“Makes me wish I hadn’t had breakfast,” Rachel said.
“We can have second breakfast. You put on the coffee; I’ll get the plates.”
Rachel chuckled, but she did exactly that. “I take it the bakery thing is working out?”
“For now. I don’t care for the hours, honestly, but I knew going in it would be difficult to find a boss as flexible and generous as you. I’m still looking.”
“Given your employment history, you shouldn’t have trouble landing a high-profile restaurant.” Rachel froze, her hand on the coffee grinder. “It’s not because of your association with me, is it?”
“No, nothing like that. There just aren’t many openings at restaurants, and all the artisanal bakeries are one-man operations or family-owned.”
Rachel paused to grind the beans, then shook them into a French press. “Maybe you should open your own place.”
“And you know as well as I do that I don’t have that kind of money.”
“Your mom wouldn’t help?”
Melody shot her a reproving look.
Right. Her country music–star mother would love to swoop in and save the day with her checkbook and larger-than-life personality, but Melody had learned long ago that her mother’s help always came with strings. She had almost as little contact with her parents as Rachel did with hers—which was to say, virtually none. Another thing they had in common.
Rachel changed the subject. “What’s your schedule like for the Fourth of July?”
“It’s a weekday. Why?”
“Alex asked me to come over for a celebration at his place and said to invite you and Ana. But it’s okay if you’re busy. I was thinking I wouldn’t go.”
“What? Of course you’re going. Are you crazy?”
“Mel, he’s just an acquaintance. Maybe he’ll become a friend at some point; I don’t know. But we’re working together, so—”
Melody put her hands on Rachel’s shoulders. “Hon, I know you adhere to this ‘no dating coworkers’ rule like it’s a religion, but seriously . . . in this case it’s an excuse.”
“How is it an excuse? We are working together. Besides, do you have any idea how it would look if we became . . . close? It would totally ruin his credibility. Best that we’re barely acquaintances with a similar business interest. That way when he recommends me as a chef, there’s no possibility anyone can call it favoritism.”
“You’re way overthinking this,” Melody said. “Though I’m not sure how you can think at all when you’re with him, considering.”
Rachel’s mind wandered toward all the things there were to be distracted by—the lovely, ever-changing hazel eyes, the way he always seemed to be looking for a reason to laugh, the taut muscles that dared her to reach out and touch, even if she had to pretend she didn’t notice. Oh, there were plenty. And considering that was with barely an acquaintance, she didn’t trust her common sense to overcome her attraction were they to become anything more. She’d seen firsthand how strong, capable women could become mere shells of themselves when they fell under a handsome man’s spell.
“Can we get back on topic here?” Rachel pushed down the plunger on the French press, poured them each a cup of coffee, and opened the rest of the pastry boxes. “Where should we begin?”
Even taking only a few bites of each and drinking the strong black coffee in between, Rachel felt stuffed before they made their way through all the samples. In the end, they settled on a pistachio variation of Melody’s almond financier cake, which Rachel would pair with homemade ice cream. It was simple and comforting without being rustic—exactly what the menu needed. With some careful plating and garnish, it could be every bit as elegant as a composed dessert.
“I’ll have to leave early, but let Alex know that I’d be delighted to come to his Fourth of July party. And find out if we can bring anything. I hate showing up empty-handed.”
Melody was really going to make her do this. “I’ll ask Ana, then. Hopefully her clients can go one night without setting themselves on fire or posting something damaging to Instagram.”
“On the Fourth of July, with the amount of alcohol involved, I would put the possibility somewhere between slim and none.” Melody began to split the remnants of the baked goods into two boxes, one obviously to leave with Rachel. Her taste buds thanked her, even if her waistline didn’t. While she was thinking of it, Rachel grabbed her laptop to type in the final line where there was currently only a placeholder: Dessert. “How are we describing this?”
“How about ‘pistachio financier, orange blossom ice cream.’”
