Buon appetito!!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tracey Alvarez lives in the Coolest Little Capital in the World (a.k.a Wellington, New Zealand) where she’s yet to be buried under her to-be-read book pile by Wellington’s infamous wind—her Kindle’s a lifesaver! Married to a wonderfully supportive IT guy, she has two teens who would love to be surgically linked to their electronic devices.
Fuelled by copious amounts of coffee, she’s the author of contemporary romantic fiction set predominantly in New Zealand. Small-towns, close communities, and families are a big part of the heart-warming stories she writes. Oh, and hot, down-to-earth heroes—Kiwi men, in other words.
When she’s not writing, thinking about writing, or procrastinating about writing, Tracey can be found reading sexy books of all romance genres, nibbling on smuggled chocolate bars, or bribing her kids to take over the housework.
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Questions or comments? E-mail Tracey at tracey@traceyalvarez or find her on the following social networks:
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Acknowledgements
I’m always terrified I’m going to miss someone off this list of acknowledgements, so I’m tempted to do a blanket thank you to everyone. Instead, I’ll try to narrow it down to some groups of people, starting with my family. Thanks for all the meals cooked and housework done while I’m writing, the times Miss 13 and Master 17 have come into my lair to ask me something and I’ve stared at you blankly – I love you guys! Thanks to my wonderful critique partners, who put up with my freak-outs—you gorgeous ladies know who you are! Thanks to my virtual (but just as real!) supportive writer friends on FB and Twitter, most specifically the Ink Ladies and the BOCHOK babes. Thanks to my editor who patiently put up with all my dangling participles. And lastly, a big virtual hug to my Italian friend who helped bring Kezia’s dialogue to life (any screw ups in the beautiful Italian language are my own). Plus my generous friend kindly provided me with Kezia’s recipe for a mean lasagna! Pity I can’t cook – hah! That’s what my darling husband is for...
MORE FROM THIS AUTHOR
The Due South series focuses on family, community, and of course, each book contains a scorching hot romance.
Other books in the series:
In Too Deep (Book #1)
Coming soon…
Ready To Burn (Due South Book 3)
Take one sassy Harland girl…
Shaye Harland, sous chef de-awesome, desperately wants the role of Due South’s head chef. Though a little out of her depth, she can totally cope with the extra demands if she can resist her future brother-in-law when he muscles in on her kitchen. The Hollywood wannabe is nothing but a troublesome distraction and he fries her sex-ometer to a crisp. But as far as romance? Forget it. Love, when she finds Mr. Perfect, will be as sweet as her to-die-for cookies.
Add a bad-boy from LA…
Del Westlake swore he’d never again set foot on the island he calls the “ass end of New Zealand.” With his reputation as a sous chef in one of LA’s hottest restaurants trashed, and his estranged father’s restaurant needing a head chef, Del wants nothing more than to go in, get the job done, and get out. Except his feisty second-in-command carves herself a spot in his heart and completely incinerates his plans.
Watch the sparks fly as they burn it up in the kitchen…
Winning a spot on a TV reality show is just what Del needs to jumpstart his career in LA. Nothing can get in the way of him winning—not even the woman whose trust he’d destroy if she discovers his secrets. But with a film crew capturing the explosive kitchen chemistry between them, will his bad-boy ways rear up and ruin his shot at becoming Shaye’s Mr. Perfect?
Excerpt of
Ready To Burn
Chapter One
So. His life had come to this.
Del Westlake, sous chef of Cosset, one of the up-and-coming hottest restaurants in LA, applying for a job flipping mouse-shaped pancakes at the Happiest Place on Earth.
Make that the “ex” sous chef of Cosset.
His mom always warned that the bigger the ego, the bigger the crash to rock bottom. And he’d hit rock bottom. No job, a messed-up reputation, rent overdue on his Venice Beach duplex, and about to grovel for a position as line cook from a man who’d probably grill him to charred ashes.
Del snorted, his knee bouncing uncontrollably as he slouched on the leather armchair outside the entrance to the character dining restaurant. He checked his watch. Fifteen minutes until his interview—an interview he’d only gotten because one of Cosset’s servers, Larry, was a drinking buddy of this Hotel’s restaurant manager. When a month had gone by and no other reputable restaurant in LA would touch Del, Larry called in a favor.
Shrill giggles stabbed his ears from across the foyer where a giant costumed dog hammed it up with two kindergarten-aged twin girls. Del winced, but at least it wasn’t from the mother of all hangovers. At least this morning the pounding head and sweaty palms were only due to the depressing thought of how righteously he’d screwed up.
The phone in his dress pants pocket vibrated. He fished it out and glanced at the screen. Mom, speak of the devil.
Could he ignore her? Nah, she’d keep trying until she reached him. Better to suck it up and deal with her now.
He jabbed talk. “You’re up early, Mom—too much nasty fresh air down there?”
“Hello to you too, son. I assume you’re still on your morning break?”
Del’s knee jiggled again. He’d be on his morning break if he still had a job. Admitting his current unemployment to Claire Gatlin would be the equivalent of waving an upside down crucifix at the Spanish Inquisition. And his mother had enough to stew over without knowing her youngest son’s career was in the toilet.
“Yeah. We’re pretty slammed, so—”
“I won’t keep you long and I’ll get straight to the point. It’s your father.”
