A Matter of Taste (Men of the Capital #2)

by Cara Nelson

  Speaking of chocolate, there, packed in dry ice and cushioned in impossibly complex containers, were fine chocolate bowls of fresh berries for dessert. Wafer thin and delicate, the chocolate bowls had a dark sheen to their surface. She bit her lip imagining the deftness of his hands as he had shaped them with his fingers. Just the thought of it made her want to run downstairs to her car and drive to Aux Delices, but she reminded herself that men were no damn good. She pulled up an old picture of Roger on her phone as Exhibit A.

  All the while Shannon chattered with Callie and Pam about how sexy and impressive Desmond was and how she should go for it with him. Shannon actually called him “dishy”, and they all giggled. They had just about talked Annelise around to calling him when Jasper buzzed her to come to his office. She slunk in, wondering if somehow her drunken antics had ended up on YouTube. She gritted her teeth and thought miserably of the apartment without a toilet.

  “Miss Hollingford,” he began, not looking up from his computer screen. Instead of huffing in annoyance until he looked at her, Annelise decided to let his rudeness go just this once in hope of keeping her job.

  “Yes,” she said carefully.

  “I’ve surveyed the menu, and the appetizers sound disgusting.”

  “You drink kale. What’s more disgusting than that?”

  “The Asian noodle station is fine, but the mashed potatoes in a cocktail glass…that sounds wrong and repulsive. I don’t want potatoes in drinking glasses. Change it.”

  “If you don’t want to eat potatoes out of a glass, skip that station. The presentation is very cutting edge. I’ve researched this stuff, and they get awards for their tablescapes. Trust me.”

  “No. No potatoes in cocktail glasses. In fact, no potatoes at all. Noodles are enough carbs. I’m not trying to kill my business associates with high glycemic foods. Do something with asparagus.”

  “Everyone likes potatoes. A lot of people hate asparagus. It’s stupid to eliminate potatoes entirely.”

  “I’m spending five figures on the food, not counting wine and the bar. I can afford to be stupid. Call the guy and tell him no potatoes,” he said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

  Annelise texted Desmond to request an appointment about the menu change. She figured she could thank him for lunch and apologize for her loathsome behavior while demanding that all potatoes be stricken from the menu. She drove to his shop and rang the buzzer. This time she was admitted without any obstruction from Kathleen. The kitchen was bustling, so Des ushered her into his office, which was small and cluttered.

  “Thank you for lunch. It was really spectacular,” she said tightly.

  “You’re welcome. Was that painful? Giving me a compliment?” he teased. “Because you look like you sat on a tack.”

  “No. I’m just embarrassed.”

  “About what?”

  “Humping you,” she blurted out. “Also, my boss hates potatoes.”

  “You didn’t exactly hump me.”

  “I didn’t exactly NOT hump you,” she said miserably.

  “You’re forgiven.”

  “Thanks. Jasper Cates is squicked out by potatoes in cocktail glasses, so he wants you to eradicate all potatoes and extraneous carbs from the menu.”

  “We already agreed on the menu. I special-ordered ingredients.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure you can bill him for them. He’s not cheap, he’s just an asshole,” she said apologetically. Desmond laughed aloud.

  “You don’t pull any punches.”

  “I read an article about you,” she said almost shyly.

  “Did you look me up online?” He preened.

  “No. A girl in my office showed me a story about your charity. It’s—nice. I grew up in a place where that kind of thing could have helped.”

  “So did I,” he said, stuffing his hands in his pockets and leaning back against the edge of his desk.

  “I doubt that. Where I lived, I had to dodge the pimps by the time I was ten.”

  “I grew up in south Chicago, Annelise. I learned to cook in a soup kitchen thanks to the juvenile justice system. I was, you might say, a guest of the state.” Her jaw dropped.

  “You went to juvi?”

  “No, I got community service. I should have gone to juvi, probably.” He shrugged.

  “I never got caught. Did you steal stuff?”

  “I stole shit and tagged it.”

  “Gang?” she said with awe.

