Perfectly Matched: ...And the Rest of the Matchmaking Chef Books

by Maddie James

  A horn blasted from their right, and she braked hard, shrieked a little, and parked the car.

  Mike’s truck was parked in a side lot.

  “Oh! Sorry.”

  “No problem.”

  Without hesitation, she decided to forge ahead. Turning in her seat toward Mystery Man, she spied Mike getting out of his truck and heading toward the gate. She stuck out her hand toward MM.

  “I’m Sydney Schul, and I really believe we should just cut to the chase here.”

  MM’s eyes widened. She could tell that even from under the brim of his ball cap. “Oh?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “I’m St...St...Steve...” He took her hand.

  Mike flashed his flashlight toward their car and then banged it on the chain link. Sydney guessed that meant the gate was open now.

  They both jerked their gazes toward him. Her hand remained in his palm.

  “Gate.”

  “What?”

  “Steve Gate. That’s my name.”

  Turning back, it was her turn to reply, “Oh.”

  Mike banged on the gate again. She guessed he wanted this transaction to happen quickly so he could back home to his warm bed and coonhound.

  She shook Steve’s hand then quickly released it. He made a move toward the passenger side door, laying a hand on the handle. “I know who you are,” she told him.

  The light flashed around inside the car. Mike shouted something.

  Steve looked a tad uncomfortable.

  “Okay,” she plunged ahead. “I don’t know really who you are, but I believe I know why you are here. You are in the food biz, right?” His eyes widened, and she saw his hand lift the door latch. “You’re an editor, right? Or a producer? You saw the article in the magazine, and you want to know more about me. Right? It’s okay. You don’t have to sneak around. Let’s just set up a time for an interview and the grand kitchen tour and move on with it.”

  There. Her shoulders fell and a whoosh exited her lungs. All out in the open.

  A brisk rapping came at her window, startling her. “Sydney! What the hell? C’mon.”

  Turning, she said, “Okay, Mike!” Geez.

  Steve took advantage of the pause and quickly left the car. It was so abrupt that it gave her a momentary brain shake. What? Why was he retreating all of a sudden when all he’d been doing for a couple of days now was move toward her? He gave her a backward glance and said,

  “Sure thing, hon. Thanks for the ride. Will be in touch,” then slammed the door and off he went.

  She sat for a moment, a little deflated, and watched him walk alongside the burly Mike.

  He pulled his wallet out of his hip pocket, she supposed to pay the impound fee. Mike led him into the small shack, a light came on inside, and the door closed.

  She slapped the palm of her hand at her forehead. “I’m an idiot.”

  An unsettled feeling snaked across her abdomen. This all felt just too…weird. And scary. Had she just sprung her stalker from jail?

  Good Lord!

  ****

  “In the first place, I can’t believe that you convinced Matt to let the stalker go, and in the second place,” Suzie went on, tugging a tray of cinnamon rolls out of the back of Sydney’s van, “I can’t believe you drove the man all the way out Spicer Road to get his car. I mean, that’s like Deliverance territory out there. Not the kind of place you want to be with a stalker, and…

  Sydney took one side of the tray and steadied it while Suzie balanced it in her arms. “And thirdly, I can’t believe that you freakin’ invited him back to your bakery for a tour, no less. Are you insane?”

  Sydney chewed on that a second. Probably.

  But not in the way that Suzie thought. She was still convinced that this Steve Gate was harmless, not a stalker. She just hadn’t totally figured out yet why he was snooping around her place. He hadn’t reacted much when she’d blurted out that she knew why he was following her.

  He’d just sort of cut her off, slammed the door, and left.

  What was that all about?

  Had she scared him off? Had he changed his mind about her because she was too assertive? She could be that, you know, assertive.

  Dammit.

  Had she ruined her celebrity foodie career before it even got off the ground?

  So, she had to turn the tide somehow. Take another tack. My God, was she actually plotting in her mind a way to get him back to the bakery?

