by Mindy Klasky
All right, then. It wasn’t her job prospects that had kept him awake until sunrise. It was the way his fingers had twitched to take down her hair. It was the way her lower lip had glistened its own sweet invitation. It was the way her pulse had pounded to life when his fingers were on her wrists, making him want to feel her heartbeat in a lot of other places…
Christ. It had been fifteen years since he’d needed to hide a hard-on from his grandmother. He shifted in the flower-covered wing chair, waving his hand like there hadn’t been an awkward pause in the conversation. “It’s good to see you, Angel. How are you feeling today?”
“I’m splendid, dear,” she said, and it sounded like she meant it. “I slept like a baby last night. Now tell me about this young woman. She’s a chef, I take it, from her clothes.”
He sighed. He was the one who’d agreed to this game. But given the soft smile on Angel’s face, it just might be worthwhile. She was a lot calmer today, less anxious than he’d seen her in a while. “Her name is Ashley. She’s one of the contestants on Who Wears the Apron. We met at the filming the other day, and we really hit it off.”
“You see! I can hear it in your voice. You’re happier already!”
And the ridiculous thing was, Angel was right. No sleep, the contest hanging in the balance, this weird-ass visit to hand over the picture in exchange for another recipe… But he was happy.
He decided to humor Angel, to give her more of a glimpse into his life. After all, that’s what she really cared about. She might not remember the details an hour from now, but she wanted to be a part of his life. That’s what she’d always wanted—all those years when she’d listened to him recount Little League games, when she’d soaked up details of his college career. Angel had always been his greatest fan, and so he told her everything he could remember about the TV show’s cooking contest.
“It sounds like such a wonderful opportunity,” she said when he was finished.
“It is,” he agreed. “But it really changes the way I’m thinking about my restaurant. When my agent first suggested the investment, we both thought it would be a tax write-off. You know, something that would be fun to set up in the off-season, but I wouldn’t have to focus on it once I get down to spring training.”
“Rather like those women you’ve been dating,” Angel said tartly.
So, her memory wasn’t entirely gone yet. He shoved down his irritation and went on, “But now that I’m really thinking about it, in terms of menus and pleasing specific customers—or judges anyway—I don’t want to just toss off the whole restaurant thing.”
“That makes sense,” Angel said loyally. “You’ve never been a quitter before.” Her voice darkened, though, as she seemed to remember something. “Except for—”
“Yes, Angel,” he interrupted, because he knew the one track of her mind. “Except for my love life. Just remember—I wasn’t the one who walked out on my marriage.”
“Is that what all those photos were about, the ones Harpy showed the judge?” Angel couldn’t remember what she ate for breakfast, but she had no problem recalling a private investigator’s grainy black-and-white photos from three years back. Her expression softened, though, and she said, “Don’t be a quitter now, Josh. Don’t give up on finding someone else to love.”
Give it a rest! he wanted to scream. He was going to be a quitter, if love meant giving up his home, his car, his salary, and his pride. He’d lost everything once, and he had no intention of ever doing that again, of ever taking that sort of risk another time. He couldn’t afford to, emotionally or financially.
But he forced himself to smile, to keep a civil tongue in his head despite his exhaustion. “Come on, Angel. You know I’m saving my love for you.” He dragged himself out of his chair to kiss her cheek. “Now, where are you hiding your recipes?”
She tsked, but she waved him toward the drawer beneath her photo albums. “You can take one. Until you bring me another picture.”
He pulled out the leather binder. The pages were divided into sections—breads, appetizers, soups, salads, main courses, side dishes, desserts. Each sheet was written in Angel’s immaculate script, the ingredients listed first, followed by painstaking directions. Some of the pages were stained—a drop of oil making the paper translucent, a spatter of some red sauce obscuring a couple of words. The recipes were clearly used, clearly loved.
As he paged through them, his mouth watered. This was his childhood, right here in black and white. There was the chicken and rice soup Angel had made him when he had chicken pox. There was the Brunswick stew that accompanied every barbecue dish of his youth. There was the chocolate chess pie that delivered top prize money at his Boy Scout fundraising auction, every single year.
“Angel,” he said, looking up from the collection. “You should publish these.”
“That’s too much trouble, Ron.”
“Josh,” he said, correcting her.
“What?”
“You called me Ron. I’m Ron’s son. I’m Josh.”
She took a handkerchief out of her sleeve and dabbed at her upper lip, obviously disoriented. “Of course I know that,” she said, after far too long a pause. “I’m just a little tired, dear. A little distracted.”
She wasn’t tired. She was getting worse. But it wouldn’t do any good to say anything. Fighting her about it would only make her self-conscious.
Shit. He should choose a recipe and get the hell out of there. Let Janice help her back to her bedroom. Let her take a nap, so maybe when she woke up, all her circuits would be firing normally.
That would let him focus on what was important—cooking up an appetizer that couldn’t be beat. Cooking an appetizer and winning Who Wears the Apron—and getting another picture for Angel. Because he wasn’t sure now how many more she’d remember.
