“No, you and doofus over there are friends,” I said, gesturing to where my brother and Tony were examining the stability of an ahi tuna tower. Logan and Chris had been attached at the hip since peewee football. Back then, they’d both been scrawny runts pretending to be hotshot professionals. Who would’ve predicted that years later they’d be on the same team both gunning for a Super Bowl ring? “We”—I pointed the business end of my knife back and forth between us—“are acquaintances.”
Acquaintances. The universal definition for the awkward relationship born out of too much cheap beer, a high school party my senior year, and a clichéd teenage crush on my brother’s best friend. Acquaintances meant we’d made out in a pool house during the football team’s end-of-season gathering, moved past it—and we had moved past it, I reminded myself—and didn’t need to discuss it again.
Frankly I wished I could forget the whole him-touching-my-boob thing had ever happened, how exposed and vulnerable he’d made me feel. Too bad it was never that simple. Not when it came to Logan Stonestreet.
There’d always been something magnetic that drew me to him. The way his smile, almost perfect in its crookedness, lingered on his face, suggesting devilish possibilities. The crinkles that formed around his eyes when he laughed, lending a sort of boyish playfulness to his vibrant, and often cocky, personality. The helmet tan line that was like a tattoo on the back of his neck, the one I’d pretended not to notice when he’d sauntered down the halls in school, students and teachers alike transfixed by his every move.
Even now, standing in the last place he belonged, I couldn’t rip my gaze away from the sharp cut of his jaw, the honey-blond fleck of five o’clock shadow that should look sloppy rather than handsome. I couldn’t help but picture how it’d feel if those huge, capable hands grabbed my waist and set me on the countertop. I blamed the sudden swell of heat coursing through me on the Viking range behind me—and definitely not on the eight different ways I wanted to violate the health code.
But engaging with Logan outside the restaurant owner/executive chef partnership was out of the question. Until tonight, we’d been communicating via email and voice messages, since he was busy with training camp and preseason, but with the main season about to start, I feared he’d be around more frequently. Something I wasn’t sure my heart could afford.
“Move along, Wonder Bread. Certainly there are guests waiting to be schmoozed, napkins primed for autographing, press writers to pander to.” I attempted to bump Logan out of the way with my hip but managed only to nudge him a little.
Leaning against the counter, he crossed his arms and his legs at the ankle, one side of his mouth quirking up. “Gwenie, remember how you agreed to stop using that nickname if I bought you the industrial mixer you wanted?”
“I said I’d try to quit calling you Wonder Bread. Not my fault it’s so appropriate.”
“Why, ’cause I need more UV rays?” he asked. “You should speak for yourself. I bet if you styled your hair in two braids instead of that low bun, you’d be a dead ringer for Wednesday Addams.”
“Clever,” I said as my eyes raked over the sun-kissed skin peeking out from under his shirt. Even in the harsh kitchen lights, he glowed golden perfection. Jerk. “But no. It’s because you’re All-American, boring, and as usual, full of crap.”
At my response, Tony burst out laughing. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said, slapping my shoulder with enough strength it threatened to knock the toque off my head.
“You should probably take Gwen at her word, Logan,” Chris chimed in, stepping to the side so Amy could pass me the crab cakes still bubbling from the broiler. I transferred them to a white platter, added the rémoulade sauce, then popped the finished dish into the pickup window.
“Why are there green bits in the crab cakes?” Logan asked, scrutinizing the appetizer with more attention than something so basic deserved.
“From the diced jalapeños,” I said, studying several plates ready to head out onto the floor. “Your version was bland, so I modified it.”
Logan raised an eyebrow. “You changed my mom’s signature dish?”
Guilt twisted my chest at the realization. Kind, stoic, and charming, Jane had been the bedrock of the Stonestreet family with a soothing melodic voice and Jackie Kennedy beauty. Ovarian cancer had claimed her life too soon, only weeks after Logan had been drafted to the Blizzards. Sports analysts and critics alike had thought the loss would affect Logan’s game, but instead it had seemed to push him to play harder, better, echoing his legendary NFL quarterback father who’d won three Super Bowl championships and had a mall in Seattle named after him.