  Yes.

  She followed Suzie up the back entrance to the Lodge, mulling all that over in her head while carrying another tray of pastries, and entered the kitchen. It was barely six o’clock in the morning, and she’d been up since four. Since she’d not gotten home until after midnight, she’d managed barely three hours sleep, since for the first hour she lay in bed asking herself the same stupid questions that had rolled off Suzie’s tongue.

  What was she thinking?

  How could she be certain this man was a food editor? All she had was a hunch. Was he a stalker, like Suzie insisted? Or maybe he was simply a harmless lover of scones.

  Whatever.

  She had to put it out of her mind right now, though; there was nothing she could do about it now. Time would tell whether Mystery Man or Steve Gates or whatever-the-hell his name was ever crossed her path again.

  She didn’t care. Not right now.

  This morning, she had too much work to do to bother contemplating.

  “I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she told her cousin.

  “Fine.” Suzie put down the tray of rolls, brushed her palms together, and headed back toward the door. “I’ll go get the last tray of muffins. Can you start arranging the platters?”

  She nodded. Of course.

  “But I will say that I do not think he is a stalker. I really do think he’s connected some way in the food entertainment business.”

  Suzie circled back in one fluid movement and caught her gaze. “Sydney, I know the food entertainment business. I am in the food entertainment business. I know editors and producers. They don’t sneak around back alleys trying to break into bakeries, and they don’t stalk people in grocery stories. If they want you, they’ll approach you straight up. Sneaking around is not what editors do.”

  Sydney gulped and took in every word Suzie said. It all made sense.

  “But maybe he just...”

  She put up a hand. “Stop. It. Now.”

  Her shoulders slumped. “Okay. Got it. I’ll steer clear.”

  Stepping forward, Suzie forced eye contact with her again. “Repeat after me, Sydney Schul, God as my witness, I swear on my fanciest spatula that I will not invite that man into my bakery for a tour, and if I see him coming, I will close the shop and call Matt. Got it? Now, repeat after me.”

  Sydney mumbled the words while her dreams of being scone-famous evaporated. Oh, well. Suzie was probably right. Likely not room in this town for two celebrity chefs anyway, right?

  Of course.

  She’d let Suzie go with it and be happy riding along on her coattails.

  Sort of.

  “So, now I’m heading back to the van for that last tray. Let’s get busy here.”

  “Sure.”

  They had a continental breakfast spread to get out in the smaller dining room of the Lodge before seven. The annual writers’ conference attendees had trickled in yesterday, according to Suzie, and the retreat started today. Truth be told, she was happy to keep her hands busy for the next hour or so, and her brain devoid of any thought of stalkers or editors or men in general.

  “Just work, Syd,” she mumbled. “It’s what you do best.”

  Chapter Four

  Stone took another sip of coffee, grimaced, and sat the cup back on its saucer. Rubbing his temples, he looked down at the glossy magazine shining up at him from the table and longed for another cup of the Hawaiian coffee he had yesterday at Sydney’s. Headache. Not enough sleep.

  Needed triple-octane caffeine. Questioning
why in the hell he had traveled all the way to Legend, Tennessee in search of a damned scone.

  Again, his gaze flipped over the magazine cover and settled on the words at the bottom.

  Best Scones of the South, the tagline read, page 52.

  That’s why.

  After last night’s fiasco, he’d pretty much decided to leave Legend and Sydney Schul and the lovely orange scone behind. Time to get his ass back to Atlanta where he belonged. He’d even packed his bags this morning and had them sitting by his Lodge room door. He was ready to head out but had decided on a hearty, mountain breakfast before he did.

  He was resigned. Nothing more here to do. Give up his hair-brained scheme of somehow sleuthing the recipe away from the lovely Sydney.

  Stupid thought.

