by Allie Burton
“Between the unflattering chef’s coat and the hat covering my hair, I want one part of my body to look good.”
He tried to control his libido. “You’re gorgeous no matter what you’re wearing.”
Her foot stiffened in his hand. She sat up in the chair, effectively pulling her foot out of reach. Taking an unsteady breath, his mind flipped. He’d gone too far. Caressed and stroked too high up her leg. He was her boss. He’d told her and the other staff members no entanglements. He’d made the rule to save everyone embarrassment in front of the cameras.
His body froze. Every muscle went taut. Without moving his head, he peered around, searching for the hidden lens.
One of the reasons for his no-romantic-entanglements rule was to keep drama to a minimum. If no one flirted or fought and they kept the kitchen clean and the food excellent, the footage for the show would be boring.
And if Kitchen Catastrophe wasn’t a catastrophe, the show would never air.
Had his foot canoodling with Isabel damaged that plan?
Chapter Seven
Why did I pull away?
Isabel chastised herself. She’d wanted the massage to go on and on and on. Then, he’d called her gorgeous and she’d sat up to hear every detail. His unheard-of compliment had shocked. He’d never complimented her in the past, because he saw her as an annoying younger sister. At least, that’s how he’d always treated her. Except recently, when they’d kissed.
And now, he was standing, moving away. Not closer. Had she lost the opportunity?
“It was a good night.” Work talk, not romantic talk.
The moment was gone. Her high school fantasies were not about to come true.
“Yes, it was.” She shifted in the chair.
“You were great.”
“So were you.”
The clock on the wall ticked the passing awkward seconds. He shuffled his feet and peered at the ground, his hair tumbling adorably. The silence in the room became tense, uncomfortable. Her pulse thrashed. How did you switch from sensual touching to talking about work?
Her mind sorted, trying to find something to talk about. She spotted the invoice she’d been reading. “I noticed you ordered from West Slope Farms.”
He’d ordered dry goods, produce, and meat before she’d come back from vacation, leaving her out of the process. “I wasn’t happy with their produce.”
“I suggest you try Boulder’s Backyard. They’re a small operation. A little more expensive, but the quality is guaranteed.” If he would’ve asked for help, she would’ve freely given it. Well, after she was over her initial anger. “Plus, they’re local, so you don’t have to worry about delivery delays.” Even though she was still upset about not getting the position, she wouldn’t do anything to harm the restaurant.
“Makes sense.” Avoiding her, he paced farther away. His broad shoulders hunched and yet, he managed to fill out the chef’s coat nicely. “Did Chef Françoise use them?”
“We started experimenting with their produce in November.” She’d convinced the old chef to give the small start-up a try. “Then the holiday craziness set in…”
Nodding, Michael spun toward her. “Let’s set up a meeting in the next couple of days. We’ll sit down with them and discuss their products and the quantity we’d need.”
A thrill shot through her. “We?”
“It was your resource.” He sounded serious. His gaze narrowed, and his brow scrunched. “I want you to work by my side. Learn the business from the head chef position.”
Another thrill swooshed through her system, electrified by admiration. Michael was treating her with respect. He thought she was a good chef. He believed her thoughts and sources could help make the restaurant a success.
The electricity set off a light bulb in her head. She could become co-head chef. They’d spend more time together and she’d get the lost opportunity back. More opportunities in a variety of ways.
“You’re much more familiar with local resources, conditions, and reputations,” he added, as if he needed to explain himself, or wanted to say more. He moved to his locker and took off his chef’s coat and hat. She appreciated how his black, button-down shirt tapered into the waist of his pants. “I’m going to head out. Can you handle everything else?”
“Don’t you want to discuss this now?” Maybe over drinks?
“Can’t. See you tomorrow.” Grabbing his black sweater, he waved and left the small office, appearing anxious to escape.
