by Allie Burton
She was always professional. Well, except around him. Something about him dug under her skin and stayed in a low simmer. She whispered back, “Yelling at your staff is not professional.”
“Neither is flirting with them.” His words wounded.
Especially since he was right. She was acting unprofessional. Still, she couldn’t let him win this war of words. “At least I make working fun.”
“Maybe you’re too much fun.” He emphasized his final whisper by throwing the knife into the cutting board tip down and storming out of the kitchen.
For him to treat a knife poorly demonstrated his mental state. He was furious.
The staff gaped, though they must not have heard the whispered exchange. His hateful words from today mixed with his heated glances from yesterday. She didn’t know where she stood with him.
Tony stepped next to her. “Guess Chef’s date with the blonde didn’t end well.”
Her stand wobbled. “What date with a blonde?”
“Maria and I saw him at another restaurant in town.” Tony peered around to confirm Michael hadn’t come back into the kitchen. “They were leaning in and talking quietly.”
The earlier simmering burned in her chest. The same blonde she’d seen him with? The mysterious blonde was why he’d rushed out of the ski bar yesterday. “About what?”
“Don’t know. When we saw him, we left the restaurant. Didn’t want him to see Maria and I together.” Tony’s panic communicated itself in his rapid speech.
The burning constricted her heart, causing pain. Michael had gone from skiing with her to dinner with someone else. And he called her a flirt and a tease. She was done playing games. It was time to get serious on the job and about her future.
* * *
Michael tossed a carton of ice cream, knowing no cameras were hidden in the freezer because of the cold. He hoped the frigid temperature would cool his anger and his ardor. His frustration had manifested into being a jerk. Isabel’s sexual innuendos had pushed and prodded. He’d wanted to respond in a teasing fashion. Heck, he wanted to respond by throwing her on the counter and having sex.
Instead, he’d yelled at her and Alfred.
His temperature spiked, even standing in the freezer.
And now he’d be known as the jerk. In the kitchen, in the gossipy town of Castle Ridge, and on the television show.
He couldn’t forget the cameras recording every minute.
His breath puffed out of his mouth. “Damn.”
Contrary to how he’d acted, he actually enjoyed Isabel’s flirting, especially if she was only flirting with him. The urge to smash more ice cream or the ski patrol guy’s face screamed inside him. He pushed it away because he’d overreacted yesterday. Isabel had a past. She’d dated other people, just as he had. The ski patrol dude might only be a friend. Flirting was part of her friendliness. Something about her set every nerve on edge. As did Jorge and his tricks. And the cameras. Always the cameras.
Michael wanted to get to know this mature Isabel. Except that’s exactly what the producer wanted to score ratings. A hot kitchen affair. He did not want the ratings to be high and, more importantly, he did not want viewers to believe she was a flirt. Or worse.
Picturing how she’d come across after selective editing, he squashed another carton of ice cream between both hands. They’d make her look loose and amoral. Her reputation would be ruined and she’d never get a decent chef position. The town gossips would make her life difficult. He had to be mean for her own sake. He’d rather play the jerk boss for ratings and damage his reputation, than hurt Isabel’s. Her embarrassment after exposing a torrid affair would be too much hot pepper in a dish.
He understood how harmful gossip could be, and waited for news about settling the lawsuit to leak.
Last night, Vivienne Tucker delivered only bad news. There’d been no escape clause in his contract. If the producer wasn’t happy with the rough cuts, he could force Michael to stay in this position longer than three months. He’d be lost in this small-town wasteland forever.
His hatred mellowed. He’d been enjoying his time in Castle Ridge for the most part. The town he’d hated wasn’t so bad anymore.
Vivienne had agreed the best way to meet the obligations of his contract and to raise his profile as a sexy chef was to have an affair. Ratings would skyrocket, reviews of the food would be excellent, and Parker would have a successful restaurant and well-known lodge. Everyone would win.
