered if he’d come straight from practice or if he’d had the day off after his blowout win against the Lions last night.
“This isn’t mystery dinner theater, Wonder Bread,” I said, eyeing the covered basket in his hand.
“I never pictured you as someone afraid of a little surprise, especially when it involves dessert.” Logan entered the kitchen that spilled into the quaint living area.
Up close, I noticed his navy T-shirt still held the creases from where it’d been folded in a drawer, but his jeans had that perfect amount of distressed and faded, emphasizing his strong, hard body in a way that indicated they were well acquainted. If not for the faint freckles dotting his nose and the lopsided tilt to his smile, Logan could almost be considered too handsome, the kind that hurt to look at.
He glanced around and whistled. “Nice place.”
Was he being facetious? The hardwood floors needed refinishing, the crown molding was cracked and missing in spots, and there was a musty smell that refused to go away no matter how often or deeply I cleaned.
“I’d give you the tour, but as you can tell, the whole house is visible from here.” On the center island I laid out the jar of beets I’d pickled last night, farro, wood ear mushrooms, pistachios, and blood sausage Logan had chosen at the farmers’ market, plus a few extra items from my pantry and fridge.
Setting the basket on the rug beside his feet, Lo
gan propped himself against the back of my couch, arms crossed over the wide expanse of his chest, and stared at me as though this were the hundredth time he’d walked into my home to find me arranging ingredients on my worn butcher block island. His grin, while restrained, was familiar, a well-worn expression that gave me déjà vu, as if we’d acted out this particular moment over the course of years rather than seconds.
“What?” I asked.
“Your house fits you,” he said, nodding around to the gaudy magnets on the fridge from every city I’d visited and the Matryoshka nesting doll measuring cups with chipped paint and cheerful smiles I’d purchased on a trip to Russia during culinary school. “Though I’d expected a little less color.”
“You were expecting what, exactly? Stainless steel, massive appliances, and impractical countertops—oh wait, that’s your condo,” I said, heating the sauce pot with organic chicken broth on the stove.
“Does it ever get exhausting being so witty?” Logan asked.
“Not really.” I smiled smugly at him.
I retrieved the Le Creuset braiser dangling from the ceiling rack and situated it on a burner, lighting the gas and drizzling olive oil into the pan. I’d stumbled upon the vintage cast-iron piece in a small secondhand shop in Amboise, a charming village in the heart of France’s Loire Valley, during a culinary tour with my father in high school. I owned a whole mismatched collection of Le Creuset skillets and Dutch ovens in various sizes and colors, all acquired while traveling around random towns in Europe and all displayed around the kitchen on open, rough-wood shelves or hanging from hooks.
“I guess I expected something not so . . . Anthropologie-esque,” Logan said, snatching one of the glasses of red wine off the island. A bit cliché, but unlike him, I’d at least been smart enough to omit the jazz music and flickering candles from the scene.
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