Isabel let her swirling emotions settle. Disappointment at not being with him was overruled by her excitement at the prospect of working closely together. They’d worked so well tonight. She’d anticipated his needs before his request. They’d worked as a team. He’d listened and respected her opinions. She hadn’t expected any of this. Nor had she expected the sizzling connection at every touch.
Maybe she’d get a second chance at whatever the foot massage was leading to. Spinning around in the chair, she squealed.
She wouldn’t sit idly by and let things happen. She’d pursue what she wanted. To become co-head chef. To become romantically involved. Maybe their perfect kiss from New Year’s Eve would be repeated and repeated and repeated.
She spun around in the chair again, letting the spinning sensation make her dizzy with happiness. “Wheeeeeee!”
“What’re you so happy about?” Standing in the doorway, Tony’s lips pursed into disapproval. “What’s going to happen when Chef finds out Maria and I are dating?”
Isabel stopped the motion of the chair. The couple were serious about each other and had never caused problems in the kitchen—one of the reasons she believed relationships in the kitchen could work. They were a family. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about the restriction for long.”
“Why not?” Tony’s skeptical expression didn’t change.
The spinning sensation wanted to burst out of her. “Let’s just say Chef can’t expect his staff to adhere to rules if he doesn’t.” She couldn’t stop the small grin slipping out. If she and Michael were a couple, Tony and Maria could be a couple, too. Having a relationship solved more than one problem.
“Oh, yeah?” Tony’s eyebrows rose in question. “Who’s he dating?”
“No one, yet.” She tried to tamp down her smile, not wanting to give anything away. If she could keep Tony and Maria’s secret, she could keep her own.
“What are we supposed to do until then?”
“Your secret is safe with me and everyone else on staff. Just don’t become demonstrative at work.” Lecturing Tony, her cheeks warmed, remembering Michael’s demonstrativeness toward her feet.
“Who has time to be demonstrative with Chef cracking the whip?”
“That’s his job.” Surprised, she defended him. “He wants everything to be soigne. Perfect. How is closing going?”
“Good.” He headed out to finish the close.
After reviewing the schedule, checking on the washing and prep work for tomorrow, and making sure the lodge’s nightshift was ready to go, she kicked off her shoes and wished Michael was here to massage her feet again. He’d be happy with the prep work for tomorrow and the shape of the kitchen. He’d put in an organized system for orders, choreographed the normal chaotic movements of the staff, and faced the frozen supplies in the freezer. Was he as exhausted as she and already asleep in his room upstairs at the lodge?
The image of him lying naked in bed overtook her in a wave of heat, and the urge to curl up with him bumped against her heart.
She slipped on her snow boots and grabbed her heavy wool coat. She’d check to see if Danielle was working the front desk, and get her to talk about Michael’s reason for returning to Castle Ridge.
Humming a tune, Isabel strolled through the restaurant. The clang of glasses greeted her. Staff worked on resetting the tables with clean linens and silverware. A guffaw of laughter erupted from the bar area. A group of skiers gathered. Many a night she’d stop by to meet cute, single men. Tonight th
ey held no interest.
The holiday decorations were down, yet the atmosphere remained festive, with the large window displaying the falling snow and a blazing fire in the stone fireplace. Warmth centered inside her. She loved Castle Ridge. Loved the picturesque views and the friendly people. Wanted to raise her kids here close to family and friends.
Her gaze traveled to the mostly-filled booths surrounding the bar and stopped on a broad pair of shoulders in a black sweater. She recognized those shoulders. And the floppy shape of his hair.
Michael wasn’t snuggled up in his bed. He was in the bar with…
She peeked farther around the corner to get a glimpse of a sleek-styled blonde head tilting toward him.
The happy tune she’d been humming jammed in her throat.
He was with another woman. A beautiful woman who obviously was very interested in what he had to say. The woman’s long hair covered her face, but her body language was easy to read. Enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm for Michael.
