Dine With Me

by Layla Reyne

  “I have an idea for your first project.”

  Clancy blinked away the doubt clouds. “Patients already?”

  “Oh, we’re overflowing with those, always. Having you on board will be a huge relief, but this is something else.”

  Clancy followed him into the—his—office. The furniture matched the slick decor of the practice space—befitting its Hollywood location and clientele—and the view out the floor-to-ceiling windows was stunning. Yet, it felt cold and sterile, more so even than the hospital. His dad’s office had never felt that way, decorated as it was with pictures, plaques, and paintings. Clancy was considering a yellow accent wall when a folder appeared under his nose.

  “I think this will align with your interests,” his dad said.

  Clancy took the folder and flipped it open. The tightness in his chest eased a little at seeing the logos of two prominent cancer foundations atop the sheets inside.

  “They’re doing a benefit here in LA in the early spring and requested someone from the plastic surgery community be on the steering committee. I thought it dovetailed nicely with your oncology interest and with the reconstructive work you talked about for your practice here.”

  “It’s perfect.” He closed the folder and pulled his dad into a hug. “I’d love to do this, thank you.”

  “Something else we know you’ll love.”

  Clancy startled at his mother’s voice behind them. Of course she’d found them. And if he’d thought she’d been wearing a mischievous smirk earlier, it was nothing compared to the evil-genius grin she wore now.

  Robert handed him an envelope. “A present, from all of us.”

  “Before you start here in the new year,” his dad said, “we wanted you to have a real vacation.”

  Vacation? Clancy didn’t recognize the word. He hadn’t had one of those in twelve years. He withdrew a sheet of paper from inside the envelope and unfolded it. It was an online ad from Eater, a food blog he regularly visited, though he hadn’t seen this ad yet. He would have remembered it. A chef-guided tour of America’s best meals. His heart fluttered, his stomach rumbled. “What is this?”

  “Did you forget how to read, darling?” Miranda said.

  “I read it.” He glanced up at his smiling parents. “It sounds awesome.”

  “Which is why when I saw it,” his dad said, “I called your mom.”

  “And I contacted the organizer,” Miranda finished.

  The flutter and rumble turned into a galloping stampede of excitement, bubbling all through Clancy’s body. “Wait, so I’m going on this?” He shook the sheet of paper. Was he bouncing on his toes? “For real?”

  “For real,” Robert said, smiling.

  “Who’s the chef?”

  “Our lips are sealed.”

  Except Miranda’s. Clancy doubted she knew the meaning of the expression. “You’ll meet him tomorrow. In Napa.”

  “Him? Napa?”

  “Miranda!” Robert and Alan groaned together.

  She waved them off. “I’m doing all the travel arrangements. Make a good impression so my efforts don’t go to waste.”

  Clancy glanced again at the ad. Eight incredible meals, coast-to-coast destinations. “Can I guess the restaurants?”

  The collective “No!” didn’t stop him.

  * * *

  Last service yesterday had gone better than expected. Ditching the restaurant’s normal upscale menu in favor of dishes selected by the staff, the pressure to be perfect, to serve “Michelin-level” fare, had been removed. Miller couldn’t think of a better way to go out.

  Go out.

  Laughing at his ironic choice of words, Miller drew Sloan’s sharp glower from where she sat at the bar. The twinkling lights overhead burst like tiny explosions in her wide blue eyes.

  He waved her off and went back to sipping his Negroni, waiting for the beef chicharrones on the plate in front of him to stop crackling. He wasn’t in a hurry, and he was actually hungry for a change. This was his third Negroni, his second order of fried beef skins, and his ninth...tenth...plate of bar bites. Chicharrones, corn croquettes, roasted bone marrow, duck fat fries, the list went on. Goose & Gander had one of the best bar menus in town, fitting as it was one of the best gastropubs in Napa Valley. Casual dining/pub on the ground level, proper tavern with stone walls, an oversized fireplace, and a huge wooden bar in the basement.

