by Chloe Cole
His jaw tightened. “You work for Brun, right? Did you lie to me?”
“What? No. God, no. Not that.”
August visibly relaxed. “Oh, sorry. You sounded so serious that I thought the worst.”
“Would anything else be as bad?”
“Other than to tell me you’re married, I think that would be it.” He squinted at her. “A little late to be asking, but you’re not married, are you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “Not married.”
“Great.” He pointed at the remains of her food with his chin. “Eat up. There’s dessert, remember?”
Her heart pounded with such force, he must have been able to hear it across the few feet that separated them. “I don’t work for Brun and I’m not married, but August,”—she blew out a breath—”I want to let you know why we met tonight.”
He lifted her free hand to his mouth, kissing sensitive knuckles. “Fate.”
Her lips tipped in another smile. Why hadn’t she met him under other circumstances? Was it really so much to ask?
Carefully, she slid her hand out of his, hating the confused expression on his face as she did so. “You should know that I work for the Denver Daily.”
His face paled, but he said nothing.
“I’m not a reporter or anything. Just a food critic.”
Silence.
“It wasn’t my idea to come to your restaurant.” Like that was any excuse. “It was my editor’s. She wanted to do a sneak peek feature around Restaurant Week.”
Saffron watched him swallow. The pulse she’d run her tongue over earlier beat a rapid tattoo beneath his skin.
“I know you value your privacy and prefer not to deal with the media. I know your sous chef usually steps into the limelight—”
“I’ve never heard of you.” His voice was flat.
“New assistant.” Earlier she could have kissed the woman for her newbie mistake. Now, Saffron wanted to throttle her. “She made the reservation under my real name instead of one of my aliases.”
August stood. “You came to learn more about me and Restaurant Week?”
She hated this. Hated it. “Yes.”
The longest stretch of excruciating silence ate the air around her.
Finally, he said, “Well…tell your readers I’ll be serving a Gran Madame fondue with truffle mushrooms, zuppa di fungi, white gazpacho with Dungeness crab salad, prime rib, risotto with caramelized onions and fig…”
“Wait…no. August, don’t tell me—”
“Chilean sea bass en croute and I’m still working on dessert.”
“August, please—”
“Possibly a spring fruit tart and some kind of cheesecake. A chocolate dish as well, naturally.”
“August,” she whispered.
He shoved his hands through his hair and then squeezed his eyes shut. Without warning, he strode to the door and then walked through it, leaving Saffron alone on the bed.
Never before now had she ever felt more vulnerable.
Was it really so bad? Could she really have disappointed him so deeply by her confession? Reviewing food was her job! It wasn’t like she tortured baby animals or threw rocks at orphaned children. She ate food and reported back what she thought of it.
Just because he avoided all attention like the plague and just because she betrayed his trust a little…
Oh damn.
How was she going to fix it?
August stalked back into the room. Fully dressed.
“Why don’t you put your clothes on?” he asked. His voice remained flat and lifeless.
“Wait. Shouldn’t we talk—”
“Get dressed, Saffron,” he said with more force. Bitter words. “I’ll take you back to your car.”
Chapter Nine
“Scatter!” August overheard Vicky hiss.
The few servers standing by the bar hustled to different corners of the restaurant, none of them looking in his direction.
Which was just fine by him.
He couldn’t stand the curious stares or the pitying glances. For Christ’s sake, even Edmond threw him out of the kitchen, shouting to know why he was in such a foul mood.
Just because August had butchered over three dozen chicken carcasses mindlessly, trying to get the taste of her from his lips and just because he’d ordered a complete scrub down of the kitchen from top to bottom, handling the more grueling tasks himself to erase the memory of how she’d felt beneath him, and just because he’d give his right nut to no longer hear the sweet echoes of her coming undone…
None of that meant he’d been in a bad mood for the past week.
One week. Seven days since he’d had one of the most incredible nights of his life to hours later have it shattered into a billion fragments. Fuck.
He couldn’t stop thinking about her. Couldn’t stop seeing her everywhere he looked.
Saffron consumed his thoughts. Every single moment of solitude and even the ones when he was busy, yet found his mind drifting, brought him back to her. In his mind, they’d made it. They’d found a way to make it work.
He shook loose the thought.
Shit. Maybe the walk-in refrigerator needed to be reorganized. Better head over there now to check it out. Walking through the dining room got him in this mess in the first place. He’d simply cut it short tonight and get back behind the line or go somewhere more useful.
Edmond could come out here and schmooze the guests. He was done.
“Somehow I drew the short straw.”
Startled, he looked down at Vicky. “What?”
“For some reason, everyone thinks you like me. Personally, I think you just tolerate me, but whatever. They think you like me.”
“I do like you.”
“Yeah and that’s why you assigned me to clean the grease traps?”
He grunted. Fair enough. “I knew you’d do it right.”
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, whatever.” From side to side she shifted on her feet before blowing out a sigh. “Regardless, I was sent over here.”
“By whom? And for what?”
“To show you this.”
