The Saturday Night Supper Club

by Carla Laureano

  The shower turned off next door, but when the door didn’t immediately open, Alex shut down his web browser and instead opened the file containing his proposal. Two measly paragraphs. That’s all he’d done in the three weeks since the whole situation went down with Rachel and Paisley. His agent had even given up on her daily check-ins, evidently figuring out it was doing nothing to motivate him and only wasting her time.

  Alex leaned back in his chair and stared at the blinking cursor. His first book had started with a guiding essay, and the essay started with the identification of a problem. A humorous way to shed light on the foibles of modern life, especially considering the place he lived and the people with whom he interacted. And yet, as he thought back through all of the things he’d done in the past several weeks, he couldn’t find it within him to complain.

  He was enjoying himself.

  He was enjoying the interaction with Rachel, the amazing food she cooked, the preparation for the supper club. He was enjoying the anticipation of the next one, and the challenge of helping her rebuild her career when he had always been mostly focused on his own.

  He was starting to care for her. Not simply because he was attracted to her or because he felt guilty about what he had done to her career. But because she was smart and funny and determined. Because she only cared about what other people thought as far as it affected her ability to live up to her own expectations. Pretty much the exact opposite of every woman he’d dated.

  He smiled when he thought of how nervous she’d been about the supper club and how she had completely taken control. He’d never thought he’d find extreme capability in a woman sexy, but she was blowing plenty of his preconceptions out of the water.

  A tickle in the back of his mind made him open a new file. He put his fingers to the keyboard, not expecting anything to come, but to his surprise, words poured onto the screen. Not just a paragraph, but page after page. When he finally looked up at his clock, it was nearly one in the morning; he’d spent over two hours typing without pause.

  Alex saved the file and shut his laptop down without reviewing the document. He would look it over tomorrow and see if there was anything usable there or merely sentimental ramblings after having indulged in an incredible meal made by an incredible woman.

  He rose from the chair and poked his head out into the living room. The lights were already off, though the flickering screen of the television projected colors onto the sleeping form of his sister. She was curled on the sofa beneath a light blanket with Sunshine, who had apparently emerged from hiding. She’d be flying home early tomorrow morning, ready to get back to her real life. Bad timing or not, he liked having Dina here. He’d missed a good chunk of her life because he’d been busy with his own, and now that she could use a big brother on her side, she was a thousand miles away.

  Nothing could be done about that now. She was living her dream in LA and he would support her in that, even if their parents wouldn’t. But if he paid her well enough, she might consent to returning in two weeks.

  Two weeks. He had his work cut out for him if he was going to maintain the buzz and momentum until the second supper club. Tomorrow he would go over his list of potential guests and select the ones who were Rachel’s next best bet for spreading the word. Knowing her, she’d have a provisional menu established by the end of the day and be testing recipes first thing Monday morning, something for which he fully intended to be on hand.

  * * *

  Rachel couldn’t sleep. She tossed and turned in her bed, the streetlight throwing a yellow glow across her bedroom. It was the excitement of the evening, of course, the impulse to relive every course and analyze what went right and what went wrong. To sift through the guests’ reactions, feedback they hadn’t known they were giving her. The vegetable, fish, and scallop were flawless, as was the savory ricotta cheesecake, but judging from the amount of gnocchi left on the plates, the wild boar ragù hadn’t quite gone over as well as she’d hoped. Probably not the taste, given that it was partially eaten, but rather that it was a bit heavy after the first three courses. She hadn’t wanted anyone to go away hungry, so she’d erred on the side of generosity. Next time she would go with typical tasting portions, enough to satisfy but not enough to weigh them down.

  She might also be doing everything she could not to think about Alex, which was proving near impossible. For one thing, he’d presided over the night with admirable aplomb, a born entertainer. He’d known who to introduce to whom and how to steer the conversation when it strayed into dangerous territory. He’d guided their impressions of the dishes when they were still deciding what they thought about them. And he’d brought his sister in, who had arguably made as much of a contribution to the night’s success as Rachel and Alex had.

  There was also his kissing prowess, which was not inconsequential. Even now, the memory of his lips on hers and his hands in her hair made her heart beat wildly. Sent her mind spinning off into the girlish fantasies she’d banished by necessity a long time ago.

  “Forget it,” she whispered to herself. She needed Alex for his access to potential investors, not as a boyfriend. She hadn’t gotten this far in her career by letting herself be distracted by a pretty face and a knee-weakening kiss. There was only room in her life for one love, and that was cooking. She knew better than to succumb to whispered promises of a happily ever after that would likely never come.

  No. Better to play it safe and keep things professional. The next time she saw him she would apologize for letting things get so out of hand. He would understand, given how excited she’d been about the evening’s success.

  Anyway, it wasn’t like she had any time to think about getting personal. She had only two weeks to come up with a different seasonal theme and a new menu, and source all the food for the next supper club. She knew full well that Alex had intended this as a trial run to make sure she could pull off the concept and build her confidence. Next time the stakes would be higher. Her investor could very well be in that group. She needed to keep her head down and her mind focused, away from distractions.

