by Jen Peters
“Hey, Mrs. Swanson,” Mitch’s voice rumbled from outside. “How are you today?”
Ree froze. He didn’t know she was there, did he? Her hands dropped, her thick hair falling like a blanket around her shoulders. Idiot, she thought, of course he knew she was there. If she wasn’t at the inn, and she wasn’t at the shop, where else would she be but home?
“Fine, Mr. Blake. And you?”
Ree rolled her eyes. Her mom could be warm and courteous to a skunk. Was Mitch a skunk? Or was the real Mitchell Blake the warm, funny man she’d had dinner with the other night? But if he was, why did she have that dream?
She gave her head a shake, throwing off her musings just in time to hear Mitch ask if she was around.
“In the greenhouse. Ready to help me do some transplanting,” came her mother’s voice.
Ree could hear the smile in Mitch’s voice. “I won’t take a moment,” he said. “Just want to ask a quick question.”
She whipped her hair through the scrunchy and reached for a trowel. Five seconds later she was studiously tapping a young plant out of its pot, hoping it was one of the ones her mother wanted to move. Mitch leaned on her worktable, fiddling with a root knife. She tried not to notice the sparkle in his eyes as he smiled at her.
Ree kept her face bland—no way was she cutting him any slack, not after that dream. Professional, be professional. “What can I do for you?” she asked.
He twirled the knife in his fingers. “Oh, just wondered if you’d like to introduce me to your bowling alley tonight.”
Her breath caught, and the plant landed in her left hand, potting soil scattering across the workbench. “Bowling? You want to go bowling?”
“Sure,” he said. “When in Rome…”
Mitchell Blake in a bowling alley was an image Ree wouldn’t have conjured in a million years. And he wanted to take her there on a date? Not what she had imagined for that, either. If she even agreed to go.
“I haven’t bowled in years,” she finally said, “but … are you sure you want to wear stinky shoes that a thousand other people have had their feet in?" She set the plant down and filled a larger plastic pot halfway with new mix.
“If it hasn’t killed all of you yet, I’m sure it won’t kill me.”
It might kill her, though.
“Come on, what do you say?” Mitch asked, looking intently at her.
She broke her gaze off and shook the pot to settle it. Be professional? Right. Until it became personal. But she wouldn’t know about him if she didn’t give him a chance. “Sure,” she finally said. “What time?”
Mitch said six o’clock and sauntered off, saying goodbye to her mother on the way out. Ree wouldn’t have said there was a glow in the greenhouse when he was there, but something vanished when he left. She sighed and got back to work.
That evening, Ree browsed through her closet. All of her earlier imaginings for spending time with Mitch had involved dresses and high heels. What was she supposed to wear? She hadn’t been bowling since she was seventeen, for goodness sake!
She finally settled on jeans and a pretty, fitted t-shirt, with a chunky necklace and some small gold hoop earrings. A spritz of perfume—not that he’d smell anything but sweat and pizza in the bowling alley—and she was ready, determined to just enjoy herself and watch Mitch’s personality.
He not only opened the car door for her, but gave her a hand as she slid in. Inside, she inhaled the rich smell of leather and a hint of Mitch’s cologne. The powerful purr of the engine fit Mitch to a T, and the ride to the bowling alley was all too short.
Inside, she wrinkled her nose as they rented shoes and tried out bowling balls. They ended up in a lane next to a family birthday party. Six kids gathered around balloons saying “You’re 8!” and “Happy Birthday!"
On the other side of them were a couple of men taking the game way too seriously. A guy in plaid pants sent his ball powerfully down the lane, split his pins and swore a blue streak.
Mitch frowned, tried to regain his concentration, and sent his ball down the lane. He knocked five pins down, all on the left side. Ree smiled at him while he waited for his ball to come back, but the plaid guy tried too hard to turn his split into a spare and ended up throwing an absolute gutter ball.
