Table of Contents
Beef Stroganoff
Publication Information
Dedication
Beef Stroganoff
Recipe for Beef Stroganoff
About the Author
Also Available
Also Available
Thank You
Beef Stroganoff
Destiny’s Diner Book Two
by
Maxine Mansfield
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Beef Stroganoff
COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Maxine Mansfield
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Diana Carlile
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2019
Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2727-3
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To all of us who haven’t yet perfected our very own special abilities just quite yet.
Beef Stroganoff
If I hear Destiny Diane Dickson yelled one more time today, I swear I’m going to scream. It’s not as if my husband Mike doesn’t know exactly where I am. After all, our little Old Sacramento diner isn’t much more than nine-hundred square feet from one end to the other, including the kitchen, so I could probably hear him if he whispered. But do you think he’d actually walk out here and tell me whatever it is that’s so freaking important at any given moment?
Nope.
I mean, really, it’s not as if he’s the big, fat, seven months pregnant lady waddling about, now is he?
Nope.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my husband with all my heart. Not only has he worked side-by-side with me every single day since we opened this place a little more than a month ago, but he also does most of the care for our four young daughters these days. Because frankly, by the time we get home each night, I’m exhausted. So, that means he usually cooks dinner for a family of six, and that’s after working just as hard as I do all day long.
I know I have no right to complain, except for the fact that I’m twice as big now as I was with any of my other kids by this point in my pregnancy.
And my family, they aren’t making things any easier either. This seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter bullshit they keep going on and on about is driving me completely bat-shit crazy.
“You have a destiny, Destiny. How can you waste your life cooking for people when you should be concentrating on discovering your special ability? You aren’t getting any younger, you know.”
I happen to really like cooking for people. I mean what better destiny could one have than to see those who hunger fed?
So what if my Lakota Sioux/Gypsy mother has a special power that makes her the darling of the neighborhood. She can literally blow the fire out of a burn to the point the pain immediately goes away, and it never leaves a scar, never.
And my mom’s mother, my grandmother? She can tell you without fail what the weather will be on any given day. It was kind of funny when I was a kid and I’d take an umbrella to school on a sunny day and the other kids would laugh until the downpour started. Then they’d always ask how I knew, but I never told them. Guess I was kind of a brat that way.
And my great granny and great-great granny? Even though they were both gone long before I was born, I was always told they could accurately tell the sex of a child before birth and were never, ever wrong. Even going so far as to know exactly what and how that person would be when they grew up.
I sure wish they were here right now and could tell me what my little bundle of joy was going to be in three months-time. I hope it’s a boy. I really do. Then all this speculation about getting one daughter closer to another seventh daughter of a seventh daughter would end. Though not one male child has been born in our family in more than five generations.
I guess I could get an ultrasound. But healthcare is expensive in California, just like it is everywhere else. Especially when there’s already six members in the family to cover. So, an unnecessary procedure just to find out the sex of the baby is out of the question.
Not that it really matters because this pregnancy is definitely going to be the last one. But then I thought the last one would be the last one, too. We were even on birth control this time, and still, one of Mike’s little spermizoids managed to work its way to where it wasn’t supposed to be.
But I’m frigging thirty-one years old now, and as soon as this baby is born Mike is getting a vasectomy whether he wants one or not. Because there won’t be another seventh daughter of a seventh daughter curse to worry about ever again. At least, not if I have anything to say about it.
I have to admit, this pregnancy is making me completely nuts. I spent a good part of the morning, when I should’ve been doing a whole list of other stuff, making beef stroganoff of all things. A recipe that just so happens to be a favorite of my children.
But my children aren’t who I made it for today.
Every once in a while, I get these weird feelings I just can’t shake. It’s like I know exactly what someone’s gonna needs on a certain day, and today someone needs beef stroganoff. And not the fancy kind with prime beef tips marinated overnight and saluted in a rich bullion, gourmet sour cream, and high-priced red wine, either, but my cousin’s much cheaper, much faster much easier beef stroganoff with plain ole ground beef, dairy section sour cream, and mushroom soup. Oh, and noodles, of course. Because beef stroganoff wouldn’t be beef stroganoff without the noodles, now would it?
I’ve made the fancy version of this dish quite a few times at the diner now, and my customers love it, so why today of all days must it be my cousin’s variety? But it must, for out there somewhere is someone who is going to walk right through the door of this diner and that particular beef stroganoff will be exactly what they need. Even if they don’t know it yet.
That’s what my family doesn’t understand. I don’t need some special weird power. I don’t need to heal the sick or read the future or calm the blasted seas. All I need to be happy is the love of my family and to feed the appetites of those who walk through my diner door. And not just simply feed them, but feed them what they truly need, what they crave, even if they don’t know they need it themselves.
Like the lady who just walked through the door with her Gucci bag slung over her shoulder, her Christian Louboutin heels clicking on the linoleum, sheathed in a dress straight out of fashion weekly, and hair and makeup that’d make a movie star jealous.