  And an annual stop on wine country’s holiday pub crawl, thus the multicolor lights strung overhead and the numerous patrons wearing Santa hats and puffy white beards. G & G drew a steady crowd, even on weeknights, even outside the holidays. With clean-out underway at his old restaurant, Miller could waste hours sitting at a pub table in someone else’s, drinking and eating in the shadows while waiting for their tour prospect to arrive.

  Ugh.

  Sloan cut her eyes to him again, and Miller realized he’d made that sound out loud too. Oops.

  He tilted his glass at her, grinning, and she turned back to the bartender with a huff. He returned his attention to the food in front of him, taking small bites and savoring his food—the crispy beef skin crackling and melting on his tongue, the texture light and crunchy, the pop of flavor salty and rich. He only looked up again when Sloan’s manicured nails snatched the last chicharron off his plate.

  “You need to perk up before our guest arrives.” She popped the beef skin in her mouth and climbed onto the stool beside him. “The first reservation is in a week. You’re out of time to dick around.”

  “Maybe this whole thing—”

  “Is not a bad idea,” she said, reading his mind. She snagged a chicken wing off the plate a waiter slid in front of them. “We’ve discussed this, ad nauseum. If you want some savings left to leave to your niblings, then you need a financial backer.” Her eyes skirted over his shoulder and widened with interest. “And you’re out of time for this argument. He’s here.”

  Miller rotated his head and lost his breath.

  Stunning.

  There was no other word to describe the young man shoving his way through the group of cellar rats in Santa hats at the far end of the bar. Well, except maybe also tired. His black-rimmed glasses were drifting down his nose, his mop of brown hair was tousled, and his broad shoulders, snug in a corduroy blazer, were slightly slumped. But the weariness in his tall, trim frame didn’t detract from the overall package.

  Stunning.

  “Gorgeous, isn’t he?” Sloan whispered beside him. “If I didn’t have Tyler waiting at home...”

  “Is he even old enough to drive?” Miller tore his gaze from the bespectacled stranger and tossed back the rest of his drink.

  “Thirty.”

  Only Sloan’s hand over his mouth at the last possible second saved her white silk blouse from a shower of gin, vermouth, and Campari. Once he swallowed, Miller gasped out a “Bullshit” behind her hand.

  “I didn’t believe it either.” She lowered her hand and wiped it off on a napkin. “So I had one of the firm’s PIs check. Thirty, swear it.”

  Glancing over his shoulder again, Miller tried to find thirty years in the younger man and managed twenty-two, twenty-three at best. As the man’s eyes roved toward their corner, Miller turned back to Sloan. “Better go do your job, dear.” His voice dripped with saccharine sarcasm.

  As did her reply. “Hold down the dark corner, honey.” She polished off another wing, tossed the bone on the plate, smacked his cheek with a sticky kiss, and moved to climb off her stool.

  Before her second heel hit the floor, a slender hand appeared across their table and Miller looked up to find the stranger standing there.

  “Ms. Thatcher, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said.

  Sloan shook his hand. “Clancy Rhodes, I presume?”

  “That’s me. I’m sorry I’m late. I had a last-minute meeting with some benefit organi
zers and got held up.” He cut off his ramble and shifted his big green eyes and outstretched hand to Miller. “Chef, it’s an honor.”

  “You know Miller?” Sloan asked.

  Miller checked his grip, afraid he’d crush Clancy’s long, slim fingers in his bear claw, but the other man’s handshake was confident and firm. His eyes lingered on Miller’s tattooed forearm, bared beneath his rolled-up dress sleeves, before he withdrew his hand and cleared his throat. His gazed darted back up and he adjusted his glasses.

  “Miller Sykes,” he said. “Self-taught wonder-kid of the cooking world. James Beard Rising Star Chef. Staged at the top restaurants in New York, then relocated to the Bay Area. You earned two Michelin stars for the restaurant where you were chef de cuisine before leaving to open your own place three years ago.” He interrupted his Wiki-page recitation—with all the correct pronunciations, Miller noted—to take a deep breath and return his attention to Sloan. “When my parents showed me the ad, then said I was meeting the chef in Napa, I did the calculations. Chefs, stars, and the timing. I’d wheedled it down to a handful. Miller was on the list.”