Del’s stomach plummeted like a freight elevator with its cables freshly cut. Mom had flown halfway around the world to New Zealand to look after her ex-husband when she’d found out his kidneys had packed up.
Was the old bastard dead?
Del surged to his feet and strode to a potted fern, tucking the phone closer to his ear. “What about him?”
“He’s getting worse.”
“Oh.”
What the hell else could he say? Glad that the SOB who’d forced Del to go to LA with his mother, still stubbornly clung to life?
“Shaye’s struggling with the workload now that Bill can barely put in any hours.”
Shaye’s name sent a ripple through his mind. Three years his junior, she’d been part of the gang of kids he hung out with in his hometown of Oban. But more than just part of the gang, Shaye and her older siblings had accepted him and his brother, West, as part of their family when his own had broken down.
He stared at his shoes. Shaye had only been eleven when he’d left. A studious kid with stars in her eyes and a killer bowling arm when they’d played cricket on the island’s many beaches. She’d be nearly twenty-five now. Twenty-five was too inexperienced to run Due South’s restaurant solo.
Not his problem. He had more pressing matters to worry about. “You’ve advertised for a head chef though?”
A sharp inhale from seven thousand miles away.
“Ahh. Nobody wants to work at the ass end of New Zealand.”
“Delmar!”
“Sorry. I’m sure lots of people are dying to work in such a wild and beautiful jewel of the Pacific, yadda-yadda-yadda.” Del rolled his eyes and glanced over at the twins who clung to the orange dog so fiercely it was a wonder the poor sucker beneath the fake fur could breathe. “Mom, why are you calling?”
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“Always so impatient, son. Can’t you hold a conversation without rushing?”
Not when he had a scummy, beneath-him job to try and get. “Now’s not a good time.”
“It never is.” She huffed out a sigh. “I want to ask you a favor. You-know-I’ve- never-asked-anything-of-you-before.”
Oh, shit. The Mom-Guilt favor. Nothing good ever came from those words.
“Bill refuses to let a stranger into his kitchen. Your brother posted an ad for a head chef but Bill pulled it days later. I heard him mutter your name, saying “Del should be here, it’s his bloody legacy.”
The proverbial penny dropped, tumbling past his own jumbled worries about how the hell he’d get his career back on track. The proverbial penny nailed him between the eyes and knocked him on his proverbial ass. “Are you asking me to take over as Due South’s head chef?”
“Well…yes. Yes I am. Just until you can train Shaye up to speed or we can find a replacement. Ryan’s a wonderful manager, I’m sure you’ll both figure out what’s best for Due South.”
Ryan, who only answered to “West,” had taken over the running of Oban’s one and only hotel/pub/restaurant four years ago. West coped working alongside their father without cracking the old bastard over the head with a skillet. Del, however, would rather sauté his own nuts before stepping through Due South’s door again. He hadn’t been back to Stewart Island since he left thirteen years ago and as far as he knew, hell hadn’t frozen over yet.
“Mom, I—”
“I know you’ve always wanted to be head chef of your own restaurant.”
He tipped his head back and it thunked on the wall behind him. “Yeah. But in LA, not down there in the bowels of the earth.”
“Head chef is head chef. Your father’s right—Due South is your legacy.”
“Bollocks. He’s lying. Bill would rather gnaw off his own arm than let me touch his precious legacy.”
Del angled his face toward the hotel windows. His reflection, dressed in a white shirt with dried-mud brown hair and a couple of shaving nicks on his jawline glared back. Never gonna win a modeling contract, but on a good day he was passable enough to get a pretty girl’s number with minimal effort. Not today. Today he felt like three-day-old leftovers that some first year culinary student tried to pass off as cuisine.
“That’s no longer the case, Del. He needs you.” Oceans of emotions surged through his mom’s voice, but he didn’t care to dip his toe in those waters.
“Does Bill know you’re ringing me? Does West?”
“West knows.”
Huh. He imagined Bill would have something to say on the subject of his youngest son taking over his kitchen, kidney disease or no kidney disease. Not that it mattered. Del wasn’t that desperate.
Turning away from the window, he caught sight of the big orange dog posing for an obligatory photo. While the woman repositioned her camera for another shot, the dog pretended to nibble on one twin’s head. The other sister shrieked with mirth. Del shuddered.
“I have a job here—a good job.” He hunched a shoulder, waiting for God to smite him for lying to his mother.
“I know. I wouldn’t ask if there were any other way. You must have a bit of paid leave due—or when was the last time you took a vacation?”
Vacation? Who the hell had the time for a vacation when you were trying to get ahead in one of the most competitive, cut-throat, diabolically insane careers? Take a vacation and you may as well take off your fucking apron—permanently.
He flexed his fingers a few times and squeezed his eyes shut. Her soft breaths puffed down the phone line, but his mom damn well knew when silence worked best.
Del’s eyes blinked open. A short ferret of a man with designer eyewear and dressed in an expensive suit, hurried across the tiled foyer toward him.
“I’ve got to go.”
“Just think about it. Due South needs you. I need you. West needs you.” A brief pause, then “And Bill needs you most of all.”
Didn’t need him thirteen years ago. Del clenched his teeth until his molars ached. “I’ll think about it. Bye, Mom.”
He disconnected the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket.
Then channeling his older brother’s infamous charm, he stuck out his hand with a confident smile and prepared to eat a double helping of humble pie.
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ONE LAST THING
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Tracey
Melting Into You (Due South Book 2) Page 29