  “Nah. Stupid white kid who wanted to be a thug.” He chuckled and she touched his arm tentatively.

  “That’s really awesome. What you’re doing for the kids. Maybe they won’t turn out like us.”

  “I don’t know. I think we turned out pretty well.”

  “I live on the cafeteria lady’s couch, Des.”

  “What?”

  “I’m homeless. I dumped my fiancé when he gave me an STD from all his hookers and he kicked me out. I’m couch surfing. It’s humiliating!” She wailed. He stifled a laugh.

  “You can surf my couch anytime you want.”

  “That isn’t what I meant. I mean I looked at an apartment last night that’s in my price range, and it had cardboard instead of glass in the windows, and there wasn’t a toilet!” Desmond took her in his arms and hugged her. It was surprisingly tender, and sympathetic and Annelise was horrified to find her eyes stinging with tears.

  “It’ll be okay. You’ll find a place that—does have a toilet. I promise.”

  “I did. It’s in the same building as my ex.”

  “You don’t want to live in that building. You’ll see him and what he’s up to…” Desmond trailed off.

  “It’s that or no toilet.”

  “There’s got to be a middle ground between the ex and no toilet.”

  “The working class neighborhoods are mostly co-ops, and I can’t afford to buy. The rentals are all family units with three bedrooms, and I can’t afford that either!”

  She let herself rest her cheek against his shoulder for just a moment and felt oddly comforted. Desmond Blair had great shoulders. She’d known that from looking. Up close and personal, even closer than she’d been on the dance floor, his arms and shoulders were substantial, felt sheltering. Annelise was used to feeling powerful, capable. Being homeless made her feel small and vulnerable. His embrace made her feel vulnerable in a much better way, like she was worth protecting.

  “So this guy cheated on you,” he said softly, resting his chin on top of her head comfortably.

  “Yeah. With hookers. I knew something was up, and he wasn’t talking, so I hacked his email. It was bad. I was with him since I was seventeen. I never thought he’d need to go to a hooker—” she broke off, feeling she’d said too much.

  “It isn’t because you weren’t enough. It’s because he wasn’t. It sounds like a male insecurity thing.”

  “Really? I thought maybe I was just that bad in bed. I mean, I read Cosmo, so I know I was doing it right, but he ain’t going out looking for some ass to rent if he’s happy at home, is all I’m saying.”

  “He’s a fool,” Des said. He kissed her very gently, warmth stealing along her skin as he held her.

  “I know he was a fool. I just know that I was too,” she said quietly, almost in disbelief.

  “No, you were trusting and, from the sound of it, he was all you knew of a relationship. It’s for the best. Something better will come along.”

  “You sound like my granny.”

  “Is your granny brilliant and wise?”

  “My granny’s an ex-stripper, so she knows some shit.” He laughed again.

  “I think I’d love to meet your family,” he said suddenly.

  “Is it customary? To meet the family of your clients’ secretaries?” she teased, pulling back from him, reminding herself that just because he felt sorry for her didn’t mean he wanted more.

  “No. I hadn’t thought to go in a professional capacity.”

  “I’d like to—can I buy you a cup of
coffee?” she asked, surprising both of them.

  “I only drink my own coffee. No one else’s espresso is strong enough.” He grinned.

  “I bet it took a lot of caffeine to build a business like this.”

  “You’d win that bet. I’m hooked.”

  He led her through the busy kitchen, the frantic preparations parting like the Red Sea to let him pass, to a shiny copper espresso machine that looked complicated and huge. He pulled levers and twisted valves. Soon, steam bellowed forth and two perfect espressos were born in miniscule white china cups. She touched the scalding liquid to her lips, its bitterness and strength reviving her. She reached out and took his hand in hers.

  “For six years, I loved him and thought I had myself a real man, but I was completely wrong. I can’t trust myself anymore.”