  With a tinker of glassware and muffled voices, he lifted his gaze from the magazine to the scene through the doorway of the Lodge dining room to another room—one set up for a meeting, it looked like. Through that door, he could see the back of a woman—tall, blonde, thin—who wore a sky blue chef’s apron and sported a long ponytail down her back. A familiar blonde woman. Like, the same woman who seemed to be the center of his attention lately.

  Sydney.

  A strange stirring settled in his gut.

  He really did like the looks of the woman. Tall and thin, with sea blue eyes that could knock the socks off most men. She was busy, always busy, and focused so intently on her work.

  Probably part of her success. She was determined and a bit assertive. Took that kind of business sense to make it out there in the world.

  No doubt, she had worked hard to make a name for herself. He admired that in a woman.

  In anyone. And he admired that in her.

  Which was another reason why he should leave. Why this cock-eyed plot had possessed him, he wasn’t quite sure. He was still dumbfounded as to why he carried through with it thus far.

  He just wasn’t used to losing. And he wasn’t used to not owning the title of Best Scones of the South, himself.

  She turned, and he dropped his gaze a little, then after a moment, slowly looked back up again. She bustled about, placing pastries on a platter, straightening sugar packets, and checking on the silver-plated coffee maker on the table. He supposed this was why she and the other woman were baking so much yesterday. Looks like they were catering in breakfast.

  He sniffed.

  Would she have more scones?

  Could he?

  No.

  Stone fidgeted in his chair and glanced back to the magazine. Absentmindedly he thumbed through the pages to page 52, and saw Sydney’s smiling face staring back at him. In one hand, she held an orange scone, with the other, she was shaking the hand of the magazine editor.

  And behind her, was the sign that sported the coveted words that usually hung over his bakery door.

  Best Scones in the South.

  According to Southern’s Best magazine, that is.

  No.

  Right then and there, he decided. It wasn’t time to leave Legend. It wasn’t time to give up his quest. It was time he got down to business.

  Time to romance the scone.

  Or seduce the chef.

  Whichever came first.

  ****

  “The coffee is good but not as good as yours.”

  Startled at the voice over her shoulder, Sydney jumped and turned at the same time. “Oh! Wha—?”

  Half a tray of homemade donut holes skittered to the floor. “Dammit!”

  The spicy scent of his aftershave made her dizzy. Dropping to the floor, she made a futile attempt to scoop up rolling and escaping donut holes into her apron.

  “Here, let me help with that.”

  Large hands reached around hers and scraped a few stray donuts off the floor, then gently placed them in her apron.

  She glanced up. “Thank you. Um. Steve?”

  He didn’t have his ball cap on, pulled down low over his eyes, for the very first time she’d seen him. “It is Steve, right?”

  He stood and gave her a hand. She took it and straightened to stand, still holding her apron bottom cradling the ruined donuts.

  “Yes, I’m Steve.”

  “No hat.”

  A hand went to his head. “Oh. Yeah.”

  He smiled, and her heart did a little pitter-patter. Were those green eyes he sported beneath those dark, hooded eyebrows?

  Definitely.

  With little crinkly wrinkles around the corners. Nice.

  “Thanks for the ride last night and getting me out of jail. I think I owe you.”

  She relaxed a bit. “No problem. Matt gets all up in arms sometimes. You know, small town, not much going on, have to earn your cop keep.”

  He nodded. “Still, it was nice of you to go out of your way...”

  “I was happy to do it.”

  Steve shoved his hands in his pockets. “I was wondering when I could cash in on that rain check.”

  Sydney bit her lip.

  I swear on my fanciest spatula...

  His eyes captured hers and held. For whatever reason, she didn’t want to look away.

  “Mornings are really busy for me,” she heard herself say, “Can you come by around two this afternoon?”

  Smiling, he nodded, “Yes. See you then.”

  Then he was gone, and Sydney was left holding an apron full of donuts and wondering two things: why she had caved so easily, and what would she wear when he came by?

  Did she actually, sort of, like this man?