Except Isabel. He’d be using her. His heart resembled the squashed ice cream carton.
He’d said no.
Vivienne’s only other suggestion to increase ratings was to be the hard-ass boss. Yell. Use profanity. Be a perfectionist.
So, when Isabel had flirted this morning, he’d been a jerk. Whispering to her about the teasing to make her stop, and accusing her of making doughy pasta. The insult might’ve been slung at her, but it had hit him hard.
And he’d yelled at Tony and Alfred.
For the rest of the day, for the rest of his prison sentence here, he’d yell and he’d obsess and he’d be mad at everyone. Ironic, since he took pride in controlling his temper, and now he had to act the fury out. Shoulders set in an unbending position, he stomped out of the freezer and back into the kitchen. Back into the jail.
Isabel seared potatoes in the rondeau for the pommes fondant. Her delicate touch flipped the coin-shaped potatoes at the perfect time. Her body moved with precision and efficiency. A skill she’d done dozens of times, judging by the graceful sway of her hips and the perfection of the vegetable color.
Tony pureed carrots. Maria shaved truffle into mustard dressing. Earl put the finishing spices in the sauce.
Michael was surrounded by like-minded people in the kitchen, and yet he felt alone. He wished he could talk to them about how pleasing the palate was the most exciting thing. About how a perfectly cooked fish melted in your mouth. About the excitement of discovering a new way to prepare a recipe. None of it would go with the new image he needed to cultivate.
His gaze swung back to Isabel—a guillotine waiting to bring down the blade. “That’s not good enough! Chop the potatoes finer.”
Her eyebrows rose in a clear sign of annoyance. “Do you want slices of potatoes or slices of my skin in the pommes fondant?”
He pounced toward Alfred and pinched the mise en place. “This is not fresh enough for my recipe.”
She moved next to Alfred and stood in a defensive position. “Once cooked they’ll be fine.”
“We don’t do fine.” Using his arm, Michael swept the mise en place into the garbage bin. He played a caricature of himself, believing the dramatic action would get a reaction on TV.
“Michael.” Isabel’s shocked tone shredded him.
He bristled and pulled the mean mantle back on. Had he gone over the top? “That was from your suggested vendor. You need to call them and have them deliver better-quality product in an hour, or let them know we won’t be using them in the future.”
Her expression went stern. “Oui, Chef.” Pivoting, she marched into the office.
Her formal acknowledgement slapped. He missed the teasing handsome chef and the winsome smile. Heck, he missed the fun Isabel. He’d been hardest on her because she had the most skill and the most experience. She could handle his insults. She must know she was an excellent chef.
The first turn passed in a similar vein. Him yelling, demanding perfection. The staff jumpy and nervous making more mistakes than usual. Isabel coming to their defense. She was a bear protecting her young cubs. She’d make a great mother.
His stomach roiled as if he’d eaten a death cap mushroom. The poison spread, making his center heat and sending the warmth through his bloodstream. No. He refused to let his mind wander in that direction.
Needing to get out of the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen, an atmosphere he’d created, he headed to his office for a break. The second turn was being seated and he’d have a few minutes to gather himself and pu
t back the mask of fury he’d worn all evening. Taking a deep breath, he paused at the open door when he heard a voice in his office.
Isabel.
His heart stuttered. Michael didn’t want a confrontation now. He didn’t think he could keep up the pretense with her alone.
Except she wasn’t alone. A deep, male voice spoke.
She laughed.
Her fun-filled laughter punched in his gut. He hadn’t made her smile or laugh today. And he missed it. This man, this stranger in his office, had caused her happiness.
“Sorry, Sam.” Her apology purred. “I don’t know what’s wrong. He’s not usually so uptight.”
She seemed to know this Sam guy pretty well. How well? And who was this grouchy person she referred to?
“He’s a dog marking his territory.” The man named Sam mused. “He’s letting people know he’s the boss.”
