by JD Hawkins
Ellie tilts her head and looks like she’s almost overwhelmed with happiness.
“That sounds so romantic.”
“Actually…it was kinda sad. The stuff that’s he’s gone through. The guy did not have it easy, not by a long shot. He’s way more intense than I thought—”
“Intense is sexy.”
“—kinda lonely—”
Ellie claps her hands.
“Perfect!”
I laugh.
“You know,” she says, wistfully, “I always saw you with a guy like Cole.”
“What? A lonely millionaire with a dark past and a bad temper?”
“No! A broody, passionate type. A guy with a bit of attitude. And lots of ambition.”
“You could have told me that when I was dating Nick.”
“Ugh,” Ellie says, rolling her eyes. “He’s back living with his parents now, you know.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes I think he was pinning all his hopes on my restaurant being a success—even though he couldn’t leave fast enough when it wasn’t.”
“Forget him. Nick’s the past. The future is Cole Chambers.”
“Ellie! You haven’t even met him!”
“Pfft. I’ve watched his show a dozen times. I can pretty much recite all his best lines at this point. And you know a man that fine is gonna make some super cute babies.”
“Ellie! Enough!”
“Just saying!”
I shake my head and then check the dough, deciding to leave it a little longer.
“I’m not even sure he’s into actual relationships, anyway. I mean, I searched for ‘Cole Chambers girlfriend’ online and it was a who’s who of gorgeous Hollywood actresses and famous heiresses. He’s probably just looking for a bit of fun, and to be honest, that’s all I’m in it for, too.”
“Willow,” says Ellie, using the big sister tone she reserves for career and relationship advice, “you’re different than those other girls. You’re a great chef too, you have a connection. You literally just told me about how he told you how he grew up—that’s not ‘fun time’ conversation, that’s ‘getting serious’ conversation. Did you…”
“No. Well…we kissed a little but that was it.”
Ellie waves her fists in coiled excitement.
“It’s happening!”
“No! Ellie, come on! It’s just a little fun, don’t get any ideas about it being—”
I’m interrupted by the sound of my phone buzzing against the counter.
“What’s that?” Ellie says, peering into the camera as if she can look beyond the computer. “Is that him? Well? Is it?”
“Um…” I say, picking up the ringing phone. “I’m gonna call you back in just a second.”
“No! Willow!” Ellie says, reaching toward the camera as if she wants to climb out of the screen and stop me. “Let me listen! Please!”
I click off the chat window and answer the phone.
“Willow?” Cole says.
“Speaking,” I reply, almost surprising myself with how hearing him compels me to smile.
“How are you?”
“Little tired,” I say, checking the dough again, “cooking up a storm. Same as always.”
“You should take a break sometime.”
“I should. I’ll have to check with my boss,” I tease.
Cole chuckles warmly.
“Actually, I think he might have something in mind.”
His deep voice, even over the phone, feels like music, striking at some deep, primitive urge in me. My skin tingling, an emerging tension that makes me stroke my own neck.
“Oh yeah?”
“Come with me to Vegas for a couple days. I’ve got most of the distributors lined up but I want to really nail down any problems in the menu; see if there are any gaps, run the cooks through their paces. I’d like a second opinion, a second pair of eyes, and since Martin is busy finding new chef candidates, I’d like that second opinion to be yours.”
“Two consecutive days off work?”
“You’ll still be working, make no mistake. We’ll cut a few tables at Knife, the crew will manage. And I’ll pay you overtime, of course.”
I take a moment to think of what to say, mentally performing acrobatics to read between the lines and figure out if it’s as professional as he makes it sound.
“I’ve got to ask…why me? I mean, I’ve only worked at Knife for a few weeks. Wouldn’t one of the other chefs know your style better than I do?”
“You’ve got good taste,” Cole says, without missing a beat. “Plus, you’re one of the few people with the balls to tell me when you don’t like something. You disagree with me about food, and that’s what I want in a second opinion: Criticism. I might not act on it, but it’s what I want to hear.”
I let another moment drift by, feeling the inevitability of this trip encircle me.
“Can I just ask...is this all business, or…”
Cole laughs again.
“It’s absolutely business,” he says nonchalantly. Then, in a voice that seems to come from some unresolved urge, from that broad, hard-muscled body, “Until the business is done. After that…well, it’s up to you. Though I did only book one suite for us to share…unless you’d prefer your own room. The trip still stands, regardless. I need you there.”
“The suite works great,” I blurt, understanding the implication, and figuring that I can always book myself a separate room later, if need be—although I can’t imagine wanting to…
“Great. We’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
“So soon? Um…ok. Sure. Should I book a flight, or are we driving, or—?”
“I’ve taken care of all the details. Pick you up first thing, say around nine?”
“That’s perfect. Looking forward to it.”
Cole hangs up, and I stand in the kitchen feeling dazed for a few seconds before remembering that Ellie is probably still waiting in front of her computer. I call her up again and dump the dough onto the counter, ready to roll it out.
Ellie appears on-screen pouting disappointedly. It doesn’t last long, though.
