Finding Her Heart (McCormick's Creek Series Book 2)

by Jen Peters

  Their lips touched, full of warmth and magic. Mitch pulled back, then kissed her gently again. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he murmured.

  “Mmm,” she said, leaning her head into his shoulder. “Me too.”

  “You too, huh? Want to try again?”

  She tipped her head back and smiled at him. “Practice makes perfect.”

  He dipped his head for another kiss, but kept it light. “I’m all for practice,” he said, “but we’ve got plenty of time." He wrapped his arms around her and inhaled deeply.

  She reached around his back and nestled her head into the crook of his neck, loving the smell of him. Clean, masculine, with a hint of the peppermints he loved to eat. The lean muscles under his shirt weren’t bad, either. She grinned to herself and savored the feel of his fingers stroking her hair.

  These extra hours together had shown her who he truly was—kind, protective, fun, caring. Real.

  She snuggled for a moment more, then reached up to kiss him again.

  Chapter 22

  Mitch watched Ree set the last bud vases on the tables scattered across the porch, her hands graceful and confident. She stepped back for a look, and he smiled, knowing how much she wanted perfection. He straightened a chair, then joined her.

  “Looks good, don’t you think?” she asked.

  “Exquisite,” he answered, his eyes on her fresh face and sparkling blue eyes. She had a wide gold clip in her hair that drew attention without outshining her curls. “Things are going well in the kitchen, too.”

  “You don’t think Chef LaSalle’s cooking will be too much for them?"

  That was his unspoken worry as well. The invited guests were all local for this first dinner: Mayor Bailey and his wife, the police chief, and Mr. & Mrs. Kwan, who spent as much time in Eugene as they did in town. Also Justin and Cat, Mrs. Cooper, and Ree’s mother, who had all been involved in bringing the McCormick Inn up to speed. Two town council members and the library director rounded out the group.

  All of them were influential in the town, and while they might not have a large out-of-town network who would actually stay at the inn, they would be crucial for local word-of-mouth about special events.

  Once they had all arrived, Mitch gave a grand tour of the inn. They oohed and aahed in all the right places, and some talked of having relatives stay there over holidays. Ree seated them for dinner amidst glowing candles and gleaming china.

  The rest of the evening was a farce.

  The appetizer, an anchovy pasta swirled and topped with caviar, looked better than it tasted. Mitch watched his guests and could tell easily who liked anchovies and who didn’t, and Ree evidently wasn’t a fan of caviar.

  Chris, their recently designated head waiter, described the main course: Beef à la Claude with a berry-beet reduction and Tuscan-inspired pea puree.

  To Mitch, it was just bright red stripes of some tangy sauce, two small slices of meat that tasted like too much vinegar, and a fancy swirl of a pureed green vegetable. Or mostly green. Sort of brown, actually. Like the muddy hue of kid’s watercolors all mixed up.

  His guests were kind—they gamely ate what was set in front of them, at least one bite, anyway, and Mrs. Kwan regaled them with stories of exotic foods around the world. But when Mrs. Swanson knocked her wine glass across the table, sloshing onto all their plates, she laughed, “Now we really don’t have to eat it!"

  Mitch cringed. If there were a way to turn the clock back 24 hours, he would have done it.

  Dessert came out—a blanc mange that looked decent, if uninspiring. Perhaps this would go a little better. The others looked at him, and he braced himself to take the first bite.

  Manners kept him from spitting it into his napkin. “I think he was going for salted caramel,” Mitch finally said, “but got carried away with the salt.”

  Mayor Bailey chuckled and clapped. “We applaud your bravery.”

  Mitch kept his anger to himself. “Thanks. I appreciate your good humor with all of this. It’s obviously our first time with this chef, and we’ll need to work some things out.”

  Mrs. Bailey gave him a wry look. “More than a few, I think. But thank you for the invitation—the inn is lovely, and I’m sure will be a boost to the town. And when you see Mr. McCormick, please let him know how happy we are to have it back in his hands.”

  “It’s a delightful setting,” Mrs. Kwan said as she left, “and the company was good. Let me know when you’re set to try this again. With a new chef.”