  For a woman who spoke her mind every second of the day, Annelise hadn’t opened up to anyone this much in years. She knew she could trust Des, even if she couldn’t trust herself. He closed the office door behind them and sat not behind the desk, but in a chair beside hers. He set the espresso cups on the desk and took both her hands in his. Des’s hands were big, enveloping hers completely. She looked at their hands, his covering hers, and was a little surprised to find that she didn’t want to pull away from him.

  “You put your faith in the wrong man,” he said simply. “You know better now. You can trust yourself again. And if not, you can trust me.”

  Her mouth dropped open a little. It was unnerving, the way he said exactly what she’d been thinking. It was more astonishing that she believed him. And he wasn’t talking like a hot shot chef who wanted a fling. He was talking to her as an equal—a twenty-three-year-old couch-surfing, homeless secretary. He was looking at her the way a man looks at a woman.

  She held his gaze steadily, resisting the sudden shyness that crept over her, knowing that he could see her, really see her and not wanting to shrink from that. So Annelise closed the small distance between them and kissed him. His kiss was soft and knowing, a waiting kiss.

  “I don’t think my granny would believe you were real,” she said with a smile.

  “Then she’s just going to have to meet me to believe it,” he said, laying her palm against his broad chest so she could feel his heart pounding strong against her fingers. “Real as real can be, Annelise.”

  His head dipped toward hers. She opened her lips, welcoming his kiss as her due, a prize for her patience, for the years she’d wasted. She expected him to start on the buttons of her suit, to push her clothing aside roughly, but still he kissed her. Though they were behind a closed door, they had privacy, a few moments alone, he seemed in no hurry. Impatient, she reached for the buttons of his chef’s jacket, but he caught her hands in his.

  “Not here, like this,” he said firmly. “I won’t have you the first time in a cluttered office with fifty people outside the door. I will take my time to savor you. You deserve a man who can wait for what’s worth waiting for, Annelise. A man who wants to give you more than a quick grope on an office chair.” She subsided, a little embarrassed.

  “You got something against humping?”

  “Not at all. Humping has its time and place.” He grinned, kissing her. “I’m working tonight. Are you free tomorrow night?” His voice was low and intimate against her ear, and she shivered.

  “Yes.” She shuddered the word as his mouth brushed against her earlobe. She turned her head, kissing him frantically. He held her more tightly, feeling the uncertainty in her kiss. The fear that all this could be taken from her was clear to him as her tongue invaded his mouth, her hands gripping his face as if to claim him.

  “I’ll be here waiting,” he promised, folding her into his arms and holding her for a moment. She was reluctant to leave the circle of his arms, shutting her eyes briefly, shutting out the world.

  “Desmond Blair, you better be here tomorrow night, or I will hunt your ass down,” she said in a mock serious tone. She needed his reassurance, he knew, and he kissed her softly again.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for anything,” he whispered. “My life’s been on hold while I built my business. Now the world can wait while I have you.”

  Chapter 5

  Annelise returned to work, confident that no potatoes would appear at the engagement party to horrify her boss. She reported her success to him by text and went back to researching yellow flowers besides the daffodil that could go in the centerpieces. The florist was an absolute caricature of a difficult personality. Shannon was in a conference, so Annelise sent a carefully worded text to Hannah, only to find that the bride hated sunflowers, thought roses and carnations were boring, thought Peruvian lilies looked like cheap grocery store flowers, and was convinced that the photo Annelise sent her of a tiny golden aranthera orchid was probably a picture of a starfish penis. Even though that made Annelise laugh, she was getting seriously tired of Hannah’s pickiness.

  “If she has her moody little heart set on daffodils, I’ll just have to find some.” She sighed. The rest of her day was spent locating suppliers so the florist could quit saying it was impossible. That night she had delicious dreams of Desmond and what the next day would bring.

  With RSVPs floating in by the dozens, she updated her spreadsheet the next day and cross referenced with the list of people Shannon had said shouldn’t be seated together, lest a corporate takeover break out.

  At least, the menu was finalized and that drama could be couched. The flowers promised to be a scene of monumental proportions, though. Annelise configured seating charts for the garden party based on the RSVP list and was almost, very nearly satisfied with one set-up when she got a text from Desmond. She opened the message happily, only to be disappointed that it wasn’t personal.