“Sorry about that,” I say, as I start forming the buns.
“Was it him?” Ellie asks, her pout disappearing in the face of immense curiosity.
I nod.
“Ha! I knew it.” Now she’s all smiles again. “And what did he say?”
“Uh, not much…just wanted to discuss some business stuff…”
“Willow…”
“Fine! He wants to take me to Vegas for a few days to help him with the new restaurant.”
Ellie squeals so loud I have to reach over and turn the volume down with flour on my fingers.
“Greg!” she calls off-screen. “Willow’s in a relationship with Cole Chambers!”
“I’m not in a relationship!” I plead.
Ellie laughs and looks back at me through the screen.
“Sorry,” she says, warmly. “I’m just happy for you. And I just want to see you happy. Not just this Cole thing, but everything else. The job, the Vegas trip. It’s great to see you moving on, getting over things not working out in Idaho. You deserve better, and you’re capable of so much more. I’m just glad you’re finally on the right path.”
“Yeah,” I say, looking back at her affectionately. “I know.”
“And listen, whatever happens with Cole, just enjoy it. Although, I mean…it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if you fell madly in love with each other and could invite us down to eat at his restaurants for free…but so long as you’re enjoying life then who cares what you call it? You do you.”
“Thanks, Ellie.”
“Look,” she says, suddenly hurried. “I’d better get going to pick the girls up from dance class. Greg’s cooking his ragu tonight.”
“Does he still use parsnip instead of carrot in it?”
Ellie shrugs lovingly.
“You know Greg—he likes what he likes.”
“And that’s wh
y we like him.”
“Ok, call me when you get back from Vegas.”
“I will. Say hello to Greg and the girls for me.”
We sign off and I finish baking the cinnamon buns, taking a few hot ones piled high with icing straight to my room, still wearing the big smile my sister always leaves me with.
I lay back on the bed, my muscles sinking gratifyingly at finally being able to rest, and let the sugar hit of the cinnamon buns send a gentle buzz through my blood. Then the phone rings again.
I tense up, half-expecting it to be Cole again, but instead see that it’s Tony. I drop the bun, put the plate aside, wipe my fingers on a napkin and pick up the phone.
“Hey—”
“They said yes,” Tony interrupts.
“What?”
“They said yes.”
I sit upright in the bed.
“The investors?”
“The investors. They said yes.”
I lick my teeth with my tongue, staring into space as I struggle to process the sudden information.
“What…how…we didn’t even—”
“They said they loved us!” Tony crows, and I can hear that he’s as stunned as I am still. “And that they think we’re onto something. The local food thing, the L.A. twist on classic comfort cuisine, the unique approach—they loved all of it. Most of all, though, they believe in the two of us.”
“You’re sure?”
“I just got off the phone with them right now. Get this: They said they want to do everything they can to get the restaurant up and running in ten months.”
“Ten months? That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible.”
“It would take that long just to find a location and lease it.”
Tony laughs in amazement.
“Not when one of your investors made his money in real estate.”
“Who?”
“Andre. He owns a bunch of locations around L.A. already, and said he could sweep through a lease if we had something in mind. Isn’t it incredible? Spud! We’re gonna open our own restaurant in less than a year!”
He laughs again, and I get up to pace the room, rubbing my brow.
“Tony, hold on. Did they say anything about the actual budget? Finances? Are we talking a taco stand or a two-story eatery here? I mean, what’s the catch?”
“There’s no catch,” Tony says, sounding a little offended now that I’m bringing down his high. “I told you, these guys have so much money they don’t even need to think about it.”
“Did they actually show us any money? Apart from some rumor you heard from a bartender, they could be con men.”
Tony takes a second to speak again, but I can almost hear his frustration with me in the silence.
“Am I crazy? Or do I get the impression that you aren’t absolutely ecstatic with the prospect of having your own place in Los Angeles? Am I an idiot for thinking you’d actually be happy at this news? This is your dream! Our dream. And it’s finally coming true!”
“I know,” I say, trying hard to sound as enthusiastic as Tony and only making it more obvious I’m not. “I guess it’s just…a lot to take in.”
“Is this about your last restaurant? That’s in the past, Willow. You made some mistakes, yes—but that just means there’s less chance you’ll make them again. Look, I get that it was demoralizing, and traumatic, and humiliating, and probably left you feeling like you were jilted at the altar, or like—”
“Alright, alright,” I interrupt.
“—but this is your chance to rise from the ashes like a phoenix in a chef’s apron! You should be happy you’re getting this second bite of the cherry!”
“I am happy—or, I will be happy if it actually turns out that way. I just want something more to go on than a promise and a time frame. I’ve only spoken to these guys for twenty minutes. Am I supposed to quit my job and start getting my hopes up based on that? One of us needs to keep our head on straight.”
Tony sighs. “Ok, you want something more concrete? We’re going to check out some locations the day after tomorrow. Let’s see if you’re li’l miss cynical then.”
I let out an apologetic huff as I slump back onto the bed.
“I can’t—not the day after tomorrow, anyway.”