  By the time the last tail light disappeared, Mitch’s smile was frozen in place. He left Ree on the porch and stormed through the welcome hall and into the kitchen. “Have you taken leave of your senses, man?”

  The waiters slid out the back door.

  Chef LaSalle’s smile left his face. “How do you mean? I served an exquisite dinner, even though I could not acquire all my desired ingredients.”

  “You call that exquisite? That was an unmitigated disaster! Three quarters of the guests didn’t eat but a taste, and the other quarter took only single bites.”

  Chef LaSalle straightened to his full height. “My food was proper. I am known for an interesting combination of ingredients. A chef’s créativité is his most prized possession.”

  Mitch took a step forward. “This chef needs to rein in his creativity and come up with something that people can actually eat. McCormick’s Creek is not an experimental society.”

  They stared at each other for a moment. “I need to speak to Ree,” Mitch finally said.

  She was waiting on the porch, staring morosely at a candle flame guttering out. Mitch put his hand on her shoulder, and the tension in him eased. She anchored him with just a touch, he thought with wonder.

  He brought his mind back to the immediate concern. “We have some friends of mine coming to Sunday’s dinner, not to mention several influential people in Eugene. But this was such a disaster, I’m wondering if we should just cancel while I look for another chef. ”

  Ree sat up, her face frozen in horror.

  “What?”

  “It’s not just your friends,” she said quickly, “it’s the reviewer from The Oregonian.”

  “I thought she wasn’t coming until the Grand Opening.”

  Ree shook her head. “No, she called and asked to come earlier so she could get it in the paper before then. You know, get people excited and making reservations already.”

  Mitch groaned. “It’s imperative that LaSalle presents something both elegant and edible. But how can we be sure?”

  “A trial run, just for us?” Ree suggested.

  Perfect, Mitch thought, and headed back to the kitchen. The chef was muttering under his breath in an accent Mitch couldn’t place.

  “Chef, can you tell me what you have on the menu for Sunday’s dinner?”

  “Oysters on the half-shell, Chicken à la Paul, broccolini, and for the dessert, mousse au chocolat.”

  Mitch ground his teeth. “What’s ‘chicken à la Paul’?”

  “Chicken in a fruity, seasoned sauce, very bright and festive. It is a good counterpoint to the broccolini.”

  “It had better be. But tonight’s menu sounded good too, and it wasn’t. So we’re going to do a trial run. Seven o’clock tomorrow. I would suggest you don’t get carried away.”

  Chef Paul looked down his long nose before he gave a short, “Oui." He turned and shouted for the waiters to come in and finish cleaning up.

  Chapter 23

  Ree smiled at Chris, who looked more nervous waiting their table than she’d ever seen him.

  “He’s on edge,” the young man murmured, pouring Mitch’s water.

  “Hmmph,” Mitch snorted. “He ought to be.”

  When Chris brought the oysters on the half shell out, Ree grimaced—raw seafood didn’t appeal much to her. She watched Mitch wiggle his tiny fork in it, then slurp it up. He wasn’t disgusted, so she inhaled deeply, spooned a bit of sauce on hers and scooped it out. She chewed a bit, but i
t didn’t taste like much besides the salsa. At least it wasn’t slimy like she had imagined.

  “The salsa’s a bit overpowering, but it beats anything he concocted yesterday,” came Mitch’s judgement. Then he grinned. “Not as bad as you expected, is it?”

  She shrugged and picked up her second oyster. “Can’t be a world traveller without eating raw things, right?” His approval put a glow in her heart, but she blanched when Chris brought out the Chicken à la Paul.

  It didn’t look like any chicken she had ever seen. The small slice was very thin and lay twisted atop a brown pool of something under it. The brocollini looked wilted, smelling darkly of very strong spices. The whole thing would take about three bites to eat. Maybe four.

  She wasn’t alone in her opinion—Mitch’s stormy face made her glad she wouldn’t be the one on the receiving end of his temper. Dinner actually took five whole bites, but she was grateful simply that it was edible and tried not to think too much about what they were going to do for a chef. At a minimum, the food had to be recognizable. Beyond that, she had really hoped for something people raved over. Something they’d want to come back for.

