Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “Didn’t give a name,” the GM said above the sudden cheering and clapping emanating from the dining room. All the TVs in the restaurant were tuned to Sunday Night Football, and I wondered if Logan and my brother had made a big play. Last I’d checked, the Chargers were leading the Blizzards by three, but maybe whatever had happened had put Colorado ahead.

  “Well, what did the man say specifically?”

  “Don’t know that either,” he said. “Just relaying the message.”

  “I’m in the middle of the dinner rush, so unless it’s an emergency, he’s going to have to grab a cocktail at the bar until things slow down.” I used a clean towel to wipe the rim of a plate and set it on a tray, a server whisking away the dish in a coordinated fashion.

  “Whatever you want, boss.” The GM gave me a salute and ducked back out as a whole slew of new orders printed out.

  “Porterhouse in the window, Chef,” Amy called out, snapping me out of my daze. Gripping the steaming plate, I punched the order ticket and got back to work.

  Later, after Stonestreet’s had closed, the kitchen had been scrubbed clean, and the staff had left for the evening, I retreated into the dining room to make certain everything was in order for Tuesday.

  I adjusted a few chairs and repositioned several wineglasses set haphazardly on tables. A faint laugh echoed through the room, and I peered at the lounge where Norman, the bartender, was entertaining an older gentleman nursing an amber-colored drink. Had the person who’d wanted to speak with me actually stuck around? Frowning, I walked over to them.

  “There’s Gwen,” Norman said, his smile tired but wide. “I’ll leave her to lock up. Nice meeting you, Trent.” He hefted a rack of champagne flutes on his shoulder, mouthing, You owe me, and headed to the dishwashing area in the back.

  The man turned to face me, midfifties judging by the creases in his forehead and silver at his temples. Dressed in a custom-cut navy suit with an ostentatious fuchsia silk tie, baby pink shirt, and platinum cuff links, he’d have fit right in as a customer at Brindille. But in a standard-issue steakhouse, he appeared out of place.

  “We finally meet,” the man said, his voice as rich and effortless as the antique Rolex on his wrist. A business card rested on the bar top, the front embossed with the words TK Hospitality Group in gold letters—a name I immediately recognized. The woman—Bethany—had left two other voice mails since that day at Missy’s, but each time I’d dismissed them as a solicitation. “You’re a hard woman to get ahold of. I’m Trent Keller, investor and restaurateur.” He extended his hand, which I reluctantly accepted.

  “I have no desire to work for a hotel chain cooking banquet food,” I said, instantly regretting my word choice, especially after he’d waited so long to talk to me.

  He grinned, showcasing veneer-capped teeth in a tanned face, as though charmed by my response. “I have no doubt about that, given your résumé.” The man patted the stool beside him. “Please sit.”

  “I apologize. That was rude.” I slid onto the leather cushion beside him, feeling like a visitor in my own place of employment. “What can I do for you, Mr. Keller?”

  “Just Trent,” he said. “I’m interested in discussing a new endeavor I’m pursuing in New York City.”

  “And you flew all this way to Denver?” I asked, flattered and a little apprehensive. “You in the habit of tracking down candidates in person?”

  “If the talent I desire doesn’t return phone calls, then sometimes,” he said. “I’m impressed with what you’ve accomplished thus far, Ms. Lalonde.”

  “Gwen,” I said.

  Mr. Keller—Trent—nodded. “Well, Gwen, I’ve had my sights on you for a while. You have that spark, that fire I want,” he said, his green eyes almost mesmerizing under the exposed filament bulbs dangling from the ceiling. “You’ve been hiding in the shadows for far too long. The new idea I’m exploring would allow you to unleash your unique skill set and use whatever method of food preparation you deem fit.”

  I tugged at the sleeves of my grease-stained chef’s coat. I’d been hoping for an opportunity like this since Stephen had fired me, but experience had taught me there was a reason old adages hold merit. If something seemed too good to be true, it probably was.