Really, her?
She looks like a princess, yet she’s the one who needs my cousin’s beef stroganoff?
Well, the feeling has never been wrong before, so I guess I have no choice but to trust it. Something tells me it won’t be easy to convince Miss High Society over there that I know what she needs better than she does herself.
****
Kady Robinson took a seat in the farthest, most back corner of the little diner she could possibly find. Not that that meant much since this place probably wasn’t much bigger than her office. It was certainly much cheerier, though, with its fifty’s style red and white checkered linoleum floors and long
white counter top. Not to mention the cute little pink heart-shaped stools, and the cozy polished wooden booths.
It was obvious someone had put love into this small space. She only hoped the food was as good as the ambiance. For what good was cute if the food they served was common place or simply unpalatable?
That was exactly the core belief in which Kady Robinson based every single food column she’d ever written on.
But she wasn’t here to write a piece on Destiny’s Diner, at least not today. Being a food critic was her everyday job, her everyday life. Today, she was here for a very important luncheon meeting that she’d been dreading all week. The one that would include much kissing of ass, and it certainly wouldn’t be her ass on the receiving end of the kissing.
Who knew Ivan Vilnakof was apparently a world renowned chef, and according to her editor, Sacramento was damn lucky to have him. That was exactly what he’d told her after reading the not so stellar critique she’d given his brand-spanking-new restaurant last week.
That Ivan had been insulted was a major understatement.
Since Mr. Vilnakof just so happened to be a long-time personal friend of the local paper’s owner, her personal boss, she was definitely here to kiss his ass and probably even lick the rim if that was what it took. With the way her luck was going these days, he’d most assuredly turn out to be some squat, well past middle-age bald, chubby guy who smelled of vodka and boiled potatoes.
She chuckled. God, she hated apologizing when she was right. But a job was a job, and unfortunately, she needed her job. After all, it’d be damn hard to afford her fine purse and shoe obsession on an obituary writer’s take home pay. And that’s exactly the position her editor promised she’d be in if she failed to make this debacle right.
Why here, though? Why some little podunk diner in the middle of Old Sac instead of down town where people were more civilized, more cultured? But then why not simply meet at Ivan’s eating establishment, The Potemkin’s Revenge, since that was where the supposed grievous slight took place?
Kady chuckled again. The Potemkin’s Revenge, what a name for a restaurant. She doubted many people would get the reference. But if she’d been known for anything in her eight years of being a food critic, it was that she’d always been thorough in her research of the places she intended to write about. So, when she’d been given the assignment to visit and critique Ivan Vilnakof’s restaurant, she’d simply done what she always had.
Potemkin had long ago been the name of a Russian battleship that suffered a mutiny due to the serving of spoiled meat to its sailors. And though she would’ve never named a high-class restaurant after such a thing, she couldn’t help but appreciate the man’s rather warped sense of humor. It would, at least, give them something to talk about other than the fact she’d given his restaurant an A minus instead of an A plus.
****
“Welcome to Destiny’s Diner,” said a very pregnant but friendly looking waitress with long black hair and kind eyes.
Kady’s first response was the urge to tell the woman she probably should put that over-abundance of hair up in a net if she was going to be working around food, but since she intended to just have a glass of iced tea with her meeting, she decided she really didn’t care that much.
“Thank you,” she replied. “You do have a variety of loose-leaf teas to choose from in this, establishment, do you not?”
The woman smiled. “Oh, it’s not tea you’re needing today. It’s beef stroganoff I’ll be bringing you. And trust me, it’s a tall glass of ice-cold milk you’ll be wanting to go along with it, not tea.”
She couldn’t believe her ears. How dare some little inconsequential waitress in a totally inconsequential diner tell Kady Robinson, of all people, what she needed to order? And especially not frigging beef stroganoff. God, anything but beef stroganoff.
She could just imagine how Ivan Vilnakof would react when he arrived for their meeting and found her eating the very same dish she’d said was quaint and homey at his establishment? That certainly wouldn’t start her ass-kissing off on a very good note.
“No, thank you. I’ll just have a glass of your house iced tea, please.”
The waitress just kept smiling. “Nonsense, it’s beef stroganoff you need today, and it’s beef stroganoff you’ll be getting. And if, when you’re done, it wasn’t to your liking, then consider it on the house.”
With that, the woman simply turned and walked away.
Of all the nerve.
Mentally, Kady was already writing a review on this place. Don’t waste your time going to Destiny’s Diner. The help doesn’t listen to a word the customers say. Not worth your time or money. C minus at best, or even a D. I’ve never in my life given an F, but I swear this place comes as close to one as I’ve ever seen.