Michael’s confusion cleared. They were talking about him. He should interrupt, let them know he was standing within hearing range, except he wanted to know how she would respond. After the way he’d treated her today she’d probably complain.
“He didn’t behave this way the first few days, and they had to be the most intense.” She didn’t berate him. He found her words comforting. “Something’s bothering him. I’m not sure what.” Her voice softened like she cared. About him.
His heart thumped.
“I’ll make up for his poor treatment of you.” Sam’s intentions sounded sexually sinister.
The thumping increased. Nervous pressure squeezed his chest as if he were standing on a precipice.
Shuffling noises, like the two of them getting closer, sent Michael over the edge. The tiny office didn’t give them much room, and if Isabel and Sam were getting closer, Michael wanted to know how close. His muscles tensed. He fisted his hands at his sides, wanting to punch the guy.
She laughed again. Her flirty laugh. The laugh that in high school had called attention to herself and whatever boy she was with. The laugh that had driven him crazy. Still did.
He unfisted and re-fisted his hands, clenching and unclenching in tune with the beat of his heart.
“I’m sure you’d do an excellent job.” With a placating tone, she didn’t dismiss Sam.
Had this guy made her feel better before? Would he attempt to make her feel better right now in his office?
And what about the cameras?
Michael couldn’t let the guy make a fool of her. Fisting his hands together again, he barged into the office. “What the hell is going on here?”
Isabel sat behind the desk in his chair. An array of produce from the tonight’s mise en place sat on a cutting board on the desk. Sections of the produce were cut open and a few bites had been taken. They’d been sampling produce.
Sam sat on a chair on the opposite side of the desk. He appeared to be in his fifties, with a few strands of gray hair. He wore his coat. His expression went from professional smile to surprised smirk.
Michael’s adrenaline and the urge to fight whooshed out. There was nothing going on between them. Only his tawdry mind had twisted the dialogue and placed them all over each other on the desk. He was an idiot.
Isabel’s wide gaze narrowed. Her lips tilted into an amused gotcha-grin. “This is Sam from Boulder’s Backyard. He personally delivered more produce for the mise en place you didn’t think was fresh enough. As you requested.”
Not requested. Michael had demanded. Because he’d been playing a role of over-the-top, jerk-head chef.
Sam stood in his jeans and ski jacket. His expression was professional, even though a twinkle of amusement flashed in the man’s eyes.
“Sorry about the earlier delivery, Chef.” He held out his hand.
Shaking off his completely-off-the-mark emotions, Michael shook the man’s hand in a firm grip. “Nice to meet you.” He dropped the man’s hand, afraid he might squeeze too hard as the last of the adrenaline left his body. He pivoted toward Isabel. “Are you satisfied with the new produce?”
“Oui, Chef.” She used his formal title with a hint of insincerity teasing the edges.
Sam shifted on his feet, his observant gaze taking in the tension. “I should be on my way.” His reluctance signaled he’d rather stay and watch what happened next.
“Thank you, Sam.” She jumped to her feet and came around the desk. “See you later.”
The man left him alone to face Isabel.
A furious face. A face getting right into his own. “What is your problem, Michael?”
No formal title now. Or teasing name.
He respected how she stood up for herself, and defended the staff in the kitchen, and the vendors. Unusual, compared to the people he was surrounded by on his television cooking show. Those people kowtowed to him and the network executives.
She kept staring at him with confrontation in her glare.
Biting his lip, he needed to say something to defend his interruption, even if he now knew it wasn’t true. “This is a place of business, not a pickup joint.”
“Excuse me?” Her question whipped up at the end. Whipped up in anger.
Her cheeks flushed and her body stiffened. Details of fury so small only someone who carefully watched and catalogued her body movements and expressions would notice. Only someone who was falling for her charm.
The pace of his heart zoomed as fast as a microwave cooked. The thought terrified him. He wasn’t falling for anyone. He was doing his job and getting out of town.
