Dear Reader,

For those of you who have read my books, you might have noticed that I love food. My characters all share my food obsessions—they find comfort in chocolate and peanut butter, they recognize the beauty of bacon and they know that a Mi Fiesta burrito really is the perfect food. I know that this isn’t a healthy obsession. I have tried to cultivate the same feelings for carrots and apples, but frankly, they just aren’t as delicious.

For me, part of loving food comes from cooking and I learned from some great cooks over the years working as a waitress and prep cook. Those jobs also gave me a front-row seat for the theatrics of a professional kitchen. The romances, egos and creativity—there was never a dull moment. The seed for this story was born watching behind the scenes of a good brunch rush.

Since all the chefs I have known are passionate, creative and driven people and sparks always fly when they fall in love, Dishing It Out made perfect sense. Sparks certainly fly between Van MacAllister, my half-Scottish, half-Italian chef, and Marie Simmons—Anna’s sister from Pencil Him In, Flipside #15—a woman with a small, but growing, cooking empire to protect. I hope you enjoy their story!

Check out my Web site at www.molly-okeefe.com. You’ll find some of the recipes Van and Marie make in the book. And please share some of your favorites!

Happy reading,

Molly O’Keefe

“Look who’s on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.”

Marie looked at the magazine her producer Simon held up. Van MacAllister was staring at her in full-color, glossy arrogance.

“That’s great,” she lied, feeling certain she sounded convincing. “Good for him.” She tried to ignore the giant spike of irritation she always felt about Van. With his new restaurant across the street from her own, he had single-handedly made the past six months of her life even more strained and tiring.

“You’re not still upset about what he said in the Examiner, are you?” Simon asked.

“I’m not upset.” She shrugged and unclenched her fists. She’d sworn she wouldn’t wallow in her anger over him. “I mean, just because he called my bistro a ‘cute little coffee shop’ in an international paper, why would I be upset?” Marie felt a rant approaching and knew she had to stop before she scared Simon. “So why are we talking about Van?”

“This is big, Marie. Exciting.” Simon paused to grin outrageously. “Meet your new cohost!”

Dishing It Out
Molly O’Keefe

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Molly O’Keefe grew up reading in a small farming town outside of Chicago. She went to Webster University in St. Louis where she graduated with a degree in Journalism and English and met a Canadian who became her college editor, and later her husband and tennis partner. She spent a year writing for regional publications and St. Louis newspapers, before she began moving around the country and writing romance novels. At age 25, she sold her first book to Harlequin Duets, got married and settled down in Toronto, Canada. She and her husband share a cat and dreams of warmer climates.

Books by Molly O’Keefe

HARLEQUIN FLIPSIDE

15—PENCIL HIM IN

HARLEQUIN DUETS

62—TOO MANY COOKS

95—COOKING UP TROUBLE/ KISS THE COOK

To Sinead, Maureen, Mary, Michele, Susan and Teresa for the advice, food, booze, ideas, laughs, sympathetic ears and constant, steady and crucial support. You make this process a joy.

I can’t thank you enough, ladies.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

1

“CHOCOLATE IS SEXY,” Marie Simmons said, smiling into the eye of the camera. “It should taste good, smell good and yes—” she spooned berry coulis over the top of a gorgeous flourless chocolate cake “—feel good. Remind you of anything?” She arched an eyebrow and the studio audience laughed, giving her a few moments to stall. She shot the camera a smile and then scanned her workspace for the mint while she blathered on about sexy food. Mint! There it was, under the bowl of raspberries. She broke off some leaves and pressed it into the cake’s fudgy soft center.

Running out of time, she told herself. She’d have to scrap the homemade whipped cream, though it was gorgeous.

She lifted the warm cake, tilting it toward the audience and the camera. She smiled in what she hoped was a cool and confident manner. “Good food doesn’t just feed the body, it feeds the soul.”

She winked and the crowd cheered.

Martha Stewart ain’t got nothing on me! Marie howled inside of her head. She managed to keep herself from doing victory laps around the stage. Another great and mostly disaster-free segment of Soul Food done.

Marie caught sight of the floor manager, Roger, in the shadows past the lights, frantically gesturing for Marie to tilt the chocolate fondant up more so the camera could have a better angle. “Up,” he mouthed, lifting his hands in slow motion.

She shook her head. Any more angling and the cake would be all over the floor. But Roger was getting red in the face so she tilted the plate and hoped it would stick until the cameras were off.

I finally get a segment with no fires, short circuits, broken dishes or blood and I am going to ruin it by dropping a cake on the floor.

Roger yelled, “Cut!” and Marie sighed, putting the plate back on the counter. The miniature kitchen set that Soul Food called home was suddenly swarmed with men and women dressed in black, wearing little headsets. They had ninety seconds to clean her set, break it down and get it out of the way for the rest of the live morning show.

There was so little time or room for error. It reminded Marie of being in a kitchen during a dinner rush. Live TV was like jumping out of a plane, and sometimes cooking on live TV was like jumping out of a plane with a possibly faulty parachute.

Marie unhooked her mic, took off her apron and ran backstage, getting out of the crew’s way. Her segment producer and good friend, Simon, was waiting for her in the wings with a bottle of water and a giant grin.

“Great show, Marie!” he whispered.

“Thank you, Mr. Producer,” she said and, feeling a huge gust of affection for him, bent down to kiss his shiny bald head.

Good old Simon. Six months ago he turned his addiction to her lemon bars and lentil salad into a monthly gig on AMSF, the most popular morning show in the Bay Area. Three months ago, they gave her another half-hour slot and now she was on twice a month.

“Coming through!” A woman carrying a giant cat for the next segment came running past them.

Showbiz, Marie decided, is definitely for me.