“Why not? Don’t tell me you can’t throw a sick day at work.”
“I’m going to Vegas with Cole. He wants me to help him with his new place.”
This time I can sense Tony’s brain working hard in the silence.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re ditching me for the handsome celebrity. Giving up your lifelong dreams for a hunk with good credit. Straight men are right: You women are awful.”
I laugh and pick my cinnamon bun back up.
“You would do exactly the same thing—and be twice as resolute about it.”
“I know. It’s just the jealousy talking. How long are you gone for?”
“Just a few days. In the meantime, text me pictures if you end up going to look at the locations. When I get back we should all sit together and talk it through. If these guys are for real—and I repeat: If—then I’ll be just as excited as you are.”
“Ok, Spud. I’ll see you when you get back from your romantic getaway. Just don’t get married at some drive-thru chapel while you’re there—not if he wants a prenup, anyway.”
“And that’s my cue to say goodbye…”
“Ok, honey. I’ll send you the pictures. Then you’ve got some groveling to do, missy.”
13
Cole
Willow’s kinda quiet when I pick her up and drive to the airport, as if she’s trying to restrain the natural spark that usually makes her blush and bluster in the same sentence. That mixture of self-assured but genuinely warm that I’m starting to think I’m addicted to, replaced by a more formal, clipped kind of tone. I wonder if she’s afraid of flying, if I should have just driven us all the way to Vegas instead.
“You nervous?” I say, as the airport looms at the end of the highway.
“No. Not at all,” she says, smiling quickly before looking back at the road.
I can tell something’s on her mind. Something she doesn’t want to talk about. I wonder if it’s apprehension over where things are going with us, or simple work/life stress. For now, I’ll give her some space to think. I’ve got something I’m holding back myself.
I park the car and we wheel our bags into the airport, Willow a little taken aback by the fact that I bought us first-class tickets. Over the course of the hour or so flight she opens up a little, relaxes a little, and the shy smiles and sharp comebacks make me start to relish her proximity. Her skinny black jeans brushing against my leg and the elegant chasm of her cleavage that it takes all my willpower not to be caught looking at starts to twist at my groin, as if she’s got a hand there, gripping me with the tight magnetism of her beauty.
While my mind starts running wild with enough ideas to fill an entire erotica section, I keep the talk as focused on the business at hand as possible. There will be time for play later, I tell myself.
Once we land in Vegas one of the staff members that Martin’s just hired meets us outside baggage claim to take us to the new place.
In the back of the car Willow asks, “Do you have a name for this new restaurant?”
“Not yet,” I say. “Though Martin suggested ‘Fork,’ and it was such a terrible idea that I haven’t been able to shake it.”
She laughs and turns back to look out the window, as if rewarding me for making her laugh by exposing the perfect line of her neck.
‘Fork’ is coming along nicely, and when we arrive I take Willow on a little tour.
“The place is incredible,” she coos, as we pass by the kitchen, where the chefs are cursing and cooking up a storm. “It might even turn out better than Knife.”
“The fittings are all in,” I say, sweeping a hand across the kitchen. “Pretty much all that’s left is cosmetic. Painting, decorating. Colors, materials�
��that kind of thing.” I gesture for her to return to the main seating area. “I actually wanted to get your opinion about some of that too.”
Willow turns to me, the look on her face that same one she gets when she’s about to offer an opinion, but instead she stops herself, settling for a simple, functional smile instead.
“Sure,” she says.
“First though, let’s eat. If you’re up for a tour of the menu now?”
“Oh hell yes. A man after my own heart,” she teases.
We move back to the main area to sit side-by-side at the large round table in the center—the only table that isn’t stacked up against the wall or covered in linen. I pop open a bottle of sparkling water and pour a full glass for each of us.
“So…” Willow says, looking around her as the raucous sound of the chefs’ shouting increases, “how is this going to work, exactly?”
“The kitchen will prepare every single item on the menu for us,” I say, pulling out my leather-bound notebook and Montblanc pen. “Just the way it would be served to a customer. Course by course. You’ll try a bite of each and then tell me what you think. Whatever it is. Don’t hold back.”
Willow nods confidently.
“Ok. I can do that.”
When the plates start coming, Willow transforms. Whatever was on her mind all morning is gone now as that burning passion and wisdom about food starts to show itself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about her in the short time I’ve known her, it’s that the path to her heart is through her stomach—only it’s more like a bullet train than a path.
“Can I see a menu?” she says, after taking a bite of an appetizer salad.
“Sure, I’ve got a printout right here,” I say, pulling the sheets from my briefcase and handing them to her.
She flicks a sheet, sees what she needs to see, then shakes her head.
“Yeah, ok,” she says, pointing at the salad. “Maybe this is just me, but I would not use this dressing. The orange zest is overpowering. It’s amazing, but if someone orders it and then orders the fish with the mint-roasted potatoes the flavors are going to clash horribly.”
It takes only a half second for me to understand what she’s getting at, insight so clear I almost kick myself at letting it pass. I scribble down a note as Willow pushes aside the salad to try something else.