  “So, I’d have creative control over the menu?” I asked, wanting to ensure there wasn’t a hidden agenda at play or any strings attached.

  “Complete freedom,” he said. “As long as the dishes are cohesive and stay aligned with the restaurant’s concept. I can’t be offering Mexican food in an Italian joint, which I’m sure you understand.”

  “And you’re aware of what happened between me and my former employer in San Francisco?” I asked, figuring if I put it all out there now it couldn’t be held against me later.

  His expression grew serious, and I braced myself for the questions, the accusations. “That was . . . unfortunate. Brindille lost a rare talent. But we both know this industry is incestuous, and Chef Durand’s reputation is well known,” he said. “As it so happens, I’ve lived in New York long enough to know that with the considerable amount of time Stephen has spent in the city and away from San Francisco, there’s no way he had more than a passing influence on Brindille’s menu. The restaurant may have his name on the door, but Brindille earned that third Michelin star because of you. There’s no shame in that. In fact, you should be proud.”

  I cleared my throat, smoothing down my hair that probably looked like spun sugar after being stuffed under a toque all evening. “Thank you for the kind words, but a restaurant’s success is a team effort.”

  “That you realize that is one of the reasons I want to speak with you,” he said. “But the real appeal is what you’ve done here.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, bracing myself for another backhanded compliment that echoed the one in the Denver Morning News review.

  “You’ve taken a commonplace steakhouse menu and put your own spin on it. Allowed the dishes to really shine.” He shook the ice in his glass and swallowed the last watered-down sip. “With the right funding, best equipment, and training, there are a thousand chefs who can whip up culinary artwork using molecular gastronomy to disguise food and trick diners into thinking they’re eating one thing when it is in fact something different altogether. But that’s not what I want for this venture. Don’t mistake me, I want a menu that’s innovative, but I also want food that appeals to people on a more familiar, approachable level.”

  “And you want me to spearhead the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Audition,” Trent clarified. “You’re clearly unfamiliar with my name—and the doors I can open for you—but I assure you that if you do some research, you’ll put serious consideration into what I’m proposing.”

  Missy had told me to go find what I wanted—what I’d lost—and I’d planned to do that. But now it seemed the ideal opportunity had just presented itself. It was tempting for me to blurt out my acceptance right then, but I forced myself to keep my mouth shut. This was a life-changing commitment—with huge potential for failure—and I knew better than most people that life-changing commitments weren’t always what they seemed.

  While people only ever really hailed the opportunities that altered their lives in profoundly better ways, I’d witnessed the darker side of risking it all. The debris of failure littered my past. My father had been approached with three opportunities just like this one. The first had stolen his marriage to my mother. The second had stolen his sobriety. And the third had nearly stolen his life. One massive stroke later, and my father was now on a cruise ship pretending life was perfect, a mere shadow of the man I remembered from my childhood.

  And even my past decisions weren’t immune from failure. I’d chosen to work for Stephen, chosen to sleep with him even though I’d known what his reputation was like.

  “What does the audition entail?” I asked.

  “It’s a m
ultistep process that includes developing a sample menu and cooking for me and a group of industry professionals. But before we discuss particulars, take some time to think about it.” Standing, he picked up the business card off the bar and handed it to me. “Give me a call when you make a decision.” Trent tipped an imaginary hat, pulled on his trench coat, and showed himself out as Logan strolled in without gloves or a jacket, a flurry of snowflakes following him.

  “Do you make a habit of entertaining admirers at the restaurant after hours?” he asked, brushing a kiss against my forehead. His lips were cold and slightly chapped from playing outside for the last three hours. I caught a whiff of his cologne, which smelled of leather and tobacco, and my stomach tightened.

  “How about what was that? We’re kissing as a casual greeting now?” I quickly pocketed the business card and straightened the stools.

  Logan shrugged. “I was trying it out. Feels nice. I think I’ll stick with it.”

  Which wasn’t the deal, though that clearly didn’t matter to him.