She held out a piece of newsprint and August reached for it without thinking. The moment his fingers touched the page, however, he recognized it for what it would be.
Internal tremors rocketed through him.
Fingers still clasping the paper, he stared at her. “What is this?”
“Read it.”
“Vicky, I’m not in the mood.” For some reason, he couldn’t let go of the page. He knew what it would say. He knew what it represented, but he couldn’t get his hand to let go of the goddamned page.
“This wasn’t my idea. But you’ve got half the staff tip-toeing around you and the other half ready to piss their pants. Since you supposedly like me, supposedly I’m least likely to get fired for this. Supposedly.”
Every heartbeat kicked against his ribs with enough force to leave a bruise on the outside. He wanted to look. The urge to look taunted him.
But if he looked it would be real. The lie would be in black and white for him and all of Denver to see.
She’d used him. Just to find out about food, of all things.
Vicky dropped her hand, apparently satisfied he wouldn’t let go first. “And when you’re done, the guest at table twenty wants to send compliments to the chef. Since you’re out here, you might as well go over there for yourself.”
Minutes passed. He didn’t know how many. His feet refused to move, the page still remained clutched in his hand. If he were a smarter man, he’d crumple the paper into a ball, drop it on one of the nearby tables and walk away.
Instead, at last, he folded it into a square and tucked it into his trousers. Later, one day—someday—he’d read it. Not today, though.
Forcing his cheeks to lift and his mouth to part into a smile, August pulled his shoulders back and strode to table twenty. For everyone’s sakes, so they’d know this funk wouldn’t get the best of
him, he made a show of greeting guests along the way. Even one of the busboys earned a high-wattage smile.
Poor guy looked terrified.
It pulled a strangled chuckle out of him. If he hadn’t been so intent on figuring out how to make it up to the busboy, he might have stopped three yards sooner. Just a few steps and he would have avoided having to look at her.
But Saffron was watching his approach. He’d made it too close to turn back now without drawing the curious attention of other patrons.
When he realized his smile had fallen, August forced it back into place. It felt wooden and stupid. Without a doubt it fooled no one. But just as his pushy sous chef insisted, August smiled.
Despite the empty booth across from hers and the missing place setting, he stood close enough to the table to be heard, but far enough away he wouldn’t be tempted to touch her.
Despite his bruised ego, he was still very, very tempted.
“Madame.”
She replied softly, “Chef.”
An eternity passed.
“You look tired.”
“I work very hard, Madame.”
“Oh. I didn’t mean to imply you didn’t…I mean, crap. I’m sorry, I came to find out…I mean…did you read it? It came out yesterday.”
Ice filled his veins. “I made it a habit of mine a long time ago not to read reviews. They’re very subjective.”
“I see.” She nibbled on her lip. The same lip he’d spent hours tonguing until swollen a week ago. “Vicky said…”
“What did she say?” The anger he didn’t realize he harbored sharpened to a fine point.
“Listen,” she snapped. His eyebrows arched in surprise. “I’m paying her three hundred dollars to occupy this table until you talk to me. Money well spent, but I damned well plan on getting every penny’s worth.”
He turned on his heel. “Save your money,” he tossed over his shoulder.
“August…please.”
The car ride back to the restaurant that night still haunted him. The awful silence. The tension wrapping around his neck, snaking into his lungs until he almost couldn’t breathe.
She hadn’t cried. She hadn’t begged. And that was almost worse than if she had.
Nine minutes passed as the two strangers avoided looking at each other. Not talking. Not touching. The previous hours vanished from their memories. Or at least they must have vanished from hers. He couldn’t stop thinking about them.
Too soon he pulled alongside her car. When she stepped out, something in him screamed for August to reach for her. To say some meaningful words to bring her back. To accept the apology she’d offered.
But he’d remained frozen, instead forcing himself to watch her get in the car and eventually drive away. The begging please she’d cried on the verge of coming stuck in his memory.
That single pleading word made him slowly turn and face her now.
Barely above a whisper, he asked, “What do you want from me?”
She seemed at a loss for words for a minute. Finally, she said, “If I can only have one thing, please read the article. Vicky said she gave it to you.”
A jerky nod.
“I want you to know what I wrote. Read it and…just read it, please.”
Taking the paper out of his pocket, he returned to the booth. Throwing caution to the wind, he sat down. The restaurant could have burned down around his feet and he wouldn’t have noticed. Everything seemed to have vanished; just like the night he’d met her. What was it about this woman that she could draw him in like no one else?
With a frown, he noticed his hands shook as he unfolded the page.
He read the headline aloud. “Secrets of Restaurant Week chefs.” Not a great start to an article he didn’t want to read. “Francis Brun…”
His vision blurred.
“It’s alphabetical,” Saffron hastily said. “Skip to a third down.”
“Celebrity chef August Jaeger works fourteen hour days at his critically acclaimed fusion cuisine hot spot. The secret he keeps...” His mind jumped to the next words, processing and understanding them long before his lips managed to form each one.
He looked up at her, a smile—a real smile—curving his lips. “What is this?” he asked.