  Possibly also a stalker. Or an apron-chaser. Neither good.

  And yet Sloan seemed more intrigued than ever. “Your mom said you’re a huge foodie.”

  “Isn’t anyone who wants to go on a trip like this?” An eager, guileless smile stretched across his pale, lightly freckled face.

  Miller discounted his stalker theory—this kid was pure fanboy—but there was something in his innocence, in his youth, that called to more than Miller’s ego.

  “The destinations haven’t been disclosed yet,” Sloan said. “If you’re a foodie, you may have already visited some.”

  “If they’re not in LA, I probably haven’t been there. Aside from visiting family in Chicago, this’ll be my first real vacation in twelve years.”

  “What’s kept you so busy?” Miller finally spoke up.

  Clancy’s gaze snapped to his, pronounced brow furrowing behind his glasses. Miller got that reaction a lot. Despite ten years in New York, followed by ten in the Bay Area, he hadn’t lost his North Carolina accent, probably owing to weekly calls with his parents and sisters who still lived there.

  Once he shook off the surprise, Clancy held up a hand and started counting off on his fingers. “Three years of undergrad, four years of med school, five years of residency.”

  A doctor, of course. Miller was sure that had absolutely nothing to do with Sloan’s hard sell yesterday. Miller was about to object—this was worse than the retirees or the apron-chasers, even if the kid was cute and a foodie—but Sloan cut him off, asking Clancy, “What’s your specialty?”

  “Plastic surgery.” His smile dimmed for the slightest second before he forced it back in place. “But I hope to continue some of the work from my residency, in reconstruction for oncology patients.”

  Fucking hell, Sloan.

  Her head whipped to the side as Clancy’s eyes grew wide, and Miller realized he’d said that bit out loud too. He was too angry to care. His wife’s motivation with this one was clear as day—someone to take care of him—and she’d tried to hook him with a pretty face.

  “Enough.” He moved to slide off his stool, and Sloan raised an arm, blocking his exit.

  She held up a single finger, silently beckoning him to wait, then asked Clancy, “You’ll have time for this trip now?”

  Clancy glanced between them, equal parts confused and amused. After a moment, he shrugged, giving up on understanding their dynamic as so many had over the decades. “Aside from some calls for this charity thing I’ll have to take, all during the day, of course, I’m free until I join my father’s practice in the new year. My parents gave me this trip as a gift, a sort of last hurrah. The timing’s perfect for me, and my mom’s offered a company jet.”

  “Company jet?” Miller couldn’t help asking.

  Clancy pushed his blazer aside and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. He extricated a black business card from his billfold and pushed it across the table. On one side, ESSLEY TRAVEL ASSOCIATES was engraved in plain silver script and on the other, Miranda Essley, Owner, with a phone number beneath the name. Chicago, if Miller remembered his area codes correctly, which made sense given Clancy’s earlier comment.

  “Mom runs her own concierge service,” Clancy explained. “Flies rich people around the world and makes all their reservations. Wherever they want to go, whatever they want to do. She’ll book the hotels too.”

  “And do you have any dietary restrictions?” Sloan asked.

  “Not a one. I eat it all.”

  Miller side-eyed his wife. Grinning like the cat who’d eaten the canary, she was no doubt smug at having delivered him a pretty face, an open culinary mind, and a blank check. She’d made this one hard to refuse. He turned back to Clancy, and their gazes caught, sparked, and fired. Maybe also interested? Miller had to blink several times to shake himself loose. “Clancy, could you give us a minute?”

  “Oh, yeah, of course.” He grabbed his wallet from where he’d set it on the edge of the table. “How about I get us another round?”

  “Negroni.” Sloan held up two digits.

  Miller batted them down. “She’ll have water. I’ll have another Negroni.”

