by Stacy Finz
Sam lifted her palms in the air. “Late twenties, early thirties?”
Young was even worse. Not a lot of entertainment options unless you went to Reno. “I’ll talk to him,” Nate said. But he wasn’t too hopeful.
“Nate, we need someone sooner rather than later. Emily is only filling in on the condition that we find someone permanently. Soon.”
“All right, I’ll talk to him.” Hadn’t he already said that? Pushy thing.
“Should we do it in the conference room?”
“Nah. We’ll do it in here. But bring me his résumé, so I look like I know what I’m talking about.”
She dashed off and returned with a neatly typed page. He quickly scanned the contents. The guy did seem to have a fair amount of cooking chops. Then again, people were known to lie on résumés. The test would be seeing what he could do in the kitchen. “Bring him in,” Nate said.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” Sam curtsied.
Yeah, he’d missed her mouth.
Sam came back with the guy, and sure enough he had serious ink. Sleeves going up both arms. Nate stood up and shook his hand.
According to his résumé, the man was Brady Benson, and he looked a little saddle worn. Nate offered him a seat and took his own. Sam sat on the couch.
“You live around here?” Nate asked.
“Nope. Just passing through.”
“The job would require that you live here, or at least pretty close by.” Nate wanted to ensure that this chef would stick for a while.
“That’s what I figured,” Brady said. “I’m down with that.”
“You have a family?”
“Just me,” the man of few words said.
Hell, Nate didn’t care if the guy was a mute if he could cook and showed up on time. “If we were to hire you, when could you start?”
“Now.”
Nate caught Sam’s eye as if to say What’s with this guy?
“Brady, why don’t you tell us about yourself?” Sam said.
“Not much to tell.” Brady looked from Sam to Nate. “I cook. And I really need a job.”
Unfazed, Sam continued. “What would you say your style of cooking is?”
“New American.”
“I’ll be right back,” Sam said, and quickly left the room. Nate wondered where the hell she’d disappeared to.
“What brought you through Nugget?” Nate liked stability in his employees, but it didn’t seem like Brady had roots, not if he could settle here on a dime.
“Like I said, I was just passing through.”
Sam rushed back in the room with a folder. “These have been our menus for the past two weeks. What would you do differently?”
Brady took the folder and slowly sorted through the menus. “These look pretty good, but instead of the croissants with olallieberry jam, I’d do biscuits and gravy with house-made sausage. Heartier and what people expect at a country inn. In fall, when berries go out of season, I’d replace the coulis-drizzled Belgian waffles with toasted-pecan pain perdu and apple compote.
“I’ve seen a lot of cattle ranches up here, so I’d probably do a chicken-fried steak using regional beef,” he continued, surprising Nate with his sudden verbosity. “And I’d definitely make huevos rancheros one day a week using farm-fresh eggs and a nice queso fresco. For the afternoon wine and cheese, I’d stick with the local cheeses—I like to go local whenever possible—but I would add in some house-cured meats. I do killer salumi, and since you have the beef, a nice bresaola would be good. You have a cellar?”
“We have a crawl space that you can stand up in. I wouldn’t exactly call it food safe, though,” Nate said. Brady might be a mystery, but he had good ideas. So far, Nate had liked everything, he just didn’t want it to cost him an arm and a leg.
“I can work with it,” Brady said.
“Would you be willing to do a test run of a few of your dishes for Emily, our temporary chef?” Sam asked.
“Sure. Is she here now?”
“She left after breakfast, but I could try to get her back.” Sam looked at Nate, who nodded in agreement, and slipped out to call Emily.
“I’ll be honest with you, Brady. I like your ideas, but I’m worried there’s not much to hold you here. It’s a small town. Not a lot for a young single person.”
“I’ll make do,” he said.
Sam came back. “She’ll be here in ten. Why don’t I take you into the kitchen and you can familiarize yourself with the equipment and help yourself to whatever ingredients we have.”