~~~
“Thanks,” Ashley said to Dustin, nodding toward the purse that was now centered on her kitchen counter. “I owe you.”
“It was the least I could do,” he said. “You just bounced me two years ahead in my own career plan. Throckmorton gave me a promotion before he left last night.”
“Any more money?” Ashley asked.
“He was desperate, not insane. I get the same old wage for the first full month, ‘while we check each other out.’ After that, he’ll reconsider.”
“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about whether you should wear a low-cut blouse to give yourself a better chance at the big bucks.”
Dustin laughed with her and popped a handful of spiced nuts into his mouth. “So what do you do now?”
“Why is everyone asking me that?”
“Who else asked?”
And, just like a teenager, she blushed. That was stupid. There wasn’t any reason Josh Cantor should make her blush. The guy had saved her from walking onstage with her bra exposed, so what? He’d stood by her like some sort of superhero while she splashed her way out of her job, so what? He’d bought her a couple of consolation-prize drinks, obviously thought about kissing her, and even more obviously changed his mind. So freaking what?
Well, she’d dreamed about him last night, that was what. Despite the fact that she didn’t do real relationships with men; she didn’t stay the night, and she definitely didn’t waste her time spinning out nocturnal fantasies.
Damn. It had been a crazy dream, one of those insane mental buffets. She’d been standing in Mangia dressed in a silk sheath and stilettos, sipping a martini that he handed her from some passing waiter’s tray. When he leaned over to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear, he’d said, “Let’s get out of here.” And the next thing she knew, they were in Rockets Field, standing in the middle of the ballpark, underneath the massive scoreboard that she’d only seen at a handful of baseball games in real life. He’d been wearing his uniform, those tight white pants, and he’d offered her a plate of fresh-shucked oysters. She’d somehow lost her dress along the way, and she’d been standing in front of him wearing nothing but a skimpy sca
rlet bra and matching lace panties—and a garter belt, if that counted as clothes. She’d picked up an oyster, and in the magic way of dreams, the plate had disappeared from his palm. As she threw her head back to swallow the sweet brine, he’d slipped his hand between her thighs, whispered his palm past her crimson lace and slid his fingers…
She shook herself back to reality, taking a healthy swallow from her sweet tea and lunging for the fridge to refresh Dustin’s glass before she trusted herself enough to answer his question, to say who else was asking about her future plans. “You know, Josh Cantor. After we left last night.”
“The Josh Cantor you’re competing against in Who Wears the Apron?”
She met his eyes with a laugh. “See? I can tell you’ll succeed as Mangia’s head chef. You don’t miss a thing!”
Her friend shrugged. “Sheila was waiting up for me last night, couldn’t wait to hear the full story of what happened. She said you guys were a trending topic on Twitter all night long. If one tenth of the people who posted pictures of you two actually ate at Mangia, Throckmorton would own the most successful restaurant in town.”
“We’ll just see about that,” Ashley said, digging in the bowl for a cashew.
“You’re doing it, then? Going ahead with your own place?”
She shook her head. “Not yet. I met with my lawyer first thing this morning. He’s been keeping an eye out for properties, trying to line up the perfect place. I told him things are a little more urgent now.”
There was no need for her to tell Dustin her lawyer’s response: She didn’t have enough capital to make a restaurant work now. She knew the bitter facts from her business management classes: The number one reason most restaurants failed was they didn’t have enough operating capital after their initial investment in the property.
She needed that check from Wake Up Wake County. And she needed it now.
Dustin was nodding, though. He understood how tough their business was. He knew the odds were very much against her succeeding. Nevertheless, he said, “You know I’ll give notice the second you’re hiring.”
“Don’t make promises so rashly! You might live to regret them.”
“Never,” he said loyally. “Sheila and I have talked about it before. Now that she’s finished her residency and is earning a real salary, we’ve got more flexibility. I can take the risk, when you can.”
He was serious. And his calm certainty was like an infusion of steel to her spine. “Thank you,” she said. “I can’t tell you what that means to me.”
He shrugged off her gratitude. “So, what are you planning for the next round of competition? It has to be an appetizer, right?”
She nodded. “I’m thinking it has to be something a little exotic. I kept it simple with the bread and spreads. This time, I need to wow them with my skill, with my creativity. Maybe—”
Her phone rang before she could tell him what she was thinking about trying. “Just a second,” she said, and then she answered.
“Ms. Harris?”
“Speaking.”
“I’m Marta Corman, calling from Wake Up Wake County.” Ashley recognized the voice of the intern who had shepherded her from the green room to the set. “We’ve had a major change in the contest, and I’m calling to let every competitor know about this exciting new addition to Who Wears the Apron.”
“Yes?” Ashley said uneasily. There were precious few times in her life when she’d been pleased by “exciting new additions” to anything. Especially not when someone was working so hard to convince her she’d be thrilled.
“Apron has just enlisted a new sponsor—the world-famous Raleigh Rockets. Our local baseball team has offered Who Wears the Apron a valuable partnership. In addition to our pre-existing prizes of one hundred thousand dollars and a year’s consulting with Gerald Brown, the winner of our contest will now run the new, as-yet-unnamed restaurant at Rockets Field for one full year. After that time, both parties will evaluate the arrangement to see if it makes sense to continue.”