  And whatever else he might be, Alex was an enormous distraction.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ALEX HAD VOWED to let Rachel make the next move and contact him.

  He made it exactly two days.

  It wasn’t for lack of trying. Other than fielding the flood of responses to the surprisingly successful Instagram barrage, he had nothing to do but write. Now that he’d completed the first phase of relaunching Rachel’s career, he should be able to focus. The words should be flowing onto the page.

  And yet the only thing that was flowing was a river of panic. Every last bit of talent or inspiration he’d ever possessed was apparently gone.

  Almost as if he were sending out an emergency beacon, his cell phone lit up, flashing Christine’s number on the screen. Cautiously, he answered.

  “There you are!” she said by way of hello. “I was beginning to think you were avoiding me.”

  “Not avoiding. Procrastinating.”

  “Yes, your time-honored method of creativity. Does that mean you’re finally writing?” Christine’s tone was patient, or maybe it was resigned to the hopelessly uncooperative nature of his creative process.

  Alex hesitated. He still had no idea where the book was going. Or if it was a book. Or publishable. “Sort of.”

  “How do you ‘sort of’ write?”

  “Currently it’s a random handful of essays and ramblings that may or may not have a cohesive theme. I don’t know yet.”

  “And here I thought my fiction writers were eccentric. I tell you what. Send me what you have. I’ll be the one to tell you if it’s any good and if it’s saleable.”

  “Soon. Not quite yet.”

  “You’re killing me, Alex. You’re literally throwing away the chance at a six-figure contract because of . . . what? Writer’s block? Insecurity?”

  “I told you when I wrote the first book, I would only write another when I had so
mething worthwhile to communicate. I don’t believe in putting work out into the world simply to have another publication to my name. And I’m still not sure if what I have to say will even be worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  “Then we push the delivery date. But give me something to work with so we can at least get a contract in motion.”

  Christine was right. If he delayed much longer, this window of opportunity would close. And she might be a little pushy, but that’s why he’d hired her in the first place—to have the killer instinct that he somehow lacked when it came to publishing. “I’ll do my best. That’s all I can promise.”

  “Then it’s going to have to do. Just don’t mess this one up, Alex. You’re a gifted writer, but even gifted writers can sabotage their careers out of existence.”

  “I’ll get you something in a couple of weeks and you can tell me if you can sell it. Deal?”

  “Good enough. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Alex clicked off the line and set the phone beside his laptop, fiddling with it until it was perfectly parallel to the keyboard. Maybe Christine was right. Maybe he was sabotaging himself because he was afraid to have another bomb. His magazine writing was high-profile, but he didn’t carry the weight of sales on his name alone. If an article didn’t resonate, readers moved on to another one in the publication that did. But the thought of all those hardbound volumes languishing in a warehouse somewhere, unwanted by the reading public, was enough to give anyone writer’s block.

  So maybe his writer’s block had nothing to do with Rachel in the first place.

  And yet his eyes continually went to his cell phone, as if he could will it to ring.

  He sighed, picked it up, and dialed Rachel’s number.

  She answered after half a dozen rings, sounding breathless. “Hey!”

  “Hey yourself. Am I interrupting something?”

  “Not really. Just testing some recipes for next week and I couldn’t find the phone. What are you doing?”

  Alex smiled. “Trying to work on a proposal and getting distracted by you.”

  “Oh, really?” She gave what sounded like a nervous laugh, punctuated by the sound of sizzling in the background. Naturally she’d be multitasking. Rachel had an ability to focus that right now he envied.

  She wasn’t giving him anything to work with, though. Bryan would mock him for his total lack of game, but women didn’t usually make him this tongue-tied.

  “I was hoping you’d let me take you out sometime this week.” There. That wasn’t so bad . . . if he were a middle-schooler asking a girl to the movies. Nicely done.

  “Like on a date?”

  “Exactly like a date. With dinner and conversation and, if I play my cards right, a kiss that does not end with my sister barging into the room.”

  Rachel laughed, and this time there was no question she sounded nervous. “Okay. Friday.”

  “You’re going to make me wait all week to see you?”

  “I’m busy until then. Besides, I have a feeling you’re used to getting your way. It won’t kill you to exercise some patience.”

  “You promise?”

  “If you die, you can absolutely say you told me so.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “Okay, fine. Let’s say . . . seven on Friday? I’ll pick you up.”

  “It’s a plan.”

  “If I took you to coffee tomorrow morning, that wouldn’t count as a date.”

  “Nice try.” He could hear the smile in her voice. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

  “All right, all right. Friday. I’ll try to be patient. But if you need someone to give an objective opinion on the menu—”

  “Good-bye, Alex.”

  He laughed again and hung up the phone. He liked this woman. Her sense of humor, the fact she never let anything undermine her focus. True, he would have liked it a lot better if she’d agreed to see him every day this week, but the care she was putting into this menu should teach him a lesson in diligence.

  Yes. His proposal. He could at least write something, if only to get Christine off his back. Surely he could find something to be ironic and irritated about. He’d made a career off his natural contrariness.