Kady glanced at her watch. Where the hell was Ivan Vilnakof anyway? Their meeting was scheduled for noon, and it was already almost ten minutes past. If the man hadn’t arrived by the time this place’s unwanted beef stroganoff was set before her, perhaps she’d just walk out and settle for that stupid obituary writing gig after all.
Fuck Gucci, Prada, Jimmy Choo, and Louis Vuitton. Fuck them all. She been poor before, and she could be poor again.
Suddenly, a voice startled her out of her introspection as a steaming bowl of something clunked as it made contact with the table. “Bon Appetite,” the very pregnant waitress cheerfully said.
The moment the dish was set before her, Kady knew that not minding if she were once more poor wasn’t true. She wouldn’t ever willingly go back to those days of eating out of a can like she had in her early twenties while struggling to break into the journalism business. She sure as hell didn’t want to worry about where the money for next month’s rent would come from ever again. The longer she stared down at the all too familiar conglomeration, the more sure she became of that fact.
Destiny’s Diner’s beef stroganoff looked exactly like the delicious but homey version she’d been served at The Potemkin’s Revenge. The same hamburger, instead of marinated beef tips, and a white sauce that didn’t even have a hint of red-wine. And the noodles? She’d swear those noodles were straight out of a bag instead of hand made. The entire yummy mixture had made her remember home and her mom and growing up poor, so very poor.
She couldn’t do it again, though. She simply could not lift that spoon to her mouth and force a bite of what, no doubt, would bring back more memories of things she’d rather forget.
Instead, Kady pushed it away. “No, thank you.”
The waitress wasn’t the least bit discouraged, however. As a matter of fact, she seemed more determined if that was possible. “One bite, that’s all I ask. I have this feeling that my beef stroganoff, well really, it’s my cousin’s recipe, but anyhow, I have this feeling it’s really what you need today.”
Kady sighed. She didn’t want to hurt the pregnant woman’s feelings. And who knew? Perhaps the waitress got a bonus for pushing the dish of the day or whatever it was on unexpecting patrons. She probably had a houseful of kids who were counting on every penny their mother could bring home. How then could she, who had so much, refuse to take one measly bite and placate this woman? After all, it wasn’t as if she had to eat the whole frigging thing as she’d gobbled every morsel of Ivan’s as if she were a homeless person who hadn’t eaten for weeks.
So, with a nod, Kady took a deep breath, closed her eyes, filled her spoon to overflowing, and lifted the eating utensil to her lips.
****
“Quit pouting and come back to bed, darling. I promise to make it worth your while if you do.”
Kady’s eyes flew open. She was no longer sitting in the small diner but was now in some strange man’s bedroom. If one could describe a god as being merely a man. For the Adonis standing before her, smiling, certainly couldn’t be described in any other way.
She shook her head. This had to be some kind of weird-ass dream, or else that pregnant waitress had drugged the stupid beef stroga
noff. No real-life man was this perfect.
He had to be well over six-foot-tall if he were an inch. Every single centimeter of his body was mind-blowingly wonderful. Thick, wavy, dark brown hair the color of rich chocolate covered his head while it curled about his ears and caressed the very top of his shoulders.
Thick-lashed eyes that smoldered with a deep blue fire starred at her from beneath perfect lids while two so-very-kissable lips smiled at her, showing off his, of course, perfect white teeth. His neck and his shoulders… Oh my God, they were smooth, broad, and gleaming with just a hint of a sheen, begging to be licked.
Slowly, Kady’s gaze traveled lower, and she held her breath as his cock came in view. Oh, my fucking God. For a moment, she thought there was no way that thing was real. It couldn’t be. Its head was a good three fingers wide, and its shaft just a hair slimmer but at least eight or nine inches long. And it stood straight up at attention, mesmerizing, like a cobra about to strike.
Kady gulped, and her pussy suddenly throbbed with a need she’d long denied it.
“I can see you still want me even if you are angry with me, love.” He started walking toward her.
She shook her head and backed as far away as the room would allow. “Angry with you? I—I—I, don’t even know who you are.”
The man had the audacity to chuckle as he quickly caught up to her. “That’s exactly what you said the first time we met at that diner, you little minx.” He pointed a finger at her and then proceeded to run that same finger down her chest to tweak a nipple.
Kady held her breath.
“You were so angry at me that day, even though you swear you weren’t. And all because I walked in and caught you eating the very same dish you put down at The Potemkin’s Revenge. Well, there’s no reason to be angry with me now. It’s not uncommon in the least to name a new dish after one’s girlfriend, so you’re just going to have to get over it.”
She let out the breath she’d been holding. “Ivan? You’re Ivan Vilnakof?”
He chuckled again. “Let’s not fight tonight, darling. And don’t act like I’m some kind of monster who would’ve never thought to name any thing after the woman I love. I’m not anywhere near as cold-blooded as you make me out to be. I’m simply a shrewd business man. And you know very well, I’m at your very beck and call and have been since the first time I set eyes on you.”
Beef Stroganoff Page 1