Isabel’s own enthusiasm jettisoned. She couldn’t march to the booth and demand an explanation. She and Michael had made no promises. She struggled to take a breath through her closed up throat. She’d thought his touch meant more. Thought the perfect kiss would be repeated multiple times.
Why?
Because he respected her cooking skills and massaged her feet? She knew better. His reputation preceded him. He was a player like everyone thought she was. She’d believed her connection with him had been more meaningful. Silly to think that from a couple of kisses and caresses.
Similar to an over-boiling covered pot, she wanted to blow. Blow off Michael, blow off the restaurant, blow off Castle Ridge. It was time to leave. To find her own path, to create a new recipe for the rest of her life.
Except she really didn’t want to go.
* * *
“Jorge. I didn’t realize you were in town.” The following morning, Michael shook hands with the producer of Kitchen Catastrophe, trying to stay civil with the jerk. This was the guy who’d made his life a nightmare.
Parker had texted him to stop by his office on the way to the kitchen. Michael wasn’t expecting to be ambushed by a three-piece-suited Parker, and casually-dressed producer. Jorge didn’t fit in with the regular lodge guests, with his Vans sneakers, purposely-ripped jeans, and an expensive, short-sleeved designer T-shirt. He’d be more at home strolling Hollywood Boulevard than Main Street.
“Mr. Roberts is a guest at the lodge.” Parker rubbed his hands together.
For how long? The question stuck in Michael’s gut. He didn’t want the sniveling snake producer around. He was trying to stay calm and professional, to launch The Heights restaurant with no drama, so the reality show would fail.
“Need to watch our substantial investment in cameras, time, and talent.” Jorge smirked, and regarded both other men suspiciously.
Searching for a politically correct answer, instead of the shove it Michael wanted to say, his gaze roamed the room. “You shouldn’t stay at the lodge. Someone from the kitchen might recognize you.”
“Yeah, right.” The producer flicked a finger at him. “Unless you’re on TV, the people in this town wouldn’t recognize the important people behind the cameras. The executives who make Hollywood happen.”
He clenched his jaw. He shouldn’t be insulted, because he wasn’t from Castle Ridge anymore.
“What about the kitchen staff? The unknown talent? Or should I say unknowing-talent?” Bitterness laced his tongue. He wasn’t the only one who’d been deceived. “Will they be paid for their time and talent?”
Vivienne hadn’t given him much hope of getting out of the contract. She’d promised to research the terms. Her biggest avenue of discovery would be other kitchen staff members, and the contracts they’d signed. She said if she could find a legal reason to make those contracts invalid, the show would never air, and they’d let him out of his contract.
Parker ran fingers through his already messy hair. “The staff earns a decent salary and will receive bonuses from the network.”
Jorge’s eyes narrowed. He didn’t like Michael watching out for the others. “Once the show is edited and approved, they will learn about the filming and be paid by their clips or appearances in the televised show. We don’t want anyone trying to act. I watched the rough cut from last night.”
“Already?” His nerves jumped, waiting for the chopping knife to fall. “Opening night went perfectly.”
His mind ran through the events of the evening. The kitchen had been clean, the staff organized, the food perfect, and the patrons happy. Many opening nights didn’t run so smoothly. He was proud of his staff. Especially Isabel, who could replace him easily.
“A little too perfectly.” Jorge’s bluntness wasn’t lost on Michael.
Even though he understood, he asked the question anyway, using an aggressive voice. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Booooring.” The producer trilled.
Parker’s face paled, and he wavered on his feet. “We want everything to run smoothly. Michael is building the restaurant’s reputation.”
“I’m building my network’s reputation.” Jorge picked up his glass filled with a dark liquid and saluted.
The morning-drinker-weasel was probably building his own reputation. He was young and ambitious. If he had any other significant projects, he wouldn’t be staying in Castle Ridge. He was here to make trouble.
“Great reality television is drama and hilarious mistakes and sexual tension.” A gleam appeared in Jorge’s dark orbs. His vision for Kitchen Catastrophe was in the name.