Nate would give it to Sam. For someone who’d never worked a day in her life, she certainly had a knack for taking charge. It must’ve been all the charity events she’d planned. Part of the reason Maddy had been impressed with Sam in the first place was that she’d chaired so many big fund-raisers. Who knew Miss Junior League would come in so handy?
He let Sam get Brady situated in the kitchen and returned a few phone calls. He’d only left Tracy a few hours ago and already she was hounding him about the opera gala. Supposedly, the event organizer was turning out to be a real pain in the ass.
“The woman is certifiable,” Tracy screeched into the phone. “She wants us to get Thomas Keller to cater the affair. I tried to explain to her that the Theodore does its own in-house catering, but she won’t have it.”
Nate didn’t want to lose the event. It could be an annual feather in his cap. In the past, the ball had been held in San Francisco City Hall. But there had been a lot of political noise that the elite event—tickets cost thousands of dollars a head—being held in a public building was pissing off the 99 percent.
“Can we get Keller?” he asked.
“Uh, when pigs fly out of my ass. The man has two bicoastal Michelin three-star restaurants to run. Kind of busy.”
“You want me to talk to her?” Nate offered.
“What can you say that I haven’t, unless you have a direct pipeline to Alain Ducasse. That’s her second chef choice. He doesn’t even have a restaurant in the Bay Area. Seriously, the woman makes me want to kill myself.”
“Well, don’t do it on Breyer Hotel property. It’s bad publicity, not to mention the mess.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Tracy said.
“Trace, work this out, please. There’s a bonus in it for you.”
“When this is over, Nate, I want an all-expense-paid vacation in Hawaii.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Wanna come with me? Nothing but sun and fun.”
“Not happening, Trace. Make nice with the lady, okay?” Sam walked in, and the idea of going to Hawaii with her seemed much more appealing than Tracy. He started to visualize Sam in a bikini and stopped himself. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Have good news for me when I call you tomorrow.”
Nate hung up and Sam said, “Brady’s doing prep. I’ll call you when he has something for you to try.”
“Sounds good.”
A half hour later, Sam motioned for him to follow her into the kitchen, where delicious smells made his mouth water. Both Brady and Emily wore chef whites and stood over a large frittata and some kind of potato dish.
“Sour cream coffee cake is still in the oven,” Emily said. “But dig in while it’s hot.”
Nate didn’t need to be asked twice. He hadn’t had lunch and was starved. Emily handed him a fork and he dug into the egg dish first. “Jesus Christ, this is good.”
“Not Jesus, just me,” Brady said, and Nate was surprised to find that the reticent chef had a sense of humor.
Nate made eye contact with Emily and she gave him an affirmative nod. The message clear: Brady Benson could cook. Nate tried the potatoes, which were equally good, and decided to hang out in the kitchen until the coffee cake was done.
Brady seemed to loosen up. Maybe he felt more comfortable around a stove.
“You have any prospects on a place to live?” Nate asked.
“Does that mean I have the job?”
“We’ll h
ave to discuss salary first. I’ll need to talk to a few of your references. You know the drill. But if everything checks out, the job is yours.” It’s not like Nate had a lot of trained cooks banging on his door.
The oven timer buzzed and Brady pulled the cake out. “Sounds good. Any of you know a cheap place I can rent?”
“I might,” Nate said. “Let me make a few calls.”
First, Nate wanted to talk money. As soon as Brady got a load of the pay, there was a good chance he’d turn the job down. But just one bite of the coffee cake, and Nate knew he had to strike a deal.
When Sam got home from work, her answering machine was lit up like Times Square. Two calls, which was peculiar, because no one used the landline. She dug her cell out of her purse only to find it dead. That explained that.
She plugged it into her docking station to charge and pressed the button on the answering machine.
“Oh. My. God.” Wendy sounded positively apoplectic. “You would not believe what that turd, Royce Whitley, has done. Call me.”