“I just spruced it up a bit,” I said. “Gave it a little personality.”
“The recipe was fine—”
“Yes, yes. Chock-full of crabmeat, mayo, bread crumbs, and overinflated seduction,” I said. “I can only imagine how many times you’ve used it on a girl to round third base on your way to home. Though how something with so little flavor ever did you any favors, I’ll never know.”
“That’s what the sauce is for,” Logan said, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“The what?” I asked, annoyed that in order to work around him, I kept brushing up against him. Definitely no participation trophies where he was concerned.
“Fred’s Five Pepper Insanity.”
For the first time that evening, I came to a complete and total standstill. Hot sauce from a bottle? Oh, hell no.
“It tastes great on anything,” Logan continued. “It’s written right on the label.”
I ground my teeth. “Get. Out. Now.”
“Sassy chef’s about to gut you worse than you did to Detroit’s defense last week,” Tony hollered, still happy as ever even though in his most recent preseason performance, he’d uncharacteristically given up three quarterback sacks.
“What’d I do?” Logan asked, his expression pure bewilderment.
Chris grabbed Logan by the back of the neck and marched him toward the swinging door. “Bottled sauce? You idiot.” He patted Logan on the cheek, shaking his head in bafflement. “I know you two haven’t spent much time together recently, but it’s like you’ve never met Gwen.”
The minute they were out of sight, the familiar rush of a busy kitchen flooded back, and I could breathe again. Damn Logan. So many years away from him and he still had the ability to steal the oxygen from the room until my emotional intelligence dropped to the level of cheerleader wannabe heading up the bake sale.
I needed to remember why I was in Denver and what had landed me here.
And above all, I needed to remember what happened when I let personal and professional collide.
CHAPTER
TWO
Logan
The launch of the restaurant was everything I’d envisioned, and nothing I’d expected. The panoramic windows that showcased pristine views of downtown Denver and the Rocky Mountains beyond, the whiskey-centric bar lined with backlit bottles from all over the world, the giant jellyfish aquarium that acted as a centerpiece for the dining room were all exactly as I’d pictured. What I hadn’t expected was how comfortable I’d feel amid the din of people clinking glasses and enjoying dishes dedicated to Mom’s memory. It was a hum that ebbed and flowed, washing over me and transforming into an amorphous blob of sound I heard every game day, filling my veins with the rush of a challenge still evolving, an end zone coming into focus.
Would it always be like this? A thrill I wanted to experience over and over again? Or was it simply the potent combination of opening night excitement and my feisty executive chef?
I probably should’ve interviewed Gwen before I hired her, but when Chris had told me she needed a job—why, with someone of her talent, I didn’t know—and I needed an experienced chef, the decision had seemed straightforward. For as long as I could remember, Gwen had been all about food, as set on her path as I was o
n my future, but where I’d spent summers bulking up in the gym, she’d spent them traveling with her father, Henri, learning from the culinary elite and eating at exclusive restaurants. I knew she’d do Stonestreet’s justice—and make Mom proud.
I just hadn’t anticipated her to mature into such an attractive woman with all the tools to drive me nuts. In my mind, she was still the eighteen-year-old girl I’d felt up in a pool house during the only high school party she’d ever attended. The girl who had a very small, tight-knit group of friends but preferred to be alone. The girl some people had labeled a misfit but to me had been too busy concentrating on goals outside the typical teenage bullshit to care. But watching five feet of attitude and a hundred pounds of snark command a bustling kitchen, all I’d wanted to do was strip off that chef’s coat and discover what else had changed.