  When dessert came, Ree dug in to the airy chocolate and choked. Cinnamon, she could maybe understand. But chili, strong chili? Mitch didn’t say a word as he took a wary bite, but Ree could almost see the steam rise from his head. He patted his lips with his napkin and said, “Excuse me a moment,” standing and re-setting his chair with precision.

  Ree followed him inside—no way was she going to miss this.

  The chef was humming as he washed his knives. “It was good, yes? Exquisite, if I do say so myself.”

  Mitch’s face grew even stormier. “You promised something edible. Something that wouldn’t make us the laughingstock of Oregon before we even open!”

  “But it was divine. Exquisite!" Chef LaSalle’s stance was rigid. Genuine shock filled his eyes.

  “It was atrocious!” Mitch snapped. “Clearly you don’t have any idea of the type of guests we’ll be having.”

  The chef set his jaw. “Clearly they are not the clientele I am accustomed to cooking for. My creativity must be allowed to express itself. I will put this small inn on the culinary map.”

  Mitch breathed in through his nostrils. “You. Will. Not. You’re fired. You can take your knives and go, now. Without cleaning up.”

  “But you can’t,” the chef protested, his French accent mysteriously gone. “You need me for the dinner—you can’t get no one else this late.”

  “The dinner will happen without you. Out." Mitch motioned with his head.

  Ree stepped back against the wall, admiring Mitch’s control even while his temper was overflowing. She could picture him in court, demanding a judge’s attention and winning his case by force of will.

  The not-so-French chef packed his knives, removed his toque, and brushed past Mitch, all without saying another word.

  Chris, now washing up, stared after him with mouth agape. “But…who’s going to cook on Sunday?”

  Mitch slumped against the counter and shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ll have to find somebody. But I’d rather cancel than have that, that…”

  “Creative genius?” Ree suggested. “Mad scientist?”

  Mitch lifted an eyebrow wryly. “Yeah, right. But I will never be so desperate as to have him back. I’ll have to make some late phone calls tonight. Maybe we can get someone just for the day." He closed his eyes. “Hmm…perhaps Bernard up at Montlake could spare a chef temporarily. Even a sous chef. And a sous chef might be more willing.”

  “What about somebody here?” Ree asked.

  “Here? Who can cook around here?”

  “Mrs. Cooper can,” Chris said. “She does a mean pork chop and gravy at her place.”

  “She does, but that’s home cooking, not what we’re after. We need someone with proper culinary training, someone with the skills to pull something together quickly.”

  Ree planted her hands on her hips. “You know, we aren’t complete hicks here. We don’t spend all our time hiking and roasting hot dogs around a bonfire. Why do you think everything has to be imported to be worthwhile?”

  Mitch snorted. “Oh come on, Ree. It’s a small town. A town that’s been sliding downhill for forty years. What else should I expect?”

  “It may be small, but talented people can come from anywhere,” she shot back. “And we do have somebody who can cook. Billy Cunningham.”

  “Billy." Mitch said it dismissively.

  “Yeah, Billy!” Chris shouted. “He’s awesome!”

  Mitch looked between the two of them. “All right, I’ll cave. Who is Billy Cunningham?”

  Ree didn’t even try to keep the smirk off her face. “He lives in Frederick, about forty miles north of here. He was the food nerd at his high school, everyone joked about him until they tasted what he brought to the after-game parties.”

  Mitch rubbed a hand over his face. “Ree, we need something more than football snacks. What don’t you understand about this?”

  Ree smirked. “And he graduated from the International Culinary Institute down in Napa Valley. He even did the extra training for farm to table cuisine.”

  Her smirk turned into a full-on grin as Mitch straightened.

  “Where’s he cooking now? Is he available?”

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he wants to be somewhere where he’s appreciated.”

  “Ree!”

  She settled down. “I think he actually might be available. He was sous chef at some place in San Francisco but I heard he was back in town for a bit after they closed.”

  Mitch waited.