“You can do your flirting on your own time.” He forced a bad-ass tone. “Not on mine.”
She jabbed into his chest with her finger. “I can talk to anyone I like.” She jabbed him again. “You might be my boss, but you are not my master.”
In a beautiful huff she flounced out of the room, taking her vitality with her.
His shoulders dropped and he ran trembling fingers through his hair, knocking off his forgotten hat. He was already tired of the asshole chef act.
Bending over, he picked up the hat and glared at a lens protruding from the wall. “I hope you got that on camera.”
Chapter Fifteen
In the middle of the second turn, Isabel used her festering fury to whip the batter harder. She’d been being friendly with Sam, nothing more. She’d known him forever, and there’d never been anything personal between them. Sam was happily married, and Michael had no reason to accuse.
“Isabel.” Michael sounded desperate. “We need to talk—”
“I don’t want to hear an apology.” She whipped the batter faster.
What did she find so attractive about him? Sure, he was good-looking and successful. And they had a spark of connection even Danielle and Luke had noticed. Michael was a great brother and uncle. In private moments, he was nice and professional. He believed in her chef skills, when he wasn’t berating her. It was like he switched on the meanness. Why?
“There’s a couple who want to discuss menu options for their wedding.” He choked, as if he didn’t believe in marriage or happily-ever-after.
Which would explain his reputation of dating a ton of women. She dated lots of guys too, because she searched for her soul mate. Maybe she needed to find a way to douse this spark, to sever their connection, if she didn’t want the same future as his other women.
“In the middle of dinner?”
“They’re visiting from out of town. They’re VIPs.” His expression darkened. “The bride-to-be refused to take no for an answer.”
This must be the same couple she’d met in the restaurant the other night. The woman who’d been disappointed to meet her instead of Michael. The woman who wanted him to teach her a few things.
Her poor fiancé.
Isabel didn’t want to deal with self-centered clients. “Why do I have to meet them?”
“Hello?” An annoying female trill came from the hallway leading to the chef’s office. “Where’d you go, Chef Mikey?”
“Chef Mikey?” She held back a snort.
“Quiet.”
The petite, dark-haired woman tugged the man with the two-colored hair into the kitchen. Staff stopped to stare at the invasion of their space.
“Miss Jones.” Michael moved to block the couple from the kitchen.
“Call me, Betsy.” She placed a hand on his shoulder and squeezed as if he were her private plaything. Her too-tight dress yelled for attention. Her heavily-made-up face was photo-shoot ready.
Isabel’s fingers itched to slap the woman’s bejeweled hand away.
“I asked you to wait in my office.” He shot daggers at the man slouching in a casually-expensive button-down shirt and black jeans.
Strange he’d treat a VIP client that way.
“Why wait in an office when I can see where the real work is done?” Letting go of Michael, Betsy breezed into the middle of the kitchen. She trailed her fingers across counters and cutting surfaces.
Isabel’s mouth dropped open. Everything would need to be re-sanitized. Gripping the spoon tighter, Isabel punched the utensil into the batter. Why didn’t Michael toss them out?
“We don’t allow clientele in the kitchen.” His voice hardened, but not as hard as he’d used with the staff.
Where was the total jerk when they needed him?
“Oh, phooey.” Betsy jumped onto the counter, her petite butt smearing flour. “My daddy always said rules don’t apply to me.”
Isabel wanted to have a word with the woman’s daddy about proper parenting, and she wasn’t even a mother. Her muscles tightened, ready to spew what was on her mind. She bit her tongue.
The fiancé-to-be stood and stared at his bride, captivated. Either he was so in love he couldn’t see the woman’s flaws, or her daddy had money.
Betsy dipped her finger into the bowl and stole a taste. “What’s this?”
Isabel heaved. “Now, I’ll need to throw it away. You’ve contaminated the batter.” She flashed a challenging glance at Michael saying if he didn’t take care of the couple she would.