A camera flashed, bringing me back to the moment, the bright light slicing through the half-open door. I sighed. Just once I wanted to leave someone else to deal with the media and their endless questions. But I was the face of Stonestreet’s the same way I was the face of the Blizzards franchise, which meant the publicity—good and bad—fell on my shoulders. Plus, I’d avoided the throng of reporters out front long enough, having snuck into the restaurant through the staff entrance, and if I didn’t greet them soon, someone would come searching for me, or worse—let the press inside.
Stepping onto the red carpet, I was immediately bombarded with more flashing cameras and the sound of my name hitting me from every direction.
“Logan! What’s your favorite dish tonight?”
“Logan! Tell us the inspiration behind the menu.”
“Logan! How’s your knee feeling after preseason?” shouted Tom Phelps, the head sportswriter for the Denver Morning News, recorder primed and ready. “Will it hold up long enough to finally win you a championship this season?”
I paused, a too-happy expression plastered on my face as frustration surged through me. “Come on now, Tom. You know tonight is about good food and honoring my mother’s legacy. No football questions.” My voice was tight, my practiced smile—the one I used at press conferences after major losses—familiar and brittle. Who the hell had invited him to the grand opening?
“You seemed to be babying it during last week’s preseason game against Detroit. Is your old college ACL injury flaring up?” he continued, ignoring my polite request. Tom Phelps never ceased asking the hard, direct questions, no matter how inappropriate or ill-timed, the ones no athlete in their right mind would ever truthfully answer.
I thought I’d been careful, deliberate in ensuring I performed at 100 percent. Not once during the game had I lobbed the ball or handed it off rather than run, dodge, or pass, forcing the Detroit defense to adapt to my style of game. The only thing more detrimental than an injury was for the other teams, the press, or the franchise to wonder if I was in pain. I couldn’t afford the extra scrutiny, the added pressure. Not if I wanted to win.
And I did want to win—apart from having one more day to spend with Mom, it was the only thing I’d ever wanted since I’d watched Dad hold up the Vince Lombardi Trophy.
“Logan, are you purposely evading my question or are you stunned by all the lights?” Tom asked, shoving the recorder farther into my face. “Once more, how’s—”
“What do you think your mother would say if she were here, Logan?” the Colorado Post food columnist cut in.
Relief flooded through me at the interruption as grief clutched my chest. “I think she’d tell me to enjoy tonight, have dessert even though I’ve got a weigh-in tomorrow, and stay out of the kitchen and leave the cooking to the professionals.” I chuckled, remembering how Mom would shoo me away with a wooden spoon every time I’d tried to steal a taste of whatever was on the stove.
The kitchen had always been her kingdom the same way the roaring crowds and fresh green grass on the field were for Dad and me—something she’d appreciated in Gwen. Mom had the same fire, the same passion, for her family and the dishes she created. In hindsight, watching the cancer steal her energy, her desire to satisfy people’s stomachs—the very thing that made her her—had been devastating. And I’d hoped, as romantic and idyllic as it sounded, that I’d be able to bring a fraction of that memory back with this restaurant devoted to her recipes. It wasn’t nearly enough, but it was the best I could give.
Duty done, I ducked back inside. I heard Chris’s boisterous, infectious laugh, and I looked over at a wraparound booth where he was milking his sports star status and posing for selfies with a group of drunken businessmen. The guy “loved him some him,” as Terrell Owens liked to say. But unlike TO, Chris was enough of a powerhouse on the field to back up the cockiness and showboating. Dare to block him and it was your funeral. I could only guess the tricks he had in store for the upcoming season. And if the stars aligned the way I hoped, big things were going to happen for the Blizzards this year—a conviction I felt in my bones.
It was still impossible to believe Mom would never be around for it, a reality I was still processing even after all these years. She, more than anyone, deserved to see me accomplish everything I’d dreamed of—dreams she’d shared and supported in ways I’d been too young to fully appreciate. When she’d drive out to the track and shine her headlights on the field so Dad and I could run one more pass play. When I took a nasty hit she’d be there, ready to help me brush it off. If any of the tackles had terrified her, she’d never shown it. Her priority had always been ensuring I was never too afraid to try again, to go harder, to strive for more. Or when she’d cook my lucky pregame meal of lasagna and garlic bread, even if it’d meant slaving over a stove at the end of a long week or a midnight run to the grocery store for Parmesan cheese, the good kind in the plastic Kraft container.