The next call was from her father. For the last couple of days they’d played phone tag—Sam intentionally calling him at hours when she knew he wouldn’t pick up. She just didn’t have the fortitude to fight with him.
“Samantha, I really wish you would stop ducking my calls.” While he droned on about her being the worst daughter since Lizzie Borden, she changed out of her work clothes into something loose and comfortable. “I’ve been trying to let you know that Royce has gotten engaged and has let it leak that it was he who broke it off with you. Some rubbish about him being in love with Carolyn Bradley. That’s who he’s engaged to, by the way. Please have the decency to call me back.”
Sam erased both messages. Carolyn Bradley? The woman was a year older than Sam, skinny as a toothpick and dull as C-SPAN. Sam should’ve been outraged, or at the very least insulted, that Royce was so desperate for an acceptable wife that he would choose anyone with the right last name. Instead, she felt nothing. Frankly, she couldn’t be bothered, not even for her father’s sake. That’s what he got for being superficial. And Royce, well, he’d proven to be a complete phony.
In the time she’d lived in Nugget, last names and people’s financial worth had ceased to matter. No one here cared about her bank account or the fact that she was a Dunsbury. If anything it seemed to be a liability, especially where Nate was concerned.
She peeked outside her window to see if he was home yet. Watching his house had become her latest preoccupation. But before leaving the inn for the day, he’d told her that he was heading over to Sophie and Mariah’s house to see Lilly. He was devoted to that baby, and she wondered if it was difficult for him not having a more permanent place in the child’s life. If not for Lilly, Nate never would have struck her as daddy material. He’d told her himself that he was a confirmed bachelor.
And today she was pretty sure she’d caught him flirting with Tracy on the phone. No question the woman wanted him in the worst way. Sam could tell from their first meeting. Tracy had practically drooled over him, shoving her breasts in his face every chance she got. Sam had gotten the distinct impression that Nate wasn’t interested. But maybe while he was in San Francisco, Tracy had worked him over with those boobs of hers.
She certainly was attractive enough. Clearly, Nate thought she was the best event planner on the face of the earth. Sam, not so much. Good old Tracy had nearly blown the Landon Lowery deal. It had been Sam who’d saved it using some of the basic tricks she’d learned planning charity events. Getting people to cough up megabucks year after year for the same event took a certain degree of ingenuity. Every event had to have a gimmick, whether it was a big-name entertainer or a fantastic prize that wasn’t otherwise available for any price. Like dinner with the Times restaurant critic, or winemaking with Helen Turley, or being Lady Gaga’s roadie for the day. In order to snag these plums, you had to know people. So Sam had made it her business to know everyone, just like she’d been doing in Nugget.
As a result she’d managed to raise millions for organizations like the Make-a-Wish Foundation, Wounded Warrior Project, and United Way. Event planning for a hotel wasn’t that different. If anything, it was easier.
Sam took a quick glance out the window again. Still no sign of Nate. If he knew how often she checked for him, he’d slap her with a restraining order. But she liked knowing he was there. Not because she was afraid of being alone. Griffin lived just a short distance away and there were others scattered across the development. It was just that Nate . . . Oh hell, she didn’t know why. She just liked him. Like really liked him. Stupid, since he’d made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t interested.
She checked one more time for his car or a light, and when she didn’t see either, she called her father. It was ten o’clock his time. A bit late, but not late enough that he wouldn’t still be up.
She waited while the phone rang, dreading the conversation. It was always the same old, same old, “Sam, come home.” He answered in a gruff voice.
“Hi, Daddy. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Did you get my message?” was all he said.
“About Royce? Yes.”
“The jackass.” Her father grunted. “All right, Sam, you’ve won. Now stop this ridiculous charade and come home.”
Right on cue, Sam thought. The man was nothing if not predictable. “Daddy, I don’t think you understand. I’ve made a life for myself here. I’m happy.”
“Working at a small inn in the middle of nowhere? You’ve got to be kidding me. Samantha, if I knew you wanted to work in the hospitality industry, I could’ve set you up in New York. The Waldorf, the Four Seasons, whatever you wanted.”