  When I’d spontaneously gone to his condo a week ago, it was supposed to be for some harmless fun like Missy had suggested, but nothing was ever harmless when it came to Logan. He had the power to charm the sense right out of me, make me lose myself forever. I needed to be careful around him.

  “So, who was that guy?” he asked.

  “That was . . .” I hesitated, various explanations running through my head. Finally I settled on, “A customer who wanted information about booking a private event.” Heat surged into my face at the lie, but I glanced away before Logan could call my bluff.

  I should’ve told him the truth—I knew that—but I reasoned that until I’d made a firm decision, it was better not to stir the pot. Besides, the opportunity was only for an audition. There were undoubtedly more seasoned and talented chefs Trent was seeking out for the position. The likelihood that I’d be the one selected at the end was slim.

  Logan stepped behind the bar to pour himself a Fat Tire from the tap.

  “You gonna pay for that?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He cocked his head, a smart reply evident on the tip of his tongue. Instead he smiled and said, “How was the dinner service?”

  “Slammed.”

  “I knew that nightly specials board was a good idea.”

  “Yes, please take all the credit, Wonder Bread.”

  My eyes drifted over his broad chest and shoulders, the outline of his stomach, taking in the pale blue dress shirt he wore under a crisp gray suit that clung to every ripple of muscle. Suddenly, for no good reason—at least not one beyond satisfying my own curiosity—I wanted to grab hold of those lapels and pull him into a shower with me until peeling off his wet, postgame press conference attire became my new favorite end-of-shift ritual.

  God, he was devastating to look at.

  “Enjoying the view?” Logan asked, self-satisfied.

  “I’ve seen better,” I said, lying for the second time in a matter of minutes. But I refused to give him the gratification. “So I know the Blizzards had a big win tonight, but is there a reason you decided to celebrate it with a beer here instead of at your place?”

  “Gwen, we’ve been over this. I don’t need a reason to visit my own restaurant.” Putting his glass on the bar, he walked over to where I stood, hooking a finger in the elastic waistband of my checkered pants that Missy had deemed tragic and drew me closer, as if he didn’t care that I smelled like poached lobster or had hollandaise sauce on my chef’s coat. “Plus I wanted to see my favorite feisty chef. Now c’mere.”

  His lips grazed mine as he gripped my hips, the heat from his palms seeping through my clothes. I gave in to the kiss, cradling his head in my hands, fingers ghosting over his skin. When I felt him flinch, I pulled back, only now noticing the faint bruise blossoming under his left eye and the scrape that cut through his eyebrow.

  “What the heck happened to your face?” I asked.

  “Besides my good looks?” he said, gazing at me through lazy eyes.

  “Shut up and be serious.” I gently pressed my pointer finger against his cheekbone. Logan grimaced.

  “Hard tackle early in the third quarter,” he said, clearly trying to brush off the pain as minimal. “Seems like you can relate.” He swiped a thumb across my jaw to reveal a smudge of something dark and congealed—demi-glace for the braised lamb? Caramel drizzle for the turtle pie?

  “Not even remotely the same,” I said, ignoring the way Logan licked his thumb, dragged his tongue across his bottom lip. Oh, how much I wanted to get lost in that mouth, but I continued. “Remember what happened against New Orleans? You were knocked out, Logan. And now this? This is not just a ‘pitfall of the job,’ as you so often like to say.”

  “But at least we came back to clinch the win. You should have heard the fans losing their minds over it. But you know . . .” He traced a fingertip around a black button on my coat, the one above my right breast, his intense blue eyes following the movement. “Witnessing the game in action is so much more exciting than watching it on TV. Why don’t you come to the next home game against the Browns in two weeks? It’s even on Monday Night Football, so you’ll be off.”

  I was so focused on the way my heart beat a jazz rhythm beneath his hand that it took a moment for me to fully register his words. “And what? Sit in the box with the wives and girlfriends?”