  Can’t source enough lobster mushrooms for the sauce. Tell Cates it has to be chantarelles.

  Don’t do this to me. Spraypaint some of those chanterelle bastards hot pink and tell him they’re lobster mushrooms. He saw a special on how rare and spectacular lobster mushrooms are and he’s convinced they’re the perfect touch to the menu. He hates carbs, but fungus, he adores.

  It’s a parasite that ate a mushroom. It’s not even truly a mushroom anymore. This is not the metaphor he wants for his love at the engagement party. Tell him that. Convince him because it is not happening. It was a bad year for hemlock trees and the lobster mushrooms grow at the foot of those….mycologists are only finding spotted nasty ones, nothing worth serving at a high end dinner. If he insists, I can get crap ones at a supermarket, but they won’t have the flavor. They’ll just be show mushrooms.

  Annelise hung her head, imagining the exchange she would have with the intractable Jasper Cates, who would recount every minute detail of that mycology documentary yet again and tell her it was as rare and beautiful as Hannah is. He wouldn’t settle for grocery store mushrooms, and she was pretty sure any other kind of mushroom would be unacceptable to him. This pair of educated and successful adults were acting like whiny kids, and she felt like their harried nanny.

  I have some chanterelles at the shop. A sous is whipping up a sauce with them for you to try so you can tell Cates how splendid it is. Come on over.

  Finally, a text from Desmond that made her smile. She sped down to Aux Delices and perched on a stool at the central island. Des presented her with a small square black plate, on which was arranged two prawns and a tiny golden pool of mushroom sauce. Tucking in, she tasted the buttery bright mushrooms, a rich compliment to the sweet, tender prawns.

  “I don’t usually say stuff like this, but I’m impressed.” Annelise said, devouring the delicious prawns.

  “I knew I could impress you. I just didn’t think you’d ever admit it.” Desmond said. Des walked her out, a kiss promising great things for the coming evening, and she felt lighter than air returning to work.

  She braved Jasper Cates in person, determined to defend the chanterelles and keep the menu finalized as it was. He didn’t look up from his computer screen, which was u
sual and, feeling stronger today, Annelise called him on it.

  “I spent a lot of hours getting this menu sorted for your picky ass. Now look up for five seconds. The lobster mushrooms ain’t happening. Desmond is substituting chanterelles. I tasted the sauce myself and it’s magnificent. Everyone will be impressed.”

  “Lobster mushrooms are what I ordered. He agreed to fulfill his contract, which specifies those. I will not accept a lesser substitute.”

  “They aren’t even mushrooms. They’re a pink parasite. Let it go. These ones are good with the shrimp and people will like them. I got rid of the potatoes against my better judgment; now hop on board and sign off on the change,” she huffed.

  “Miss Hollingford, I understand that, as you’re swiving the cook, your instinct is to defend him, but he’s trying to pass off shoddy goods in violation of his contract. It’s unacceptable. You can tell him so or you can find another caterer who can provide the quality of dishes I’m prepared to serve,” he said, coldly sardonic.

  “I am not—he’s the best. You won’t find another caterer who can give you that kind of quality; they’ll just give you crappy supermarket pink mushrooms to shut you up. Desmond has integrity. He wants to serve the best meal he can for you. You should appreciate that.”

  “Apparently you appreciate it enough for all of us. You may tell him my decision stands.”

  Annelise fumed, stomping to the outer office. Shannon looked up in dismay.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “The boss has to have his mushrooms, so I get to tell Desmond Blair that his food ain’t good enough.”

  “I’m sure that’s not what he meant. You know how he can be—eccentric,” Shannon said in her conciliatory way.

  Annelise shook her head. “You been making excuses for that man since the day I came here. Explaining his weirdness and his rude attitude. Keeping everyone smoothed over for him so he don’t get upset.”

  “I know it sounds like I’m enabling him, Annelise, but hI try to protect people from him, and him from himself, as much as I can.”