She felt alive here, fully on top of her game. She didn’t feel like she was pretending under those bright lights. Even when things went wrong, like the grease fire two weeks ago, she felt in charge and in control. If not a little singed.

Almost unconsciously, she touched one of the bracelets she wore on her wrists, tracing the moons that were pressed into the silver. The bracelets were reminders of the lessons she had learned from those times she got more than a little singed by the choices she had made.

The music soared and the lights came up on the main stage where the hosts of AMSF were sitting at their desk.

“That woman could make popcorn sexy,” Rick Anderson, one of the hosts and general all around sleazebag, said, shaking his head. “I think I’m in love.”

Marie rolled her eyes at Simon.

“Well, her food is delicious,” Luanne, the other host, said in agreement. “That cake looked amazing.” The crowd made sounds of approval and Marie felt as if her feet had actually lifted off the ground.

I wonder if I can get a dressing room? Something with a star.

“Let’s go up to my office,” Simon whispered next to her ear. “I have something I want to talk to you about.” Marie nodded and followed him through the backstage maze, up some stairs to his small crowded office with a view of the parking lot two floors below.

Simon’s messy desk dominated the office and a bulletin board covered in colored index cards represented the different segments Simon produced for AMSF. Soul Food was yellow. She smiled and flicked one with her finger as she walked by.

“The show is popular, Marie. Very, very popular.” He smiled at her as he crossed the room to his chair.

“Good,” Marie said expansively. “Great!” She was a little in love with the world right now. Drunk with the taste of success. “That’s what you pay me the big bucks for.” Ha! Nothing funnier than jokes about being broke. Maybe if she made enough of them, Simon would get the hint and give her a raise.

She slid into one of the hard wooden seats across from his desk and smothered a yawn, fighting the exhaustion that was crowding the edges of her adrenaline high. What I wouldn’t give for about a gallon of coffee.

“How’s business?” Simon asked, disregarding her joke.

Marie started to take out the bobby pins that Hair and Makeup insisted she wear to keep her black curls out of the food. She was as hygienic as the next chef, but these bobby pins hurt. “Since Soul Food started going twice a month, brunches are lined up out the door on weekends and we’ve really picked up lunch hours. It couldn’t be better.”

Well, that was a lie, but Simon didn’t need to know about the girl she hired who had been skimming the till for three weeks. He also didn’t need to know about the broken dishwasher.

“You finally getting some sleep since you hired the new baker?”

“He quit.” Simon really didn’t need to know about that.

“Quit? But that guy was so excited.” Simon looked like a little dog when he was surprised. It was cute.

“Apparently, being a baker is exciting in theory but not so much in practice at three in the morning.” Marie shook out the bun her hair had been pressure-formed into and sighed happily.

Marie could have told the kid that baking wasn’t exactly exciting but she had just been happy to get another baker in the door. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, or something like that. “What can you do?”

“So you’re still doing it yourself?” Simon looked sympathetic as he sat down in front of his large window and leaned back in his seat. He probably hadn’t seen 3:00 a.m. in years, if ever. She knew he had to get up early for the show. But 5:00 a.m. was not 3:00 a.m. It was an ugly hour, and Marie had been getting to know it intimately for the last year.

“I am. You want to volunteer?” she asked, trying to keep things light. “We could tape it for the show. I think viewers would like to see my producer make scones.” Between Ariel the thief, the dishwasher on the fritz, her organic milk guy doubling his rates and the sleepless nights she’d been having lately, it was either keep things light or get dehydrated from all the bawling.

“Not on your life,” Simon laughed.

“That’s what everyone says.” Marie tried to push the sleeve of her deep purple chenille sweater up her arm so she could see her watch without him noticing. Simon liked a bit of production with his meetings. Fanfare and other time-consuming things. Normally, Marie didn’t mind obliging him, but right now, time was money and Simon wasn’t paying her enough to chitchat.

“Marie, our viewing audience loves you. People are looking for new gurus of food and style. You make having good taste seem simple and fun, and a little sexy, rather than stuffy or snobby. And of course,” he said, grinning, “your looks don’t hurt.”

What’s this? Compliments from Simon? “You feeling all right?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Simon didn’t get warm and fuzzy for no good reason. The guy was a television producer. Behind the khaki pants and plaid shirts from the eighties, he was pretty slick.

“I,” he said, spreading his arms out wide, “we,” he corrected pointing at her, “are doing just fine.”

Marie’s bullshit detector went on high alert. Something is up.

“What’s going on, Simon?”

“Your ratings are way, way up. In fact you’ve surpassed…” Simon did a little drumroll with his fingers against the edge of his desk and Marie tried not to laugh at him. “Patrick and Ivan.”

“Really?” Patrick and Ivan had been ratings horses for almost a year. They were local celebrities. They had dressing rooms.

“When a cooking show beats out two gay interior designers you know you’re on to something,” he said in all seriousness.

“So you’ve brought me up here to tell me you’re giving me a raise?” she asked and she would be lying if she tried not to sound hopeful. It was all she could do not to sound desperate.

“Sorry,” Simon said, cringing. “No raise.”

“Then what, Simon? I’ve got to be back at the restaurant in an hour.”

“Well…” He paused and Marie rolled her eyes at his sense of drama. “You are going weekly.”

“Weekly?” Marie gasped, suddenly light-headed. She laughed, tried to control it, but couldn’t. Who cared about not having a baker? Or the broken dishwasher? She was going to be on television every week!

Simon leaned back in his chair looking gratified and a little smug.

“You said ‘no raise.’ I’m not doing double the work…”

He put up a hand to stop her. “Same fee per show so it’s sort of a raise.”

She would take it. She leaned back and felt like she could kiss the water-stained ceiling. She could kiss Simon and his filthy desk. A little more notoriety would bring more people into Marie’s Bistro, her bakery/bistro. More customers meant she could pay off her debts, the loan she had to take out last year, maybe even… “A vacation,” she breathed.