  “Parents and other family will be there, too,” he said, finally undoing the button with an effortless flick of his wrist, the top flap of my jacket falling open to expose my favorite faded gray T-shirt. “Unless you’d rather be in the actual stadium seats?”

  I shook my head. Capacity crowds and loud noises were torture for me. Not to mention freezing my butt off in the open air in early November was not my idea of a good time.

  “Not going to happen, Wonder Bread.” I moved out of his grasp, the fog in my head clearing.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m the executive chef at your restaurant, not something to be paraded in front of the media.”

  Logan gave me a puzzled look, as if he genuinely had no idea what I meant. “Who said anything about parading? I only want you to come watch the game.”

  “Yeah, in the box with the other wives and girlfriends that the TV cameras are constantly panning to,” I said, rebuttoning my coat and smoothing down the fabric. “I didn’t think I needed to remind you of what Andrea Williams wrote about me or why being romantically linked to you in public would bother me.”

  “So if anyone asks, tell them you’re there to support Chris.”

  “I don’t need to tell them anything because I’m not going,” I said.

  Sighing, he glanced at the ceiling and said, “I don’t understand why you’re being so inflexible about a football game.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal about me attending in the first place. This isn’t a thing—we’re not a thing.” I gestured back and forth between us.

  “Jesus, why does everything have to be so dramatic with you? We’re not in high school. I’m not asking you to wear my jersey,” he said, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just like the idea of you seeing me play. What’s so damn awful about that?”

  I swallowed, feeling defensive yet outraged. “I’m being dramatic? You’re the one throwing a temper tantrum because you’re not getting your way. We agreed, Logan. Casual and discreet.”

  “No, you dictated, Gwen,” he said. “But whatever, sorry I even asked. If you manage to remember you aren’t a coward, there’ll be tickets at will call for you.”

  Then he stepped around me and strode out the door, never once looking back.

  * * *

  Walking into the suite reserved for the families of Blizzards players was not the welcoming scene I’d hoped for when I’d decided to attend the game tonight. There were no grandpare
nts decked out in tacky football gear. No children sporting jerseys with their fathers’ number proudly displayed. Not even my mother or Logan’s father were present, or any of the players’ parents for that matter.

  Instead, Missy and I were greeted to a roomful of wives and girlfriends. As if on cue, every head turned in unison, assessing us as we entered. The women’s gazes were cold and calculating, as though determining what level of threat we posed. Missy with her natural beauty and WASP-like persona could at least hold her own against this crowd. I, on the other hand, felt like an outcast à la the nineties MTV character Daria.

  “You remember the original Jurassic Park?” Missy whispered in my ear.

  “Yeah,” I said, my eyes darting to the door, wondering if it wasn’t too late to pretend we’d accidentally stumbled into the wrong suite.

  “I feel like we’re about to be eviscerated by a pack of velociraptors that haven’t fed in a week.”

  This was exactly why I hadn’t wanted to come. But I refused to prove Logan right. I wasn’t a coward—just cautious. And while I didn’t fully understand his reasoning for why it was so important that I be here, I knew what it felt like to want someone to notice your hard work and offer support, something Logan had done for me on more than one occasion since I’d moved back to Denver. The least I could do was return the sentiment.

  And if I were honest, the more I’d thought about it, the more I’d realized he was right about using Chris as a cover—if Logan hadn’t caught me so off guard with his invitation, I probably would’ve thought of it myself.

  “More like a month,” I said, noticing the way the women studied us with rapt, almost hungry attention, my defenses on high alert.

  “Well put on a happy face, Gwen. Here comes one now,” Missy said in her best announcer voice as a tall, plasticized brunette approached us, the rest of the group silently observing.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met. Brittany Olson, married to Dustin Olson, Blizzards wide receiver and three-time Pro Bowler,” she said, her smile hyena wide. I wondered if this became part of the deal when you were a professional athlete’s wife, that at all times you had to brag about and remind others of your husband’s superiority.