“Perfect.” Rachel tapped in the description, clicked Print, and retrieved the newly printed menu.
Melody looked it over for a long moment; then her eyes met Rachel’s. “You’re really doing this.”
“I’m really doing this.” And soon, she would know whether or not it would pay off.
Chapter Seventeen
THE FOURTH OF JULY dawned with the kind of blinding, blue-sky heat that came to Colorado in waves, settling in for a few weeks at a time, unrelenting and untempered by even the usual afternoon thunderstorms. Rachel spent the day in the shade of her front porch, where at least she could catch a breeze, making list after list for the supper club that would be commencing in only a few days. The kind of planning that went into this sort of event wasn’t unlike the kind she had to do in the restaurant. There was food to be purchased, with a certain overage for loss, mistakes, or extra guests. Some had to be precooked or parcooked and then reheated on site, which would make things much easier once she got there. Others would be prepared in Alex’s impressive kitchen, and she needed to make sure that she had the tools to do it properly. He had e-mailed her to say that she didn’t need to worry about decor or flatware, but she would need to bring her own plates if she had something specific in mind.
In short, this twelve-person supper club was almost as much work as preparing for a two-hundred-cover service, at least in terms of the items that needed to be checked off her to-do list.
And the whole time, her mind kept drifting back toward her closet.
She must have been possessed by some temporary insanity, but she had passed this perfect dress in a boutique’s front window and been unable to resist. It was utterly unlike anything she owned, which was perhaps part of its appeal.
It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if Alex would like the way she looked in it. Of course not. Because that would be foolish.
Still, when the sun finally began to dip toward the horizon and Rachel wandered back to her bathroom to shower and primp and get ready for the party, she had to admit it wasn’t her friends she was hoping to impress.
It was still hot, the humidity unusually high considering Denver’s typically dry climate, so she braided her hair loosely and tossed the end over her shoulder, then put on the bare minimum of makeup: powder, bronzer, mascara, lip gloss. Nothing too elaborate, nothing that said she was hoping to be noticed. The crisp chambray of the loosely constructed shirtdress skimmed over her curves and floated above her skin, making it feel like the temperature had dropped ten degrees. She cinched the waist with the belt and then slid her feet into simple espadrilles that made her feel like she should be spending the evening on the beach. The effect was . . . not bad.
Let’s face it, it still wasn’t the most feminine example of a dress, though the cutout on the upper back was pretty dramatic. Her style was somewhere between utilitarian and tomboy, and there wasn’t much that was going to change that. Maybe she shouldn’t have made the effort after all. It was sad that even her attempts to look pretty ended in these sorts of results.
She opened her door to her friends and immediately said, “I know, I know, I’m going to change.”
Melody darted inside to grab her arm. “Wait, why?”
“Because I look silly.” Her friends highlighted how much she had to learn about “life on the outside,” as she’d begun calling her post-restaurant existence. Melody looked like a be
autiful gypsy tonight, a full, multicolored gauze skirt swishing around her ankles, an armful of bangles jingling with every movement. Ana was appropriately cool and preppy, in tailored navy shorts, a striped short-sleeved blouse, and pretty gold sandals that showed off both her tanned skin and her brilliant-blue pedicure.
“You do not look silly,” Ana said firmly. “You look amazing. And Alex is not going to know what hit him.”
“That’s not why I dressed up.”
“Sure it isn’t,” Melody said soothingly. “Now grab your purse and whatever you’re bringing, and let’s go. I can’t wait to see this place of his. It has to be amazing if you were impressed.”
Rachel was bringing a simple side dish—a watermelon, feta, and basil salad—that should go with any summery food Alex might be serving, so she grabbed the bowl from the refrigerator, took her tote from the hook by the front door, and moved with her friends to Ana’s SUV parked out front. She felt nearly as jittery as she did at the start of a big night, a mix of anticipation and dread and determination to face whatever challenges dinner service would bring. Except tonight there was no reason to feel that way. Despite her love of solitude, she wasn’t awkward in crowds. She could chat with strangers without any problem. And two of her best friends would be there. She could simply relax and enjoy herself.