He cursed even worse, words Ree had never heard before, and pounded his fist into his other hand. Mitch hadn’t picked up his ball yet, just stood there tense and watchful. The guy finally sat down while his buddy bowled, hitting a strike. Cursing filled the air again.
Ree could see the tension in Mitch’s body, but he strolled casually over to the men. “Would you mind watching your language?” he asked politely. “It’s making it unpleasant for the lady."
The guy thrust out his jaw. “It’s a free country.”
“It is,” Mitch agreed. “But you’re in a family environment, and if you won’t tone it down for us, at least consider the youngsters who can hear you too." He looked pointedly at the eight year olds watching with open mouths.
The guy muttered under his breath—more cursing, Ree guessed—and finally nodded agreement. Mitch came back and retrieved his ball, amid thank yous from the family on the other side.
Hmm…Mitch wasn’t just smart and incredibly handsome, and he wasn’t just willing to do hokey things for a date. He was protective, too. She could almost call him a hero.
Was this who he really was? And if so, did that override his business practices?
They spent the next two hours throwing a few strikes mixed in with some atrocious gutter balls, and having a million laughs. Ree struck various clown poses before getting serious with her attempts, and Mitch kept score in a play-by-play announcer’s voice. Each had a time when they mis-balanced and landed their butts on the floor before the ball hit the pins. By the end of the evening, their wrists were aching, and they were holding hands like the teenagers who had come in as they were finishing.
They turned the equipment in, and Mitch put his arm around her as they walked out. She snuggled into him, finally comfortable with the type of man he was at heart.
Mitch looked up as they reached the car. “It’s a beautiful night. Got any nice drives around here?”
“Many,” Ree said, “but I know just the one." She guided him out of town and up a winding road to a viewpoint before the road dropped again. They cut off on a dirt road just over the hill, and she directed him to the Lookout.
They leaned against the Porsche, looking out over the wide valley spread below. The moon was a new crescent, but a million stars filled the sky. Lights twinkled in small clusters of buildings below. “Mr. Jackson has his cattle ranch over there,” Ree said, “and Dash Ballinger trains Quarter Horses on the other side of the valley. And then there are some regular houses scattered in. Someone wanted to put a subdivision in once, but no one would sell them the land.”
“Nice to have neighbors band together, even if somebody could have made a lot of money,” Mitch murmured.
“Just because you’re rich doesn’t mean you can boss people around,” she pointed out.
“Of course.” He seemed distracted. She looked up only to find him looking at her, his face lightly shadowed in the night.
She watched his lips, his firm mouth softening as he leaned forward. She inhaled, a hint of cologne and shampoo filling her senses. She leaned forward to meet him.
Their lips touched, full of warmth and magic. Mitch pulled back, then kissed her gently again. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he murmured.
“Mmm,” she said, leaning her head into his shoulder. “Me too.”
“You too, huh? Want to try again?”
She tipped her head back and smiled at him. “Practice makes perfect.”
He dipped his head for another kiss, but kept it light. “I’m all for practice,” he said, “but we’ve got plenty of time." He wrapped his arms around her and inhaled deeply.
She reached around his back and nestled her head into the crook of his neck, loving the smell of
him. Clean, masculine, with a hint of the peppermints he loved to eat. The lean muscles under his shirt weren’t bad, either. She grinned to herself and savored the feel of his fingers stroking her hair.
These extra hours together had shown her who he truly was—kind, protective, fun, caring. Real.
She snuggled for a moment more, then reached up to kiss him again.
Chapter 22
Mitch watched Ree set the last bud vases on the tables scattered across the porch, her hands graceful and confident. She stepped back for a look, and he smiled, knowing how much she wanted perfection. He straightened a chair, then joined her.
“Looks good, don’t you think?” she asked.
“Exquisite,” he answered, his eyes on her fresh face and sparkling blue eyes. She had a wide gold clip in her hair that drew attention without outshining her curls. “Things are going well in the kitchen, too.”
“You don’t think Chef LaSalle’s cooking will be too much for them?"