  ****

  The usual morning coffee crowd came and went. Around noon, business picked up again.

  There was a different crowd who liked to grab up a large coffee to go, after lunch, to take back with them to their downtown offices. By one o’clock, Sydney’s tummy was all a twitter, not so much from the fact that Steve was coming, but because she was hoping that Suzie would not pop in this afternoon while he was here.

  After all, this was her business, right? Not Suzie’s?

  Conveniently, she chose to forget about the oath.

  Besides, she had never been totally convinced that Steve was any kind of stalker, but she was pretty darned certain that he had something to do with the food business. Why else would he be here?

  And this was her chance. Maybe her only chance. She had to take it.

  Take a risk.

  At a quarter ‘til two, after she’d tidied up the place and spruced herself up a bit as well, she glanced toward the street to see if she could see anyone approaching. Nope. Usually at this time of the afternoon, she was doing some prep for tomorrow morning’s baking. She supposed she could do that, pull out some ingredients and such. Get all her ducks in a row. That way she would look busy when he did arrive, and she would have things ready for in the morning.

  She hustled back to the bakery. Every morning she made three types of dough: yeast dough for cinnamon rolls and pastries; quick bread dough for muffins of various kinds; and a batter for scones. She usually featured just one scone a day since she liked to play with her scone recipes, and it was too much to do several kinds each morning. The day before had been orange, today was Mountain Blackberry, and tomorrow morning would be Sugar and Spice.

  She had her own secret recipes, and no one, not even Suzie, knew the exact ingredients.

  She’d played with the measurements for months before she found the right combination.

  Three separate prep stations were located around the kitchen. So, she busied herself at each one by filling up the ingredients’ canisters in each workstation and pulling down added ingredients for the special items on the menu tomorrow.

  Chocolate chips, vanilla, cinnamon, canned fruit, maple syrup, cane sugar...

  She was so in her element that she didn’t hear the bells jingle on the door and jumped probably three feet into the air when she heard a man’s deep voice call out from across the room,

  “Sydney?”

  At that moment, a cup of flour flew out of her hands,
puffed up into a nice soft cloud in the air, and drifted all over her prep station.

  And her.

  “Well, shoot!” She glanced down at herself, covered with flour.

  Steve rushed forward. “I am so sorry. I thought you heard me come in. I didn’t mean to startle you!” His hands were everywhere, wiping flour off her shoulders and brushing down her arms.

  “Hazard of the business,” Sydney mumbled. Then after a second, she shook herself out of her trance, and backed up. “No worries. Let me just…”

  Embarrassment set in like a house afire.

  She raced to the back door and onto the concrete stoop, all the while calling herself three kinds of stupid. How would this food editor take her seriously if she was wearing half her ingredients instead of baking with them?

  Dammit.

  Bending at the waist, she shook her head and flour rained down to the concrete. She pulled her band out of her ponytail and fluffed her hair until it stopped giving up the flour. Then she righted herself, flipping her hair back over her shoulders. By that time, Steve was at the door.

  She whipped off her apron in another flurry of flour, sending the cloud flying out into the alley.

  By the time he had joined her on the stoop, she’d managed to rid herself of most of the powdery stuff.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you so,” Steve began, stepping closer.

  “I didn’t hear the bells.”

  “You were busy. I should have waited.”

  She watched his eyes. They were soft and caring. Not stalkerish at all. Suzie should just see his eyes, and then she would know…

  He took another half step closer and reached toward her face. “Here, you’ve got a little bit more…right…there.” With a light touch, he brushed away some flour particles from the tip of her nose. “And here.” His fingertip moved to her cheek and swept over it like velvet. Again, he flicked away errant patches of flour from her cheek, then forehead, “And here…” and then finally, from her chin.

  All the while Sydney simply stood and let him, unable to let go of the grip his gaze had on hers. And unwilling to move lest he stop touching her so damned tenderly.

  Little spritzes of candy-coated sparkles were dancing in her chest.