Except the nervousness intensified when she thought about spending the entire evening with Alex.
Melody and Ana were already oohing and aahing when they entered the marble-lined lobby, even more impressed when she hit the button for the penthouse level. When they stepped off the elevator onto his floor and knocked at his door, it was already a few minutes past eight.
Alex opened the door immediately amid a rush of cold conditioned air. “Come on in.”
He moved aside, favoring each of them with a warm smile. “Nice to see you again, Ana, Melody. Everyone is upstairs on the deck.”
Melody held up a bottle of sparkling lemonade. “Where should I put this?”
“There’s a big bucket of ice upstairs with all the drinks. You can drop it in there to chill and we’ll have it later. Plenty of food, too, so please help yourself. If you want to head up, I’ll find a spoon for Rachel’s salad and we’ll join you in a minute.”
Ana and Melody exchanged a look, obviously thinking that he wanted some time alone with her. They were wrong, of course. As soon as her friends headed for the spiral staircase, Alex went to a drawer in his kitchen and rummaged around for a serving spoon. Rachel pulled off the plastic wrap and stuck the spoon into the bowl. “Shall we?”
“After you.” He fell in behind her and then said, “Wow.”
“What?”
“The back of that dress is something else.”
She felt a flush rise up her neck. “Thanks, I think?”
“That was definitely meant to be a compliment.” When they reached the top, he gently placed a hand at the curve of her back and led her forward. She hadn’t even realized that she was holding back, examining the scene first.
Big amber lights crisscrossed the deck overhead, giving a soft glow in the dark night. A cloth-draped table held salads and chips and delicious-looking dips, while a muscular blond man worked a charcoal grill, cooking up burgers and hot dogs. There were perhaps a dozen people total, grouped in twos and threes, and Rachel immediately spotted Melody and Ana talking to a couple, already holding drinks.
“Let me introduce you to everyone.” Alex took Rachel’s bowl and set it with the other food, then slipped her arm through his as he brought her to the guy at the grill.
“Bryan, I want you to meet Rachel. She’s the chef I was telling you about.”
Bryan looked up from the grill, and his eyebrows lifted. Obviously she was not what he had expected. He held out a hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you, Rachel. What are you having? Hamburger or brat?”
“He grills a great burger,” Alex said in her ear. His breath stirred a stray tendril near her ear and tickled her neck.
She swallowed and tried to catch her breath enough to speak. “Burger it is.”
“One burger. What about you, bro?”
“I’ll have a burger too.” Alex tugged her away from the grill, saying, “I’ve known Bryan since I was a kid. He’s also my climbing instructor. So when he wants me to have one of his burgers, I say yes.”
“Smart move.”
Alex pulled her toward a couple about their age, standing at the railing. “This is my old CU buddy Marcus and his wife, Lena. Guys, this is Rachel Bishop.”
“Oh, right, the chef!” Lena’s eyes lit up and she shook Rachel’s hand enthusiastically. “Alex was telling us about your supper club.”
“They were begging for spots, actually,” Alex said with a grin. “I told him I wasn’t sure where we were on the guest list for the next one. Do we still have spaces?”
It was a generous gesture, shifting the ownership of the event to her, even though the next one was still largely theoretical. “I’d have to check. You can always e-mail me or Alex if you want on the guest list.”
“Do you have a business card?” Marcus asked.
She dug in her purse and brought one out, then handed it over. Fortunately she’d kept simple cards with her personal e-mail and phone number in addition to the restaurant’s cards. They made it easier for people to track her down even if she moved jobs.
Alex guided her away, and when they were briefly out of earshot of the others, she asked, “Is that why you brought me here? To fill up the other supper club dates? Or to make sure that I could do the meet-and-greet thing without embarrassing myself?”