That was his unspoken worry as well. The invited guests were all local for this first dinner: Mayor Bailey and his wife, the police chief, and Mr. & Mrs. Kwan, who spent as much time in Eugene as they did in town. Also Justin and Cat, Mrs. Cooper, and Ree’s mother, who had all been involved in bringing the McCormick Inn up to speed. Two town council members and the library director rounded out the group.
All of them were influential in the town, and while they might not have a large out-of-town network who would actually stay at the inn, they would be crucial for local word-of-mouth about special events.
Once they had all arrived, Mitch gave a grand tour of the inn. They oohed and aahed in all the right places, and some talked of having relatives stay there over holidays. Ree seated them for dinner amidst glowing candles and gleaming china.
The rest of the evening was a farce.
The appetizer, an anchovy pasta swirled and topped with caviar, looked better than it tasted. Mitch watched his guests and could tell easily who liked anchovies and who didn’t, and Ree evidently wasn’t a fan of caviar.
Chris, their recently designated head waiter, described the main course: Beef à la Claude with a berry-beet reduction and Tuscan-inspired pea puree.
To Mitch, it was just bright red stripes of some tangy sauce, two small slices of meat that tasted like too much vinegar, and a fancy swirl of a pureed green vegetable. Or mostly green. Sort of brown, actually. Like the muddy hue of kid’s watercolors all mixed up.
His guests were kind—they gamely ate what was set in front of them, at least one bite, anyway, and Mrs. Kwan regaled them with stories of exotic foods around the world. But when Mrs. Swanson knocked her wine glass across the table, sloshing onto all their plates, she laughed, “Now we really don’t have to eat it!"
Mitch cringed. If there were a way to turn the clock back 24 hours, he would have done it.
Dessert came out—a blanc mange that looked decent, if uninspiring. Perhaps this would go a little better. The others looked at him, and he braced himself to take the first bite.
Manners kept him from spitting it into his napkin. “I think he was going for salted caramel,” Mitch finally said, “but got carried away with the salt.”
Mayor Bailey chuckled and clapped. “We applaud your bravery.”
Mitch kept his anger to himself. “Thanks. I appreciate your good humor with all of this. It’s obviously our first time with this chef, and we’ll need to work some things out.”
Mrs. Bailey gave him a wry look. “More than a few, I think. But thank you for the invitation—the inn is lovely, and I’m sure will be a boost to the town. And when you see Mr. McCormick, please let him know how happy we are to have it back in his hands.”
“It’s a delightful setting,” Mrs. Kwan said as she left, “and the company was good. Let me know when you’re set to try this again. With a new chef.”
By the time the last tail light disappeared, Mitch’s smile was frozen in place. He left Ree on the porch and stormed through the welcome hall and into the kitchen. “Have you taken leave of your senses, man?”
The waiters slid out the back door.
Chef LaSalle’s smile left his face. “How do you mean? I served an exquisite dinner, even though I could not acquire all my desired ingredients.”
“You call that exquisite? That was an unmitigated disaster! Three quarters of the guests didn’t eat but a taste, and the other quarter took only single bites.”
Chef LaSalle straightened to his full height. “My food was proper. I am known for an interesting combination of ingredients. A chef’s créativité is his most prized possession.”
Mitch took a step forward. “This chef needs to rein in his creativity and come up with something that people can actually eat. McCormick’s Creek is not an experimental society.”
They stared at each other for a moment. “I need to speak to Ree,” Mitch finally said.
She was waiting on the porch, staring morosely at a candle flame guttering out. Mitch put his hand on her shoulder, and the tension in him eased. She anchored him with just a touch, he thought with wonder.
He brought his mind back to the immediate concern. “We have some friends of mine coming to Sunday’s dinner, not to mention several influential people in Eugene. But this was such a disaster, I’m wondering if we should just cancel while I look for another chef. ”
Ree sat up, her face frozen in horror.
“What?”
“It’s not just your friends,” she said quickly, “it’s the reviewer from The Oregonian.”