“There he is!” The boom of my agent’s voice pulled my attention to the lounge. I groaned, and immediately the relaxed, inviting ambience in the room turned claustrophobic.
Phil waved me over with a toss of his half-full lowball of Johnnie Walker Blue. “Nothing but the best,” I could practically hear him shout. Phil was obsessed with the best—liquor, women, cars—it didn’t matter. He accumulated them all like trophies and more often promptly forgot why he collected them in the first place. His top-of-the-line suits were hand-selected by personal shoppers because that was what a man of his success was supposed to do. But did he bother to have them cut to fit his five-ten frame? Of course not.
More than once I’d wondered if Phil’s true skill was in the short game, in the spin and marketing of what was hot right now rather than what had the power to last. Still, he was a damn good negotiator who had yet to steer me wrong. A fact my hefty paycheck and endorsement deals made hard to argue.
Raking a hand through my hair and squaring my shoulders, I wove around cherrywood tables and plush leather banquettes to where Phil was talking to the sommelier decanting a Russian River Valley Pinot Noir. The exposed filament bulbs dangling from the copper-tiled ceiling cast him in a yellow glow, illuminating the sheen of sweat on his forehead.
“Packed house,” Phil said, grasping his fresh drink and pushing away from the bar. “You done making the rounds? We need to talk.” His face wore an unaffected expression, but the pressure of his hand between my shoulder blades left no room for argument as he propelled me toward a quiet hallway near the staff restrooms.
I shrugged him off, tugging on my jacket lapels. I hated when he manhandled me, but I wasn’t about to cause a scene. “Do we have to do this now? I haven’t spent much time on the floor or even seen Dad yet.”
“Bob will understand,” Phil said, the first thread of frustration edging his tone. “I’ve told you before—your job as owner is to show up for the occasional appearance and greet a few guests. Hire a GM for everything else.”
“It’s my name on the door,” I said. “People expect—”
“And that’s the fucking problem.” Swallowing the
rest of his whiskey, he slammed the glass on the decorative table against the wall. “The only place your name matters is above the number eighteen on your jersey.” Phil shook his head, his sigh identical to the three other times we’d had this conversation. “Listen, I appreciate that the restaurant is important to you, but you’re allowing yourself to become distracted by an endeavor best suited for retirement.”
“You’re the one who’s always telling me to expand my reach, be more in the public eye,” I said. Though even when I was developing the concept of Stonestreet’s two years ago, I knew he wouldn’t approve. Frankly, if it wouldn’t churn the rumor mill, Phil wouldn’t have turned up for opening night at all, but the last thing he’d want was rumblings of discord between us.
“I meant participating in celebrity golf tournaments. High-profile media activities are appropriate for an athlete of your caliber, and charitable events look good for your image,” he said, pacing the hallway. “Don’t jeopardize your lucrative career by becoming too invested in this pet project.”
“Fulfilling a promise I made to my mother is not a pet project,” I said, something no one around me seemed to comprehend, especially my ex, Nicole. She’d thought the restaurant was a stupid idea that added no value. That’s why she was now a part of my past instead of my future. It was just unfortunate it’d taken me two years to figure out she’d had no place in my life.
“Fine. Then it’s ill-timed.” Phil stopped shuffling. Red splotches marred his cheeks, and I could smell the sharp bite of alcohol on his breath. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that you’re a brand, Logan. The role of the quarterback is more than leading the charge and scoring touchdowns. It’s the wholesome image, the marketability that sells merchandise and tickets. You can have flash and flare in some of the support positions—they tend to burn out anyway—but QBs are legacy players who anchor the franchise.”
Intercepting the Chef Page 2