Since leaving France and the horrible mess she had made there two years ago, Marie had gotten her life under control, had forced herself to grow up, to be an adult. She’d taken on the responsibilities she normally ran from and this was going to be her reward. The bright and shiny beginning of her cooking empire.

“Simon,” Marie said, sitting up to look at him, feeling like she was made of fire, “I’ve got so many ideas, so many things we can do with the show.”

“Whoa, before you get carried away, there’s a minor change.” Simon started digging through the papers on his desk. “Where’d I put that thing?”

His distraction was making Marie nervous. But that could be because she was operating on forty seconds of sleep. “Simon, just tell me what’s going on.”

“Found it!” He reached to the floor, picked a stack of papers up and turned back around holding one of them out to her. “Look who is on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.”

She blinked at the sudden and unwelcome change of subject. Giovanni MacAllister was staring up at her in full eight and a half by eleven glossy from the weekend insert for the San Francisco Examiner.

“That’s great,” she lied, feeling certain she sounded convincing. “Good for him.” She attempted to ignore the giant spike of irritation she always felt whenever she thought about him. Van MacAllister owned Sauvignon, a new restaurant across the street from Marie’s. And the man had single-handedly made the last six months of her life even more strained and tiring than it had already been.

Calming thoughts, Marie, calming thoughts. She tried a yoga breath, opening up her chest and emptying her belly, but it didn’t work. Nothing worked.

Simon was watching her and Marie knew she wasn’t fooling him. “You’re not still upset about what he said in the Examiner, are you?” he asked. “It was one comment and he apologized.”

“I’m not upset.” Marie shrugged and had to relax her hands from the fists she was making.

“Good, because…”

“I mean, just because he called Marie’s Bistro a ‘cute little coffee shop’ in an international newspaper, why would I be upset?”

Not so good. She had promised herself and her sister, who was tired of hearing about it, that she would not wallow in her anger over Van MacAllister.

Simon winced. “Cute is not so bad….”

“Right.” She knew sarcasm was unbecoming, but sometimes it just felt so good. “Cute is fine. Just fine.”

“See…”

“If you’re a child!” You’re wallowing, Marie, she thought. And you’re scaring your producer.

A month ago, a reporter asked Van what he thought of Marie’s Bistro and he’d said, “You mean that cute little coffee shop across the street? It’s fine if you want a cookie.” Marie had been seeing various shades of red since.

“Didn’t he apologize?”

“He sent gift certificates for Sauvignon.” She shrugged, pretending to be nonchalant, but it was hard considering the apology was almost worse than the original insult. She crossed her legs, arranging her gray jersey skirt over her knees. “Moving on. Why are we even talking about him?”

“Well, we went there last night to see a band…”

“One of his blues bands?” she asked, surprising herself and Simon by nearly yelling.

“I think it was Dixieland jazz,” Simon said slowly.

“Whatever it was, you do mean the loud band with horns that played until 1:00 a.m. last night?” She leaned forward in her seat.

“There were horns.” He nodded, obviously not sure what he was agreeing to.

“Yeah, horns. 1:00 a.m. I live right across the street from him, Simon, and I have to get up at three to bake bread!” She was beginning to see the music as some sort of torture. “I haven’t had a decent three hours sleep in forever. But—” Again she reined herself in, and sat back in the chair. She took a deep breath, imagined waterfalls and waves on the beach and other things that were supposed to relax her but only made her have to go to the bathroom. “He’s got the zoning and licensing.” She shrugged. “What can you do?”

“I think the bands are all part of his mystique,” Simon said and Marie snorted. Mystique? Please.

The worst of it wasn’t the thing in the paper or the bands four nights a week. It was that he was in her kitchen. Her dream kitchen, with the old brass hood and the natural lighting. The restaurant space she wanted, had bid on and ultimately lost to Giovanni MacAllister, in an ugly blind bidding war.

So she had bought the place across the street with the smaller kitchen and faulty heating system, and had watched as Van did nothing to the building he’d bought. It had sat empty and vacant while she was sweating in the summer and freezing in the winter across the street, taking out loans and making no money in SoMa—the neighborhood south of Market Street—an untried part of the city.

Six months after she had opened, just as things were beginning to take off for her and the dicey warehouse neighborhood she called home, he had opened Sauvignon to almost instant success. And then he had called Marie’s Bistro a “cute little coffee shop” in the paper.

It was a one-two punch that Marie was having a hard time with.

“I can’t believe he’s on the cover of the Weekend Magazine.” She hated how she felt about this guy. He shouldn’t even register in her life among the blessings and happiness she had, but he did. He was a thorn in her side that she hated admitting to. That he bothered her so much bothered her.

“Marie, you were on the cover three weeks ago. They called you ‘the New Goddess of Good Taste.’”

“Yeah.” She smiled, remembering. “That was a good one.” She ran her finger over the edge of the magazine, feeling the staple and pressing her thumb against it, trying to squelch all the nasty feelings Van brought out in her. “But it took me a year. A year of freaking out every night.”

She didn’t talk about the doubt and some of the tears and the bone-deep desire she had almost every day to resort to her old ways and abandon the whole thing. Run off to a beach and sell oranges to tourists.

“Sauvignon has only been open six months.” She stopped herself before she started whining that things were unfair. Instead she looked down at Van’s arrogant face blown up and glossy.

He wasn’t handsome, at least not by her standards, and while the picture of him was flattering, he still wasn’t what she would call good-looking. His unsmiling craggy face was…interesting maybe. Perhaps some people could see past those tremendously overgrown eyebrows to the intense eyes beneath them, but she couldn’t get past her desire to find the nearest tweezers. His wild black hair with silver shot through it might be attractive. And the scar at his chin was…intriguing. Maybe. But the guy was not handsome.