“Then you hired the wrong chef.” Michael crossed his arms, controlling the urge to shake the producer. He planned to foil the network’s expectation. “I’m about perfection.”
“Listen,” Parker spoke with his hands trying to appease. “I’m sure there are ways to make the show exciting, while creating wonderful meals and making restaurant-goers happy.” He gripped the side of the desk.
He must not have understood what he’d gotten the restaurant into. He’d thought the television show would be great exposure for his lodge, not realizing ratings were only made with high drama and humor.
Disgust settled like a coating of flour around Michael. He was calling the kettle black. He’d been deceived and was now deceiving.
“I’ve got a few ideas.”
He pictured Jorge twirling his evil mustache as he spoke. His lies and misrepresentations made Michael’s head spin.
The weasel wouldn’t do what was best for Castle Ridge Lodge and restaurant. All he cared about were ratings and being noticed by network executives. Michael had met his kind many times.
Unfortunately for Michael and Parker and the rest of the lodge staff, Jorge would do what he wanted, no matter who objected. No matter who was hurt. No matter who appeared the fool.
Chapter Eight
With a heavy heart, Isabel spent the next morning working on her resume before heading to the restaurant. She wouldn’t do anything rash, still…best to be prepared. Between losing the head chef position to Michael and seeing him flirt with another woman, she couldn’t be sure about the atmosphere at Castle Ridge Lodge. She and Michael weren’t going to be a couple, or co-head chefs. She had to at least start the search to find a position. Didn’t mean she was going to accept a new job. Leaving her hometown would be tough. Moving away from her brothers and her friends tougher. She didn’t know if she would relocate to further her career.
Shoving her arms into the chef’s coat, she wiggled her feet in her inappropriate shoes—dressy ballet flats today—and headed into the kitchen. The quietness of the morning consoled. Before the hoods rumbled and the flames flared, before the pots were stirred and the chopping started, the kitchen was a place of refuge. The prep chefs were doing their work, deliveries were rolling in, and the prep lists dangled from the ticket racks above each station. Things appeared organized, unlike her thoughts.
She had no idea w
hat she was going to say to Michael. He’d been so nice last night, and the massage of her foot had given her palpitations and hope that maybe, maybe…
Her lungs collapsed with her hope. Maybe nothing. He’d went from caressing her foot to a date with someone else.
The person of her thoughts hurried into the kitchen, his mind obviously somewhere else by his concentrated expression. Probably on his blonde bombshell from last night.
She swished the tart taste around her mouth. “Late night?”
“Oh. No.” He absentmindedly buttoned his chef’s coat. “I was in a meeting with Parker and…” Michael startled and stared straight ahead. “Parker.”
He was lying. She could tell by the panicked flash in his slate-gray eyes, and the way his chin pulled in. The tart taste in her mouth soured. He was lying to her. Why?
“We have to deal with two Parkers now?” Her joke wasn’t heard.
Michael froze, squinting at her. His lined brow smoothed. “Sometimes it feels like Parker is two very different people.”
The cryptic message doubled her curiosity. Parker hadn’t been acting himself for months. She’d worked with him for years, and assumed it was the stress of running the lodge. Why would it affect Michael so personally?
“Everything okay with you?” She hated that she cared.
“Yes.” His curt nod signaled he didn’t want to talk. Not to her, anyhow. Maybe he wanted to talk to the blonde from last night. “Have you checked the storage fridges, yet?”
That’s how the rest of the day went. Talking about tasks and meals and timing. She checked the walk-ins for cleanliness and order. He checked the fish box for temperature and storage and quality of product. She checked the diary box for expiration dates. He checked the produce box for proper smells, and made sure the produce was kitted properly.
As the rest of the staff shuffled in, they would assume the two of them were working professionals. The curt tones and brusque manners wouldn’t be noticed. They wouldn’t realize the tension between every word they spoke—at least, on her part.