“I worked like a dog to get the information about every chef participating in Restaurant Week in time for the story to run and hit the shelves yesterday.”
“This isn’t a review.” He scanned the rest of the page quickly. “And you didn’t say what I would be serving. There’s nothing about any of my food in here.”
She leaned forward. “It wasn’t worth it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you but I did. And it wasn’t worth it. I could offer my readers something as enticing as your secret menu and they would still love me for it. I just had to think outside the box a little.”
“So you did this? What did your editor say?”
Saffron lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “She loved it. So do the readers. I’ve got emails asking for similar articles for other chefs.”
He stared at her. Those honey-brown eyes offered him the apology a week ago he’d been too furious to hear.
“Anything else you’re keeping from me, Saffron?”
“Nothing.” She gave him a hesitant smile.
“You’re sure? Nothing? Saffron’s your real name?”
Now she grinned and held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
August slid from the booth and stood next to the table. He held up two fingers of his own.
Almost instantly Vicky sidled up to him, pen and pad in hand.
Softly, he said, “Vicky, please ask Edmond to prepare takeout for me and Ms. Burton. Something simple…perhaps the saffron-chili dusted trout with sweet potato grits. And uh, maybe…tell you what. Tell him to surprise us.”
“Chef,” she acknowledged, a note of smug satisfaction in the single word. Vicky disappeared from next to him as surreptitiously as she’d approached.
Saffron scooted over, making room for him when he sat next to her. Leaning close, he murmured, “Madame, would I be able to interest you in a more intimate dining experience…in my home?”
“Does that mean all is forgiven?”
“Not all, no.” He couldn’t be less than honest. He was still a little hurt by her actions, even if he understood them. But he could forgive them completely, with time. “I think you and I had a good thing going. We shouldn’t give it up so easily. If you can put up with my long hours…”
“And if you’re willing to put up with burnt water…”
“I think we can make it work. But Saffron?” August leaned even closer, his lips grazing hers with the most delicate of kisses.
“Yes, Chef?” Breathless.
“If the line at the McDonald’s next to my house is longer because you told all of Denver I like their fries, I’m going to turn you over my knee.”
She shrieked and then began to laugh.
She was still laughing when he put a finger beneath her chin and tilted it, forcing her to look up at him. The sweet tinkle of her laughter faded as he pressed his mouth to hers.
About the Author
Dee Carney began writing short stories in middle school, but did not attempt completion of a novel until almost ten years later—which, despite good intentions, she never finished. Almost ten years later, she challenged herself to begin writing again, and her love for storytelling was rekindled.
Now, Dee is a best-selling, award-winning author who lives at home in Georgia with her husband, two dogs, and a cat. When not writing, Dee is usually curled up on the couch with a good book!
To learn more about all of Dee’s books, please visit her on the web at http://www.deecarney.com
Conned
By
Chloe Cole
Dedication
To my husband and best friend, Chip, for being exactly the man I thought he was.
Oh! And for my CP Murphy for the ice cub
e idea *air high five*
Chapter One
“Oh my God. Oh, God. Yeah. Yeah, right there. Yes. Yes!”
For the first half a minute, Professor Tucker Lamb had tried to muscle through it, but the sounds coming from the adjacent classroom had gotten more animated and were now too distracting to ignore. His inseam was feeling decidedly shorter than it had a minute ago and his students couldn’t mask their reactions any longer.
Most of the girls wrinkled their noses and laughed softly to one another. Some of the guys tried to follow suit, but their half-hearted attempts came off as wooden. They couldn’t hide their fascination or the fact that they were extremely interested in finding out who was behind the very vocal “O”.
Tuck knew exactly who was responsible. Fortunately, his students were freshmen, so most probably hadn’t met the Human Sexuality professor, Doctor Eleanor Malloy. And it was a good thing, because there would have been a stampede to get out of his classroom and into hers.
She didn’t look like any “Eleanor” he’d ever seen and was better known as Cricket. She’d told him that her dad had given her that nickname when she was a child because she never liked to sleep, she just made noise all night long. He had to bite his tongue to keep from asking her if that was still the case and if she’d give him a shot to be the guy behind all the noise.
He’d met her a bunch of times since he started at Westside six months before, but he’d never had the good luck to work in the same building with her until today. The Psych building was cordoned off while a crew of exterminators dealt with an infestation of hornets. The department was scattered throughout the campus now, set up in every available classroom until they got the all-clear.
“Okay, guys. It sounds like Dr. Malloy’s lesson is winding down now, so let’s try to focus,” he said with a smile he hoped didn’t look as pained as it felt.
He wondered how many times she’d been slapped on the wrist for her outrageous classroom antics. There was no question she was great at her job and her students loved her. She was well known for making the material relatable and easy to understand. Moreover, he respected her because she practiced what she preached. She defended her subject of expertise like a wolverine and was very vocal about the fact that she viewed human sexuality as an integral part of life. There was nothing dirty or tawdry about it, thank you very much. Her attitude carried through to her teaching and no subject was taboo. She was fearless and he admired that.