“He’s got great press,” Simon said with a wry smile. Marie looked at the headline, having gotten caught up in the out-of-control eyebrows. Really, someone should have taken the guy in hand years ago.

“‘Van MacAllister,’” she read aloud. “‘A man’s man. Making haute cuisine rough, ready and masculine.’ Oh, give me a break,” she moaned. “What does that mean? Masculine haute cuisine?” Marie threw the magazine back on Simon’s desk and crossed her arms, dismissing Van MacAllister. “He’s grilling meat, Simon. Let’s not get carried away.”

“Well, some people might say you’re just baking bread.”

“Simon…”

“I’m not saying it.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “You have to admit, though, he’s become very popular.”

“I don’t have to admit anything,” she muttered. He stole my kitchen, made fun of me in the paper and is making it impossible for me to sleep. It’s amazing I haven’t killed the guy in his sleep. Which is no doubt peaceful and plentiful.

“You know what they’re calling us in the papers, don’t you?” she asked, quietly. This was the real rub, the coup de grâce in the bad vibes she felt for Van MacAllister.

Simon had the good grace to look uncomfortable. “Ah…” He cleared his throat and fiddled for a moment with a pen on his desk. “Hip meets homey.”

“That’s right and guess who’s homey?”

He pointed the end of the pen at her.

Marie had written polite but firm letters to the editor until her hand was numb, but the buzz kept building. She was hardly homey, unless one considered the French countryside home. Then, maybe she could be considered homey. But only if it were an outrageously classy, sensual home. That served Thai chicken salad and triple espressos and rhubarb-strawberry bars for dessert. Okay, maybe that is homey. But it’s rhubarb—it is hard to toughen up rhubarb.

“Why are we even talking about Van MacAllister?”

“Well,” he said, steepling his hands against his smiling lips and took a deep breath. “This really is so exciting.”

“What is?” Marie didn’t even try hiding her confusion and frustration. Simon pointed at the magazine.

“Meet your new cohost.”

2

“VERY FUNNY.” Marie laughed, a pop of incredulity that came from her gut. She stood to leave. “Are we done? Because I have to get back to the restaurant.”

“I’m not joking Marie. The executive producers…”

“Simon, come on,” she chastised. But Simon wasn’t laughing. In fact, he looked uncomfortable. Sweaty. He looks sweaty. And very very serious. Marie sat back down in her chair.

“Oh, no,” she breathed. “You’re serious.”

“I thought you would be excited.”

“Excited?” She shook her head at him in disbelief, trying to get her brain around this nonsense. This was worse than getting fired. This was like being overrun by the enemy. Marie felt a strange itch along her skin, an awareness of her heartbeat as it skipped a beat and then doubled. “This is my show, Simon. I built it. It’s called Soul Food with Marie Simmons, not Soul Food with Marie Simmons and a Cohost. And definitely not Marie Simmons and Van MacAllister.”

“Well, we haven’t really worked out the name yet….”

“The name isn’t important!” she cried. “You just said it’s your most popular segment,” she said in a far more reasonable voice. Though it was a bit high-pitched. “I beat out Patrick and Ivan, for crying out loud. Why in the world do you want to mess with a good thing?”

“Marie?” Simon crossed his arms behind his head, looking at her like she was speaking a foreign language. “Six months ago when you signed on you said you would do anything.”

“And I did, I did everything you asked. I wore a fruit hat, Simon.”

Simon laughed, caught her eye and then coughed uncomfortably. “Right, so why not a cohost?”

“Six months ago I would have wrestled in Jell-O if you wanted me to. But now I have a name and a reputation….” And a very small, very fragile empire to protect, damn it! “And you expect me to just hand it over to Van?” It was ludicrous. Outrageous! And she was beginning to hyperventilate.

Six months ago there was no alternative to being laid-back. Well, there was. It was called homeless, she thought ruefully. She had nothing to lose then. Marie’s Bistro had barely gotten off the ground, she had taken out another loan and was thinking of selling it all and moving to Peru. Soul Food was changing all of that. And now they want to change my show!

“Marie, your interest is our interest,” he told her and Marie almost recoiled in shock at what a used car salesman Simon was turning into right before her eyes. “We just want to…enhance your reputation.”

“How?”

“We’re looking for male viewers and younger viewers.”

“Young?” Marie shook her head, confused for a moment until the lightbulb went on. Simon and the rest of the producers had fallen for the hype. “No, come on Simon…”

“He’s the hip in ‘hip meets homey.’” Simon shrugged apologetically.

“I’m hip.” The adult voice tried to get her under control, but Marie was far too busy beginning a good and honest freak out to listen. “Homey can be hip.”

“Only if you’re fifty.”

Ouch. Marie stood up and began pacing the small area from the bulletin board to the opposite wall. Her blood pressure was climbing through the roof. She put a hand over her heart and felt the hard beat of it against her palm. “Okay, okay I can have a cohost—I can deal with a cohost, but not Van MacAllister. I’ll cook with anybody but him.” That’s good, Marie. Good compromise. Reasonable.

“Trust me, Marie.”

“Ha!”

“I’ve got a good feeling about this, Marie. A good gut feeling.” Like I care about your gut feelings! she thought, beginning to feel sick.

“It’s an awful idea. We won’t like each other,” she told him, grasping at straws.

“Have you ever really met him?”

“Face to face?” she asked, needlessly. She knew she was creeping toward ridiculous but she had actually made a point never to meet Van MacAllister. Call it pride, call it trying to avoid having a criminal record. Whatever it was, she hadn’t actually met him. She could go her whole life hating him from afar.

“My ears are burning,” a deep, sarcastic voice said from the doorway behind her.

Simon shot her a look that clearly said “behave,” as he stood to shake hands with Van as he entered the room.

“Hello, Giovanni,” he said.