“That’s the thing, Daddy, it wasn’t until I came here that I figured out what I wanted to do. I suppose all those years planning events on my charity committees were good for something.”
The other end of the phone went silent.
“Are you still there?” Sam asked.
“I’m here. Well, at least come home and show your face until this absurdness with Royce blows over. Let people see you’re unfazed by it.”
“I am unfazed by it, Daddy. I don’t need to let people see that, because it’s the truth. Besides, I can’t leave now. We’re coming up on the thick of our tourism season.”
“For God’s sake, Sam, stop this. Your place is here, not in some town I’ve never heard of. Don’t you want to spend a couple of weeks in the summerhouse? Or should I go back to selling it?”
“If you want me to go back to suing you.” She still had that ace up her sleeve, even if her legal grounds were flimsy. The whole point of it was to make a scene, because George Dunsbury hated scenes.
“Enough, Sam. You know as well as I do that you don’t have a case. But you know a lawsuit would grab headlines and embarrass me. It’s extortion, plain and simple.”
“Just like you selling the summerhouse. You know the house means the world to me. Yet you’re willing to hold it over my head to get your way.”
“When did you become so stubborn, Sam? You’re my only child, and I want you home.”
“Come visit me, Daddy. It’s beautiful here. You could play golf and go fishing.” And meet the town’s crazies, like Owen. “There’s a world champion bull rider who’s opening a dude ranch nearby. We’re planning to combine our facilities for various guest packages and I would love to show you the place. And the inn, Daddy. It’s a fantastic Victorian, built more than one hundred fifty years ago by a lumber baron for his bride. Between the gold rush and the Donner Party, the place is drenched in history.”
All she got on the other end of the phone was a long sigh.
“Let me know when you plan to come home, Samantha,” he said, and clicked off.
Well, that went well. He had some nerve calling her stubborn. The man could write the book on being obstinate. Next, she tried Wendy and left a message. Maybe her friend was out on a hot date. At least someone was.
Sam went into the
great room, planning to watch some television, got a glass of water in the kitchen, and glanced out the window over the sink. Finally, signs of life at Nate’s house. A few lights illuminated his interior. She must’ve missed the sound of his garage door opening and closing while she was on the phone.
After flipping through the channels and finding nothing on TV, Sam decided to read. But her book didn’t hold her interest, so she put it down and leafed through Emily’s wedding binder, checking on her to-do list. Except there wasn’t much to do. She’d done it all.
Too early to go to sleep, she was bored senseless. Peering out the window again, she wondered what Nate was doing. She wandered into her bedroom and examined her outfit in the full-length mirror. A pair of lightweight cashmere lounge pants and a hoodie she’d gotten at Barneys. If she put her bra back on, she’d be acceptable for company. In the bathroom, Sam brushed her hair and freshened up her makeup. Nothing too overt. Just a little more mascara and a touch of lip gloss.
On her way out of the house she slipped on a pair of flats, grabbed a bottle of merlot, and walked over to Nate’s house. Nowadays, it didn’t get dark until well after eight. Maybe they could sit on Nate’s back deck and watch the sun set.
She rang the bell and he came to the door in a pair of faded jeans with rips in the knees and a T-shirt that stretched across his wide chest and emphasized his flat stomach. Nate in a suit was perfection. But Nate in Levi’s was a work of art.
“Hey,” he said. “What brings you by?”
She held up the bottle of wine. “I thought we could hang out on your deck and drink this.”
He pointedly stared at her deck, a twin of his own. “What’s wrong with yours?”
“You want to come over to mine? We can do that.”
“Sam, I thought we talked about this. It’s not a good idea. I’m your boss and you’re clearly obsessed with me.” He grinned at her wolfishly. The man pretended to be full of himself, but Sam knew he wasn’t. For some reason she felt completely comfortable with the sarcastic fool.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Nate. You’re not that great, but I’m desperate for company.”