Rockets Field. Tens of thousands of well-heeled patrons. A restaurant space that had been carved out for a famous French chef, if all the gossip was correct, including the vicious rumors that the Michelin-starred diva had stormed out of the deal.
It was a plum offering. A dream come true.
A dream, just like the one she’d had last night, about Josh Cantor. The Rockets were partnering with Wake Up, were they? That arrangement certainly had to favor the cocky third baseman. And Ashley wasn’t just thinking that because he’d failed to kiss her the night before.
But Marta Corman wasn’t the right person to deal with her concerns. Even if Josh had just been handed the biggest advantage imaginable in Who Wears the Apron, the intern on the other end of the line couldn’t do anything about it.
“Ms. Harris?” Marta was asking. “Do you have any questions?”
Not that you can answer. “No,” she said in a carefully professional voice. “Thank you so much for the news.”
“We wish you the best of luck!” chirped the intern, and they exchanged a couple more pleasantries before they hung up.
Dustin was looking at her, his eyebrows knit into a single line of concern. “Who died?”
“Not who,” she said. “What.”
“What what?” he asked.
She told him about the change in contest plans.
“But that’s incredible!” he said. “A fully-finished space, with a guaranteed crowd, for a year?”
“With a guaranteed crowd for eighty-one games a season,” she corrected.
“And more, if they open the restaurant to the general public, when there isn’t a game.”
“What does it matter?” she asked, and her voice rasped sharp. “The deck has to be stacked now. Josh Cantor is a shoe-in to win the entire competition.”
“You can’t assume that,” Dustin said.
“Wouldn’t you show him a teensy bit of preference, if you were Wake Up? The team—their new partner—will have to lean on the TV show pretty hard. Just think about it—they can promote one of their own players, even while they build up the restaurant.”
“Give the station some credit. They have to have thought about that before they agreed to change the rules.”
She took a soothing sip of tea and shoved down the bulk of her irritation. In a perfect world, yeah, Wake Up would have thought of it. But in the real world? Where publicity and promotion swirled around competition? Where chef’s wives stayed up late, following gossip stories about the most minor of local celebrities on Twitter?
“I can only hope so,” she said. “And you’d better hope with me. Or you’re going to have to figure out your own escape plan from Mangia.”
Dustin shrugged and pushed the bowl of nuts closer to her. His confidence made her stand a little straighter as he said, “I’ve got faith. Now tell me more about this appetizer you’re planning to cook.”
CHAPTER 4
Ashley stared out the window of the Wake County Public Library, trying to focus on her research project. The idea had come to her in the middle of the night—a night spent tossing, turning, and thinking far too much about her competition in Who Wears the Apron.
All right. Not thinking about all the competition. Thinking about one particular competitor: Josh Cantor.
Once Dustin had left her apartment, she’d invested a substantial chunk of her afternoon into learning more about the handsome third baseman for the Rockets. After all, it was pretty obvious he was going to be her major competition for the TV show: He was comfortable in front of the studio cameras. He seemed able to cook up some decent food—at least if the judges’ reaction to his shrimp and grits was any indication.And he worked for the company that was now the major sponsor of the competition.
It wasn’t fair. But then, few things in life were. If life were fair, she would have graduated from cooking school with a diploma that reflected the long hours she’d put into her studies. If life were fair, she never would have needed to make
the decision between getting Duke Throckmorton’s hand off her ass and keeping a paying job at a decent restaurant.
She had to up her game. And she’d come to the library to do it.
Wake Up Wake County was a Raleigh institution. The station’s bread and butter was traditional local viewers, people who thrived in their community, whose families had been in North Carolina since the state had been one of thirteen original colonies.
Ashley could use that to her advantage. She could research Raleigh roots for her food, find old-time restaurants, long-lost local history to fold into her next dish for the judges. When she’d arrived at the library that morning, the front desk had directed her to the Virginia Dare Room. She’d been awed by the ancient leather-bound books that were locked in glass-fronted bookcases for safekeeping. She’d admired the huge map cases against the wall and the display case that contained artifacts from some of the earliest North Carolina settlements.
“Here we are!” called out a cheerful librarian, emerging from a door labeled Staff Only, pushing a book cart in front of her. “This should get you started. Your Raleigh magazine was published from 1945 through 1969. You should pay attention to the ads in particular—a lot of local restaurants took out space over the years.” The librarian passed her hand over the blue-bound books, one volume for each year of publication. “And here are a couple dozen cookbooks we’ve collected, from church socials and ladies’ organizations. You can get an idea of the recipes that made the rounds in those years. After you’ve gone through those, we can get you started with microfilm. We’ve got newspapers going back to the beginning of the century.”
“Thank you,” Ashley said, feeling more than a little overwhelmed.
The librarian laughed, obviously accustomed to patrons who got more than they asked for. “Let me know if I can help with anything.”