“What’s he doing here?” Marie asked, realizing suddenly that this had been in the works for a while and she was obviously the last to know. Marie’s stomach twisted; she could not have felt more betrayed.

“I invited him to this meeting,” Simon answered.

“You’ve been having secret meetings behind my back?” she cried. Nothing upset her like secret meetings. They were childish and she always ended up getting screwed. “Simon, I can’t believe this.”

“Just hear us out,” Simon urged.

Deep breaths. Calm thoughts. Beaches. Waves. Puppies. Babies. None of it was working. And actually being in the same room with Van was filling her head with very unadult and unreasonable thoughts. Like arson.

Van turned and she got her first real look at him.

Marie was not a woman to get knocked off her feet, though for a moment she was taken aback by the sheer injustice done to him by photographs.

He still wasn’t handsome, not by a long shot. But he was just standing there and he seemed to take up the entire room. He was dressed in head-to-toe black, which might explain why he seemed so dramatic. He had a whole brooding, smoldering thing that on any other man would have Marie drooling.

Too bad it’s wasted on this guy, she thought.

But it was more than the way he looked. Van seemed even sharper than he came off in pictures or from across the street when she spied on him through her windows. Sharp and very focused. It was absurd, but in that moment Van MacAllister, man’s man and general all around pig, looked like a pirate.

She hoped, fervently, that Van MacAllister had a small penis. The man deserves a small penis.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he said with sarcastic politeness. He leaned in toward her and the air when he got close to her crackled, like a nearby storm. The scent of garlic and rosemary lifted off him. She took a deep breath before she could stop herself.

“I gather that you have a problem working with me?” His eyes were hard and angry, and for a moment she felt like he was seeing right through her. Right into her petty and jealous heart.

“Problem?” She plunked her hands on her hips. “Why in the world would I have a problem with you? Just because you’ve—”

“Van, we’re thrilled you could make it today,” Simon said, trying to talk over Marie.

“Speak for yourself, Simon,” she said, not taking her eyes off Van, the pirate chef. She was mad, not attracted, and just because she had a hard time looking away from those eyes didn’t make her any less angry. In fact, it made it worse. He was a jerk. And he was her type. All of the careful cultivation of Marie’s calm and reason vanished.

“Is this about what was printed in The Examiner?” he asked. “Because it was taken completely of out context.” The look on his face, contrite and apologetic, made his features softer, his dark eyes somehow warmer. But Marie was not going to be fooled.

“Sure it was.”

“It was.”

“I’m not arguing with you.” She crossed her arms, and even shrugged and batted her eyelashes at him.

“Good.” He was looking at her carefully and she could feel him picking her apart to see if she were serious.

“Okay!” Simon clapped his hands together and sat down, but Van remained standing, eyeing her. She eyed him right back. If this was going to be some kind of staring contest, hell if she’d be the first to blink!

The room felt warmer. Simon seemed far away while Van seemed so close she could reach out and touch the zipper of his coat, or the scar on his chin, which was fascinating to look at.

Oh no you don’t, not this guy! She tried to wrestle her wayward hormones back in line.

“So, we’re ready to get to business?” he asked, like they were going to split a cab or go halves on a pizza. For a moment, Marie had trouble breathing through her anger and disbelief.

“You mean your business of taking over part of what I’ve worked so hard for?”

“Marie!” Simon interjected, but Van held up a hand, curtailing Simon.

“I think we should avoid the words ‘taking over,’” Van said calmly.

“Okay, how about this?” she sighed, looking up at the ceiling, pretending to think. “How about the business where I work my ass off for a year and then just when things start to go right for me you get to come along and share. Share? Do we all like that word?” She glanced around, liking the abashed look in Simon’s eyes and the muscle that was ticking in Van’s jaw.

“Right. So I work hard and you come and share in my success. Which, frankly, I’m thankful for because I was having such a hard time handling it on my own.” She took a step closer to him. “If you want to be on TV, Van, go find your own show.”

The silence in the office had an echo. She could actually hear the blood beat through her veins, her breath in her lungs.

Van cleared his throat. “Point taken.” He nodded, his smile tight.

“Good, then…” She made a move for the door so she could show Van out. “I think our business here is done.”

“But—” Van shifted, blocking her way. He crossed his arms over his chest while he pinned her to the wall with his eyes. She felt the sharp popping shocks from the static and animosity surrounding them. “While I certainly appreciate your little speech, let’s understand something—I was approached by the producers. By Simon.”

“Whom I will never forgive,” she threw in with menacing cheer.

“Because your show was missing something.” He raised one of those overgrown eyebrows and Marie’s fingers twitched. “Something,” Van continued, “I can provide.”

“Maybe you’re right.” She resorted back to sarcasm. “Maybe you do have something I need for the show.” Marie would bet a new dishwasher on the fact that Van had no idea what he would be doing on TV, because his was not a face for television. “Do you have lots of experience with live TV? Hmmm?”

“No,” he said in a low voice.

“No, not lots, or no, not any?” she asked, tilting her head and waiting patiently.

“Simon,” Van put his hand on top of a pile of papers on Simon’s desk, “you said that she wasn’t going to have a problem with this.” He jerked his thumb back at Marie. “I call this a problem.”

Marie’s jaw fell to the floor. Such treason from a man she considered a friend.

“Simon?” she asked, dropping the sarcasm for a moment, and feeling marginally naked in front of Van. “Did you really think that I would be okay with this? That I didn’t have any pride in what I had built? In what we had built?”

“I understand that there are—” Simon swallowed audibly “—challenges.” He shook his head at Marie like she was a child who had disappointed him. She knew her behavior wasn’t exactly sterling, but she had nothing to apologize for. Simon suddenly looked small and wary. “You don’t really have a choice.”