  “Oh, you want me to call him?” she teased.

  He took a step forward and leaned his forehead against hers, their noses just touching. “Of course I want you to call him, you silly goose.”

  She touched his lips lightly with a fingertip. “I’ll do that right now.” She left a message for Billy, then helped Chris with the final kitchen cleanup while Mitch straightened the tables on the porch.

  She was wiping the last counters when Mitch returned and sent Chris home. He wrapped his arms around her from behind. “What say we grab some pizza to fill our empty stomachs?” he murmured against her neck.

  She leaned back into him, savoring his closeness. “The way to a woman’s heart is through her stomach, you know. You’re a wise man.”

  “That’s me, all right. The wisest of wise men, knowing what his girl needs.”

  His girl. The thought tickled her, rising up with a shivery feeling. She tilted her head back and kissed the underside of his jaw. Oh yes, this was right.

  “C’mon, let’s go eat.”

  Half an hour later, Ree didn’t know whether to be mortified or entranced when Mitch set his own slice of pizza down and pulled a strand of melted mozzarella off the side of her lips. His fingers stayed there two seconds longer than she’d expect from anyone else, and she fought not to blush. Or lean into his hand. Or—

  Her phone buzzed and she leapt for the welcome distraction. “Billy? I’m so glad you called. Yeah, it’s been a long time.”

  They chatted for a moment, Mitch’s eyes on her all the while. She explained what they needed and when. And why. “Mm hmm. Right. Thanks, Billy, see you tomorrow.”

  “He’ll do it?” Mitch asked before she even put the phone down.

  Ree grinned. “Yup. He’ll sort out a menu and cook it for us tomorrow at one.”

  Mitch raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You’re a wonder.”

  “I am, aren’t I?” she smiled. “Now what about an ice cream cone for dessert—something normal, you know?”

  Chapter 24

  Mitch and Ree stood in a corner of the kitchen the next day, trying to stay out of the way of Billy Cunningham and his flying fingers. He chopped and diced and sautéed faster than Mitch had thought possible. Although for all his dining out, he had never been in the kitchen with the chef before.

  “So this
is still your thing?” Ree asked.

  Billy just nodded.

  “We could have gotten you some help,” Mitch said.

  “If I couldn’t handle dinner for two by myself, I wouldn’t be much of a chef, would I?" And he turned back to his pans.

  Billy set two plates before them a few minutes later, and Mitch’s mouth watered. He had taken a simple chicken breast and marinated it with this and drizzled it with that, and it smelled absolutely scrumptious. Mashed potatoes were creamy with a hint of garlic and truffles—not what Mrs. Cooper would serve, even though she made good food. A perfectly sautéed and seasoned vegetable combo rounded out the meal. And there was enough of it to call it a meal instead of a bite and a half.

  He looked over at Ree and saw her smiling too. She took a bite of the chicken, a bite of the mashed potatoes, and sighed. “Thank you, Billy. Thank you for doing some honest cooking that’s, what do the TV chefs say—elevated?”

  Billy grinned and wiped his hands on the towel with which he had carried the plates. “You two enjoy now, I’ve got to do some finishing touches on dessert.”

  Mitch ate with relish as Ree told stories of Billy’s fancy high school cooking. They were good stories, but he mostly just loved listening to her.

  He pictured her attending functions with him in Portland and winced at the image. It wasn’t that she couldn’t, or that he would be ashamed having her on his arm. It was more that her openness didn’t seem to fit in that world, and he didn’t know how she’d take the inevitable condescension of the people in his social circle. For that matter, he didn’t like the condescension of some of the people in his circle.

  On the other hand, he’d love to take her to see his favorite parts of the country, of the world. She would soak up Hong Kong and Paris equally, experiencing everything with zest. And he bet she would love to sail—he couldn’t wait to take her out on his grandfather’s boat.

  It was his own boat now, he reminded himself, wishing they had come together in time for her to know Granddad. But thinking about her meeting Granddad reminded him that there was still a lot about her he didn’t know. What was underneath that cheery exterior? What did she want that she wasn’t letting show?