“I thought she wasn’t coming until the Grand Opening.”
Ree shook her head. “No, she called and asked to come earlier so she could get it in the paper before then. You know, get people excited and making reservations already.”
Mitch groaned. “It’s imperative that LaSalle presents something both elegant and edible. But how can we be sure?”
“A trial run, just for us?” Ree suggested.
Perfect, Mitch thought, and headed back to the kitchen. The chef was muttering under his breath in an accent Mitch couldn’t place.
“Chef, can you tell me what you have on the menu for Sunday’s dinner?”
“Oysters on the half-shell, Chicken à la Paul, broccolini, and for the dessert, mousse au chocolat.”
Mitch ground his teeth. “What’s ‘chicken à la Paul’?”
“Chicken in a fruity, seasoned sauce, very bright and festive. It is a good counterpoint to the broccolini.”
“It had better be. But tonight’s menu sounded good too, and it wasn’t. So we’re going to do a trial run. Seven o’clock tomorrow. I would suggest you don’t get carried away.”
Chef Paul looked down his long nose before he gave a short, “Oui." He turned and shouted for the waiters to come in and finish cleaning up.
Chapter 23
Ree smiled at Chris, who looked more nervous waiting their table than she’d ever seen him.
“He’s on edge,” the young man murmured, pouring Mitch’s water.
“Hmmph,” Mitch snorted. “He ought to be.”
When Chris brought the oysters on the half shell out, Ree grimaced—raw seafood didn’t appeal much to her. She watched Mitch wiggle his tiny fork in it, then slurp it up. He wasn’t disgusted, so she inhaled deeply, spooned a bit of sauce on hers and scooped it out. She chewed a bit, but it didn’t taste like much besides the salsa. At least it wasn’t slimy like she had imagined.
“The salsa’s a bit overpowering, but it beats anything he concocted yesterday,” came Mitch’s judgement. Then he grinned. “Not as bad as you expected, is it?”
She shrugged and picked up her second oyster. “Can’t be a world traveller without eating raw things, right?” His approval put a glow in her heart, but she blanched when Chris brought out the Chicken à la Paul.
It didn’t look like any chicken she had ever seen. The small slice was very thin and lay twisted atop a brown pool of something under it. The brocollini looked wilted, smelling darkly of v
ery strong spices. The whole thing would take about three bites to eat. Maybe four.
She wasn’t alone in her opinion—Mitch’s stormy face made her glad she wouldn’t be the one on the receiving end of his temper. Dinner actually took five whole bites, but she was grateful simply that it was edible and tried not to think too much about what they were going to do for a chef. At a minimum, the food had to be recognizable. Beyond that, she had really hoped for something people raved over. Something they’d want to come back for.
When dessert came, Ree dug in to the airy chocolate and choked. Cinnamon, she could maybe understand. But chili, strong chili? Mitch didn’t say a word as he took a wary bite, but Ree could almost see the steam rise from his head. He patted his lips with his napkin and said, “Excuse me a moment,” standing and re-setting his chair with precision.
Ree followed him inside—no way was she going to miss this.
The chef was humming as he washed his knives. “It was good, yes? Exquisite, if I do say so myself.”
Mitch’s face grew even stormier. “You promised something edible. Something that wouldn’t make us the laughingstock of Oregon before we even open!”
“But it was divine. Exquisite!" Chef LaSalle’s stance was rigid. Genuine shock filled his eyes.
“It was atrocious!” Mitch snapped. “Clearly you don’t have any idea of the type of guests we’ll be having.”
The chef set his jaw. “Clearly they are not the clientele I am accustomed to cooking for. My creativity must be allowed to express itself. I will put this small inn on the culinary map.”
Mitch breathed in through his nostrils. “You. Will. Not. You’re fired. You can take your knives and go, now. Without cleaning up.”
“But you can’t,” the chef protested, his French accent mysteriously gone. “You need me for the dinner—you can’t get no one else this late.”
“The dinner will happen without you. Out." Mitch motioned with his head.