For the first time since Simon had brought this up, the changes in her show became real. Van was in the room sucking up far too much air and taking up way too much space—imagine what he would do to her show! This was just like France. Men thinking they knew what was best for her. Underestimating her, brushing her aside. Well, she had learned her lesson two years ago and it wasn’t going to happen again.

“What happens if I say no?” Marie asked.

“You lose half your airtime, the other half goes to Van.”

She could only blink and try to breathe one small mouthful of air at a time. “Wow,” she finally said, which was an awful summation of what she was feeling. She looked down at her feet, at the lovely black boots she had paid far too much for. She had to fight the tears that suddenly sprang up. She laughed ruefully. “Just when you start to feel on top of things…”

“Marie…?” There was something different in Van’s face, a softness around his hard eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Save it, Van. I’ve got to get back to work at my ‘little coffee shop.’” He sucked in a breath and Marie felt the cool victory that comes with saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

The urge to walk out the door, get in her car and drive away from all of this came over her, but that would have been something the old Marie would have done.

“You have twenty-four hours, Marie,” Simon cut in, ruining her exit. “Twenty-four hours to make up your mind and do the smart thing. The way the world is making chefs into celebrities you could write your own ticket.”

Marie bit her tongue. It was a nice dream. With probably some nice money attached to it. But it wasn’t worth it if she had to share it with Van.

“I’ll call you, Simon,” she said.

She didn’t look at Van, so unsure of what she would do or say to him. But as she left, she walked through the smell of him, rosemary and anger, and her body reacted.

She put her right hand over all five of the bracelets on her left wrist, curling her fingers around the silver.

What the hell am I going to do now?

3

MARIE RAN SOME ERRANDS, trying to strike a new deal with the organic dairy guy, but to no avail, and made it back to the restaurant just in time for the late-afternoon rush.

“I need four caps to go,” Marie called back to Pete, her mostly silent and dreadlocked part-time employee. As long as Pete didn’t have to talk to anybody, he was a fantastic barista. He put together coffee orders almost before they were placed. He nodded at Marie, cranked the steam up on the espresso machine and began steaming milk.

“And a tomato-and-bocconcini salad to go,” she told Jodi, her assistant manager, who stood at Marie’s elbow putting together salad orders and packaging some of the leftover daily lunch specials.

It all seemed very normal. Susan and Margaret from the accounting office next door were having their late-afternoon coffee break and bitch session. Mr. Malone sat in the far back corner nursing his extra-hot milk chocolate over the newspaper.

Marie was her usual smiley and chatty self, but inside she seethed.

Van MacAllister has a small penis was a constant drumbeat in her head.

“Hello, Mrs. Peters.” Marie smiled at the older woman who came in religiously on Tuesdays. Tuesday was clam chowder day and Mrs. Peters, as she frequently told Marie, had been searching for a good clam chowder for years.

Marie was happy to oblige with the best clam chowder in the city, according to Where magazine.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mrs. Peters smiled and Marie had to bite her tongue from laughing. The diminutive white-haired woman consistently had orange lipstick all over her teeth. “You were lovely this morning on the television.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Peters,” Marie said, but waited for the other half of her compliment. The sharp half.

“But you look tired.” And there it is. “You need to get more rest.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more.”

“You need to find a nice man to help you do all this work.”

“Aww…” Marie wrinkled her nose and resisted screaming Men are ruining my life! at the eighty-year-old woman. “Men just get in my way.”

“Well, if I remember it right, sometimes that’s not such a bad thing.” Mrs. Peters winked, and Marie hoped she still wanted to have a man get in her way in that way, when she was eighty.

No, it isn’t a bad thing, Marie thought as she wrapped up the clam chowder and whole-grain rolls. She slipped a few small chocolate-chip cookies in the bag because Marie knew Mrs. Peters liked them and frankly, Marie liked Mrs. Peters.

Men had a purpose that Marie loved. She loved their bodies and their mouths and the things they could do with their hands. She loved monogamous sex in casual relationships, but these days she barely had time to brush her teeth much less find a guy she was attracted to, date a few times, sleep with, and explain why nothing serious would ever come of it.

I like you guys, she would say, but I just don’t trust you. Not with my life or my heart.

Case in point, Simon and Van. Two men thinking they had her best interests in mind.

She spent the next few hours replaying the scene in Simon’s office, but editing in wittier and sharper things to say to Van. The game was ultimately frustrating, but so very satisfying right now.

“Hey, Marie,” Marie shook off the scene in her head where she punched Van in the nose and turned to Pete. “You ah…mind if I take off now?” he asked. He glanced down at his watch. “I’ve been here since six.”

“Oh my God, Pete.” She looked at her own watch. It was quarter past six in the evening. Twelve hours. “Go, go. I can’t believe you stayed so long.”

“Yeah, well, we’re busy.” He shrugged, his green Rage Against the Machine T-shirt wrinkled on his thin shoulders. “See you on Thursday.”

“Good night, Pete. Thanks so much.” Pete grabbed his beat-up backpack from the cabinet under the cash register and shuffled out the door.

Marie followed him and flipped the sign on the door from Open to Closed. She fought the strong urge she had to fall down on the floor for a little nap. Just a short one, right there on the floor until Van’s blues bands woke her up.

“All right, Marie!” Jodi came into the dining room from the kitchen carrying the large rolls of plastic wrap and pushing the full mop bucket across the hardwood floors with her foot. “Let’s clean up and get out of here. I got a date.”

“Oh?” Marie pushed away from the door, feeling a happy lift in her low mood. Her sex life, once something of a legend, had been reduced to the stories Jodi told her while they mopped the floor.

Sad, Marie, that’s just sad.

“Somebody new?” Marie asked, reaching to help Jodi carry the plastic wrap.