“You give me too much credit, and you give yourself too little,” he said. “I wanted to see you and I didn’t want to wait until the weekend.”
She waited for the joking words that would soften the meaning, the little twist of a smile that said he was tweaking her. But as she looked up at him, his expression seemed completely sincere. His eyes, dead serious.
Her heart did a triple step and stopped completely before it picked up its normal rhythm again. After that it was impossible to not be aware of the pressure of his hand on her lower back, the way her arm brushed against his body and released that cotton and soap scent she’d already come to associate with him. Only then did she recognize his gentle guidance and introduction to his friends not as an entrée to them, but a subtle claim on her. It should annoy her, and it didn’t. Deep down, some part of her liked it.
That was what annoyed her.
Bryan brought them their burgers, and they went back to the table to dress them, then settled in two of the folding chairs that Alex had set up in a semicircle facing southwest. Rachel bit into her burger. Perfect. Alex’s friend had a touch with the grill. She leaned forward until she caught Bryan’s eye and gave him a thumbs-up. He held up his hands like he was basking in the applause of an audience.
She laughed. “Let me guess. The life of the party?”
Alex leaned forward to catch a glimpse and shook his head. “Something like that. He had plenty to choose from.”
“Popular kid?”
“Rich kid.” At her raised eyebrow, he hastily added, “That wasn’t an insult. Just that there was always some sort of big event going on. His family are good people, do a lot of charity fund-raisers. I spent a lot of time at their house, and they never had a problem putting an extra plate at the table for me. In fact, I spent most of my senior year living with them.”
“What happened?”
“My mother was offered a guest chair position at a university in Moscow, and it was the kind of offer you don’t turn down.” Alex shrugged, but from the way he didn’t quite meet her eye, Rachel wondered if there might be some resentment behind the casual statement. She should be able to recognize it—she knew it well.
“I guess you should count yourself lucky that you had a suitable replacement.” Now that had come out harsher than she’d expected it.
“You had a less-than-ideal childhood too?”
&nb
sp; “I dropped out of high school at fifteen and crashed in the owner’s apartment above the restaurant. You tell me.”
Alex raised his bottle. “To early independence. It sucks.”
“Yes, it does.” She clinked her glass to his bottle. In the far distance, she saw a colorful flash of light. “Were those fireworks?”
“Those were from the Aurora Reservoir, I think. The advantage to being so high, we can see everything in the city.”
She leaned forward in her seat, straining to see the faint bursts of color in the distance. Then a firework went up nearby, the boom so loud that it shook her bones and made her jump halfway out of the chair. She snapped her head around to where the first flurry of fireworks went up to the north.
“That’s the display at Mile High Stadium,” he said, leaning over so she could hear him below the pops and the cracks. He pointed to another one farther out west. “And that’s the one over Red Rocks Amphitheatre.”
Rachel smiled and sat back again, propping her feet against the railing of the balcony. The cool breeze that came from the deepening night ruffled her hair and caressed her skin. She let out a contented sigh.
“So you really haven’t seen a fireworks display since you were a kid?”
“Now that you mention it, I caught part of one a few years ago at Civic Center Park. The Fourth fell on a Monday, so the restaurant was closed.”
“But . . .”
“I was so tired I fell asleep and missed most of it.”
He laughed. “If you could sleep through fireworks, I’d say you needed the sleep more than the show. That’s probably the only advantage to the current situation.”
She nibbled her thumbnail. “Truth?”
“Of course.”
“I don’t like to sleep.”
He quirked a look at her. “You’ve got insomnia?”
“Oh no, I sleep like a log, when I do sleep. I just don’t like to. I stay up until I can’t keep my eyes open, and then I sleep hard. It was easy when I worked in New York. We didn’t close until midnight, and then there would be cleanup, and then the bars . . . I’d stumble home and catch a couple of hours and then get up and do the whole thing again the next day. It wasn’t the healthiest lifestyle, I fully admit.”
The Saturday Night Supper Club Page 16