  Except when he put his fingers to the keyboard, the only thing he could think of was the way Rachel had thrown her arms around his neck, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against his. Maybe the stuff of poetry, which he didn’t write, or sappy love songs, which he didn’t write either, but not a book of essays. There had to be some universal meaning to his work, something to which all readers could relate.

  And then the idea sparked, just a bare filament of thought. He followed it, not sure where it would lead, until his fingers were tapping across the keyboard and the screen filled with line after line of words.

  Before he knew it, he’d written a complete essay he hadn’t known he had in him.

  He saved it and shut down the file. At least that was progress. He might not leave Christine and his publisher hanging indefinitely, though a single essay hardly qualified as a full proposal.

  In the meantime, though, he had a date to plan. One he hoped would finally prove to Rachel that the only thing he wanted out of this arrangement was her trust.

  * * *

  Rachel set down the phone and turned her attention back to the fish she was searing in the hot pan.

  Alex had asked her out on a proper date.

  And for reasons she didn’t quite understand, she had said yes.

  Why had she said yes? Since Saturday night, she’d convinced herself that she needed to keep this relationship friendly and businesslike. It was safer that way. Less messy. The fact Alex hadn’t made any kind of contact made it easy to believe he’d dismissed that kiss as a mistake, just as she had.

  Rachel nibbled her nail. It had been a mistake, hadn’t it? Yes, she’d enjoyed it. But she’d also been relieved Dina had interrupted them before she needed to put a stop to it. There were things Alex wouldn’t understand. He’d take them personally. Wasn’t that why she’d given up dating before she’d ever really begun?

  The acrid smell of burning oil jolted her out of her reverie, and she snapped her mind back to the fish with dismay. A perfectly good piece of halibut, ruined. She twisted off the burner with a savage motion and dumped the fish directly into the trash can. She was wiping out the pan to start anew when she finally gave up. She was too distracted to cook fish, and halibut was a stupid idea anyway.

  So she did what any sensible single woman in her situation did: she texted her friends and asked them to bring ice cream.

  Two hours later, Ana and Melody arrived together, the first bearing a bag of whole-bean coffee, the second a half gallon of rocky road ice cream.

  “What happened?” Ana asked immediately. “Is it the supper club? Alex? He didn’t do something jerky, did he?”

  Rachel stepped aside. “No, nothing like that. I had an emergency ice cream craving and I realized I haven’t even gotten to tell you about the supper club yet.”

  Melody took the coffee from Ana and moved past Rachel to the kitchen. “We saw on Instagram. The food looked beautiful. Have you searched the hashtag? It was trending.”

  Rachel flushed, remembering her reaction to that very fact. “I saw. By the way, there are strawberries and fresh whipped cream in the fridge.”

  Melody helped herself to bowls while Ana found the grinder and the French press. Rachel leaned in the doorway, smiling. They’d known each other long enough for her friends to treat this like their own place, something she secretly loved. Seven minutes later, Ana was serving up hot cups of coffee, while Melody had made them big bowls of ice cream, artistically garnished with strawberries and whipped cream.

  Melody practically dragged Rachel to the living room sofa and tucked her feet up under her long skirt. “Now spill, and make it quick, because I have to be at work in an hour. I don’t believe for a minute this is about needing an ice cream fix.”

  Rachel dug into the sundae with her spoon
and licked off the creamy, chocolaty deliciousness. God bless Melody. This was no supermarket ice cream. This was some serious artisanal, organic, small-batch, hand-churned heaven.

  “So that’s how you’re going to play it?” Ana arched an eyebrow. “Just use us for coffee and ice cream?”

  Rachel set down her spoon. “I kissed Alex.”

  “What?” they asked in unison. Ana managed, “When?”

  “On Saturday after everyone left the supper club.”

  “Wait a second, you kissed him three days ago and you’re only now telling us?”

  Rachel grimaced. “I know. I’m sorry. I was going to tell you sooner, but I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.”

  Ana looked at Melody. “She kissed the most unreasonably hot guy in the state of Colorado and she doesn’t know how to feel about it.”

  Rachel rolled her eyes. “You know why.”

  “Hon, I know you’re nervous, understandably so.” Melody put her hand over Rachel’s. “But if you felt nothing in that man’s presence, I’d have to recommend professional help.”

  “You guys are already Team Alex, and you don’t know anything about him.”

  “I know he’s the first guy to tempt you from your nun-like state, and therefore I like him,” Ana said.

  “If you’re not interested,” Melody said, “I’ll take his number.”

  “Hey now!” Rachel protested. Ana and Melody started laughing.

  “Anyway,” Melody said, “I want to know how the kiss was.”

  Rachel took a bite of ice cream so she didn’t have to answer, but she couldn’t stop the heat that bloomed in her cheeks.

  “That good, huh?” Melody rubbed her hands together.

  Good enough to send a quiver of anticipation through her at the thought of being in his arms again. If she was honest, though, it wasn’t just the kiss. It was the guy. There was something about him that had pulled her in against her will, made her want to get closer, reject the notion that they should be merely friends and business partners.