“No.” Jodi pushed her funky black glasses up higher on her nose. “I’ve known him for a while, but this is our first date date.” Jodi shrugged, trying to play it cool but she looked far too happy. Actually she was glowing. Marie recognized the glow of the young and foolish.

Be careful, she wanted to say. Please be careful with your heart, Jodi. She was young, about the age Marie was when she met Ian in France. About the age Marie last felt that kind of glow.

“Oh,” Marie teased, “a date date.”

“You remember those?” Jodi asked over her shoulder, obviously taking shots at Marie’s nonexistent dating life.

“You’re hilarious. Get mopping.”

“I don’t understand, Marie.” Jodi started putting the wrought-iron chairs up on tiled café tables and as she lifted the chairs her shirt rode up her body revealing the pretty flowered vine tattoo she had curling around her back. And the dim lighting made her pink hair glow.

How can people say I’m not hip? Marie thought. Look at my staff.

“Every guy in here falls in love with you,” Jodi continued.

“Who?” Marie asked.

“Those two hot cops that come in for lunch on Thursdays. Why don’t you go on a date with one of them?”

“Because they’re gay.”

“No. Really?” Jodi asked, a little crestfallen.

“Words to live by Jodi—when it seems too good to be true, it usually is.”

“But what about…?”

“I’m too tired to date.” Marie closed the subject and yawned so big her jaw nearly cracked. It was mostly the truth. The rest of it had to do with Ian and she didn’t want to think about it.

Marie reached under the cash register and turned up the stereo both to stop Jodi from asking more questions and to stop herself from dwelling on the past.

Soon Jodi was singing along with the old Annie Lennox songs and Marie started covering her salads, deciding what would have to be made fresh in the morning and which had another day left in them. While she covered up her green-apple-and-poppy-seed coleslaw, Marie had one of those moments she had been having more and more frequently.

She looked around at her dimly lit place, decorated with all of her favorite light colors, at the shelves filled with bottles of her salad dressings and chutneys; the antique espresso maker that cost her a small fortune but lent a one-of-a-kind air to the small room, and the tiled tabletops with the mismatched wrought-iron chairs. All of it was hers. And part of her, a little tiny part with a loud voice, wished it weren’t.

We’ve talked about this, Marie, her adult voice piped up. You want to end up like your mother? The answer to that of course was a resounding no!

Her mother, Belinda, moved Marie and Marie’s older sister, Anna, every few months when they were kids, leaving behind bad jobs and worse men only to find new ones in different towns. It was a trend Marie had started following until she found herself heartbroken and penniless in France.

She had run from that broken heart right into the restaurant business.

She was a good boss and a good chef. But, to own so much, to be responsible for so much was new for her. For twenty-seven years she wasn’t responsible for anything. Not a pet, not a plant, not her love life, not her career. And when she took this on a year ago, she really had no idea what she was in for. She kept telling herself it would get better, she was sure it would. She would hire another baker. More staff. And the pressure would be off. But then the dishwasher broke and Ariel ran off with the cash.

And, of course there was Van.

The CD was on shuffle and Annie Lennox faded away, replaced by the quieter Ella Fitzgerald.

“So you really don’t think you’re going to do the show anymore?” Jodi asked, dumping the dustpan out in the trash.

Marie sighed. Do the show, don’t do the show. She was going crazy thinking about it. She wanted to, of course she did. A weekly show. It was a dream come true. But Van MacAllister was really much more of a nightmare.

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She flicked the lights off in the salad case and part of the room went a little darker.

“That guy’s got a lot of nerve, huh?” Jodi asked. She wrenched the handle on the mop bucket, squeezing out water, and she started to mop the hardwood floors. “Talk about piggybacking someone’s success.”

“You’re telling me,” Marie murmured.

“But you can take him,” Jodi said.

“Of course I can take him.” There was never any question in Marie’s mind that she could take Van MacAllister, the glorified barbecue chef.

“So do the show, but make sure it’s on your terms.” Jodi stopped mopping for a second, blowing her pink bangs off her forehead. “’Cause it would be a great show, the two of you. The potential for loads of chemistry and that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?” Jodi shrugged and turned to wheel the mop bucket back to the kitchen. “Get it all in writing, Marie,” Jodi yelled. Marie heard the water being thrown out the back door into her herb garden while Jodi’s words resonated in her head.

Get it all in writing. Of course. It was so adult, no wonder she didn’t think of it.

“’Cause a weekly half-hour show is still a weekly half-hour show,” Jodi came back into the dining room, wiping her hands on her low-slung blue jeans. “Right?”

“How’d you get so smart, Jodi?” Marie asked, feeling very fond of her punk assistant manager.

“Don’t let the pink hair fool you,” Jodi smiled, her hands on her thin hips. “Top third of my class at Berkeley.” She exhaled and shrugged. “I’m off. See you in the morning.”

Jodi grabbed her bag and scooted for the door. Marie started counting the totals for the night, wondering if she could actually do the show, handle Van and build her empire at the same time. She was good, but was she that good?

The bell rang over the door as Jodi opened it. “’Night Jodi,” Marie called out as she counted change.

“Good ni…” Jodi trailed off and Marie glanced up. “There’s someone here for you.” Jodi stepped back into the restaurant and Van MacAllister followed her in the door.

It was like having the Antichrist walk in the room.

“We’re closed,” she said.

He had changed from his all-black civilian clothes to an all-black chef jacket and pants. His name and Sauvignon were embroidered in red over his heart.

“I noticed, but I was hoping we could talk.” He took a few more steps toward her and the currents shifted. The air was heavier. It seemed like the entire atmosphere was pressing against her.

“I haven’t decided about the show,” she told him, hoping to get rid of him and his strange energy.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he was looking around the room, his eyes cataloging everything, measuring their worth in a way that had Marie wanting to run around throwing herself in front of her chutneys.