  Clancy laughed, amusement outweighing confusion. “Coming right up.”

  Sloan waited until he was at the bar before twisting on her stool and lowering her voice. “You’re a goddamn fool if you turn this one down. He can pay the fee, and the travel will be covered.”

  “He didn’t say that. He said they’d arrange for it.”

  “Miranda told me it’s covered. Fully paid. It’s no cost to you.”

  “Nothing is no cost to me at this point.”

  Her bulldog posture crumbled. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know it’s not.” He propped his elbows on the table and scrubbed his hands over his face, his calloused hands catching on his beard. When he opened his eyes again, it was to the sight of Clancy at the bar, his head in one hand, nodding off as he waited for their drinks.

  Stunning, and so young. “He’s just a kid, Sloan.”

  “I’ve already told you he’s not, despite appearances.”

  “He’s a doctor too. He’ll figure out what’s really going on.”

  “At least there’ll be someone with you who knows what to do if, God forbid, you take a turn for the worse.”

  Miller dropped his arms on the table and glared. “I knew that’s what this was about.”

  “And what if it is?” she snapped, voice hardening, going litigator again. “You want to make this trip, and I want you to make it, but I can’t send you out there alone. I love you too much.”

  “What if he tells someone?”

  “If you don’t get treatment, you’re going to be dead in six months. Everyone’s going to know anyway.”

  He turned his face away, as if struck. Hearing himself say it was one thing, hearing his best friend say it was another. And hearing that thread of anger in her voice... Would she ever forgive him for his decision? Could he die with that on his conscience? Could he live with the other potential consequences? It seemed a kinder cruelty to ask her for the next six months than to ask for God-only-knew how many years as he underwent treatment. Treatment that had less than a fifty percent chance of working, and if it did, had a more than a fifty percent chance of stripping him of the person he was, the person she loved.

  She twined her fingers around his biceps and leaned into him. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry.”

  “No, you’re not the one who needs to apologize. And you’re right, as always.” At least about the immediate situation. “Twenty-plus years, I should know better than to argue with you.”

  “So don’t.” She nuzzled his shoulder. “Your options are the apron-chasers, the old-timers, or the super cute doctor s
tanding at the bar. This is the point at trial where I move for summary judgment and wrap this puppy up.”

  Laughing, he kissed the top of her head. “I love you too, by the way.”

  She propped her chin on his shoulder, grinning. “Who doesn’t?”

  Clancy was smiling too, albeit sleepily, when he rejoined them. “Negroni, water, coffee,” he said, passing out their drinks. “So, did I pass the test?”

  Miller stared into his glass, contemplating a very short cons list versus a growing pros one. The past six months had been the darkest in Miller’s life; the next—last—six promised more of the same. But for two weeks he had the chance to travel well and relive some of his favorite meals in the company of a beautiful, bright young man who seemed every bit the antithesis of darkness. This was a no-brainer.

  Lifting his eyes, he met the doctor’s eager green ones and smiled. “Can you be ready for the first meal next Saturday?”

  “I can be ready tomorrow,” Clancy said, fully awake now. “Where are we going?”

  “Saturday, a week from today,” Miller said. “As for the locations, those will remain a secret, to be revealed as we travel. You good with that?”

  “I can’t promise not to make guesses.”

  “I can promise not to tell you,” Miller replied with a laugh.

  “Can’t fault me for trying.” Clancy raised his mug, almost spilling the contents as he bounced on his toes, his excitement brimming over. “Saturday, then.”

  Miller clinked his glass against Clancy’s. “Saturday.”

  * * *

  The seat belt light dinged off and Clancy’s first instinct was to stand and retrieve his case tablet from his luggage. It’d been all but attached to his hand the past five years, on the go access to all his patient files; he felt naked without it, despite his multiple layers of clothing. But then reality and memory caught up to instinct. Sans glasses, Clancy could barely see the forward luggage hold, and even if he managed to get there without tripping over his own two feet, his tablet wouldn’t be in his bag. He was no longer a resident, no longer had his patients.