It was amazing how the inherent femininity of the place made Van seem that much more masculine. Tall, rangy, not quite handsome. Commanding in a mysterious sort of way, he was only more so in the pale blue room surrounded by the very real-looking fake grapevine she had wrapped around the rustic wooden pillars and ceiling beams. He reached up and tugged on the grapevine and a piece fell off in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, wincing, slipping the fake vine into his pocket.

Deep inside Marie’s head things began short-circuiting.

“So Van, we don’t have anything to talk about.” She grew even more annoyed when his silence continued. He bent to examine the labels on her homemade vinaigrette.

“Are people really buying this stuff?” he asked, like he was peering into the underwear rack at a used clothing store.

“Yes, they do.”

“Amazing.” His tone implied he couldn’t believe it.

Marie tried deep yoga breaths, combined with calming thoughts and it did nothing to combat her irritation. “So feel free to show yourself out.” Jodi was beginning to laugh and Marie shrugged at her assistant. What was she supposed to do? “Van…”

“Your place is beautiful, Marie. Absolutely beautiful. I’ve seen pictures, but they don’t do it justice.”

Marie’s mouth fell open. She was so startled that she couldn’t say anything for a few moments. Finally, when she was getting her breath back to respond, he turned to her.

“I came to apologize for my part in the ambush today.” With a sheepish smile he held out a bottle of wine. She shifted her weight to one leg and leaned against the long wooden counter, feeling like the ground had moved under her feet. Van, apologizing? Bearing gifts? Maybe I was wrong….

She turned to Jodi, who was staring at Van like the man had come in on a golden carriage. “Jodi, go ahead and go home,” she murmured.

“You going to be okay?” Jodi asked under her breath as they watched Van turn and bend down in front of the dessert case and Marie took a moment to admire the view. Awful eyebrows, but not too bad from the back.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked.

Van straightened and looked up at Marie’s ceiling. “He looks…dangerous,” Jodi breathed.

Marie frankly couldn’t agree more but she rolled her eyes and pushed her assistant toward the door. “You need some sleep. See you tomorrow.”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Jodi whispered and ran out the door.

He walked over to the dark salad case. “I can leave—after we talk.” He tapped the glass with his finger. “You buy this used? Looks used. Can you turn the light on?”

Unbelievable. The guy was just…unbelievable. Marie straightened and strolled over to the salad case, she rested her arms on it and her head was close to his.

“I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt,” she said with a smile that was pretty hard to muster up, “and guess that you have no idea how rude you are being.”

He stood upright, obviously alarmed. “I’m sorry,” he said, wincing. “I am. I am sorry. Marie, I did not mean to come in here and alienate you further. I’ve never been here before. It’s…” He took a deep breath, his hand touched his mouth and then the scar at his lip.

That’s adorable, she thought, knowing that she shouldn’t fall for this little show of regret. “Truce. Honestly.” He put the wine bottle on top of the case and she noted that he had brought some serious ammunition with a hundred-dollar bottle of Shiraz.

“Let me pour you some wine. I can have some of your marinated root salad everyone in the city is raving about and we can talk about AMSF?”

He smiled, sincerely with warmth and it changed everything. His face became something much more than interesting. He became arrestingly handsome.

“Marie?” She realized she had been staring at Van for a few silent moments.

“Sure,” she said with far too much volume, suddenly in overdrive, despite her better sense that told her that sharing a bottle of wine with this guy in her current tired and marginally attracted state would only come to no good. “Why not?”

“Is that a mural?” he asked pointing up at the painting on her ceiling.

“Yes.”

“Are those…?” He tilted his head and squinted.

“Yes, they are cherubs wearing aprons,” she told him on a huffy breath. She almost wished he would go back to rude; she could handle rude Van.

“So?” Van looked around at all the chairs up on the tables and then at her. He raised one of those eyebrows in a silent command/query.

“Go ahead,” she said, gesturing to the chairs. “I’ll grab some glasses.”

“No root salad?” he asked and she couldn’t quite make out the tone in his voice. Laughter?

“No root salad,” she told him. She grabbed two of her red wineglasses and came back to the table. Van had taken down both chairs and from one of the big front pockets of his black chef’s jacket he pulled out a corkscrew. With smooth, deft effort that Marie was somehow compelled to watch, he had the bottle open in moments.

“The photos of you don’t quite do you justice,” he said, seemingly focused on the task at hand. Marie’s eyes narrowed. She should have guessed that Van would be smarmy. Genetics had been kind to her for some reason and most men seemed to believe that the size of her breasts had an inverse relationship to the size of her brain. She waited for some wildly inappropriate comment about her boobs or her eyes or…

“You’re much taller than in the photos.”

She swallowed, her anger lessening as his gaze rested a little too long and a little too warm on her face. There were things he wasn’t saying.

“You look shorter,” she said.

“Let’s allow that to breathe.” Van set the bottle down on the edge of the table with a casual ownership that put her teeth on edge. He crossed his legs with a comfortable masculine grace.

Short and sweet, Marie.

“We don’t have that kind of time, Van.” She grabbed the bottle and poured, expertly, exactly four ounces of wine in each glass.

“Salute.” She tapped her glass to his and then sipped the dark red liquid. It was fantastic, mellow, dark and oaky. The kind of wine she loved. “It’s wonderful.”

“It would be even better in ten minutes,” he snapped, the sharpness of the comment belied by the tone of his voice, like he knew what she was doing. He smiled wickedly at her over the edge of his wineglass, his long fingers holding the delicate stem as he swirled the wine.

Oh my, she thought before she could stop herself.

“Let’s cut to the chase here, Van.” Marie sat back in her chair. She’d drink a glass of wonderful wine and send the pirate chef on his way. She opened her mouth to let him have it.

“You’re a coward,” Van interjected into the silence. It seemed he was bent on cutting to a different chase.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.