Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “Overstepped your bounds?” Logan asked with a sly grin that killed my anxiety and stirred something else entirely warm and deep in my belly. “Wasn’t aware you’d ever played by the rules, Gwen. Thought that was more my thing.”

  “Good point,” I said, relaxing my posture and leaning against the prep station. “I’d forgotten you earned both the perfect attendance award and the great citizen award all four years of high school.”

  “You’re also forgetting my history of winning Prom King and Person Most Likely to Cheer Up a Classmate.”

  The playfulness in his tone, the crinkles that formed around his eyes, the easiness between us momentarily disarmed me, and I found myself being drawn to him in a way I couldn’t afford.

  Inhaling a deep breath, I squared my shoulders and said, “Which means as a strict rule follower and pro athlete, you should know that owners stay off the field—and out of the kitchen.”

  Logan chuckled. “You’re exactly how I remember.”

  “How’s that?”

  He hesitated, as if contemplating his next words. “Spunky, confident . . . still as short as a yardstick.”

  I picked up my Japanese sashimi knife and pointed it at him. “Do I need to remind you of my slicing skills?”

  Raising his hands, Logan backed away and said, “No, I saw enough of that growing up. I’m good.” He scratched the back of his neck, suddenly appearing insecure. “You know, after we graduated high school I never thought I’d hear from you again, so when Chris called me about the executive chef position, I was surprised. But I’m glad he did. It almost feels like old times.”

  I stared at him, once again wondering why he was here. Because while I’d been around when he and Chris battled each other in Super Mario, yelled at the television during NFL games, and generally discussed their awesomeness, I wouldn’t count those instances as “old times.” And sure, occasionally I’d tag along when they’d go over to Logan’s house to throw a football with Bob Stonestreet or practice their formations, but that hadn’t been because we were friends. I’d gone with them because I’d been bored at home and had wanted to cook with Logan’s mom, Jane.

  Then again, Logan had always been the optimistic one. Perhaps I could learn something from his example.

  I cleared my throat. “So, Wonder Bread, did you just feel like stopping by on your way to a Marvel birthday party or . . . ?” I asked, gesturing to the odd-shaped bundle he’d brought.

  “I’ll have you know I’m headed to practice,” he said, swiping the package off the workstation and handing it to me. “And it’s a gift for you.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  His expression turned sheepish. “Consider it your official welcome present. And an apology for snapping at you last night.”

  My eyebrows rose in surprise, his words catching me off guard. Most of the men in my life were incapable of uttering I’m sorry. Stephen had always behaved as if his patronizing superiority and cruelty were part and parcel of the persona of a celebrity chef. And Chris never bothered to apologize for anything. Instead, he’d pretend the outburst had never happened at all and continued on, expecting those around him to follow suit.

  Game after game of watching my brother fight for glory on the field, I’d grown accustomed to how the moods of an athlete could swing like a pendulum from one end of the spectrum to the other in a matter of seconds. One bungled kick, a ball an inch out of reach, a bad penalty call, and the entire team went from zealous to petulant child to enraged in a single play. But no matter the outcome, Logan had stayed composed under pressure, internalizing his anger and funneling it to perform better. Which was why his words in the hallway last night and patronizing tone, honed to a razor edge, had stung so much.

  Oh, Logan and I had exchanged more verbal grenades over the years than an elderly couple who communicated only by bickering and underhanded condescension, but his jabs had never been so direct. So personal.

  “What is it?” I inspected the gift like it might turn into a Transformer and attack me.

  “Would you open it already?” he asked in exasperation.

  “So bossy,” I said, taking my sweet time tearing off the wrapping paper to expose a gallon of Fred’s Five Pepper Insanity. A smile crept onto my face despite my better judgment.

  “I hear you can put that hot sauce on anything. Even a snarky attitude,” he said with a wink.

  Stereotypical Wonder Bread, too damn witty for his own good. As much as I hated to admit it, the gesture was charming and a little tempting—the poached eggs I’d eaten for breakfast had needed a punch of spice. Of course I’d never tell Logan that.

  “What makes this stuff so special anyway? Red dye 40, alligator piss, the burn of a botched bikini wax?” I asked, reading the label. Perfect for all food groups and guarantees an insanely good time. What a ridiculous slogan.

  “It’s the kick it gives you,” he said. “I suspect you could use one.”

  “I thought this was meant to be an apology present.”

  “No, the gallon of Fred’s was because I wanted to see your reaction,” he said. “The apology is dinner at my condo.”

  “Have you been inhaling the hot sauce?” I asked. “I’m not eating dinner with you.”

  “Sure you are,” he said, matter-of-factly, like my agreement was a given. “I’m woefully lacking in any and all restaurant knowledge, and you’re an expert. So unless you want me breathing down your neck regularly, your only hope is to educate me. And what better way to accomplish that than over a meal?”

  I snorted. “Look at you, issuing orders like you own the place.”

  “That’s because I do,” he said in an almost singsong way.

  “It boggles my mind how I could have forgotten the size of your ego.”

  “Aw, come on. It’s not that big,” he said, skipping backward to the cold storage room that housed the produce.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “Says the man who thinks he’s the most important person on the team—”

  “I am the most important person on the team.” Logan grabbed an apple from one of the baskets and nudged the giant door closed with his foot.

  “—and knows all the girls have crushes on him.”

  He paused, then slowly approached, a too-smug expression etched into his features. “All of them, Gwen?”

  Blood rushed to my cheeks as my insinuation finally registered. Logan’s cocky smile grew wider, as though there was a flashing sign above my head betraying my secrets. Heat radiated off his body, and standing so close to him in this cold, sterile space, it took all my willpower not to lean into him.

  “Well, Logan, I certainly wouldn’t throw you out of bed.” Missy’s voice, loud and lyrical, echoed off the tile walls and caused me to jump. She strode into the kitchen, her cute blond bob bouncing with the movement. “Just don’t tell my husband.”

  “Good to see you, Missy.” Logan nodded at her before turning his attention back to me. “Gwen and I were discussing ways to spice up her life.”

  “That so?” Missy asked, giving me a look that indicated I had some explaining to do.

  I shook my head at her, then met Logan’s gaze. The way he stared at me, focused, intense, made my throat constrict. But I refused to glance away, show him that his words had any effect on me. “Only an unrefined palate confuses spice with depth of flavor.”

  “How will you know unless you take a taste?” he asked.

  “Why does it not surprise me that your mouth is as pedestrian as the rest of you, Wonder Bread?”

  “Are you thinking about my mouth, Gwen?”

  I rolled my eyes. He really could be so infuriating sometimes. “Sealing it with duct tape, maybe.”

  Logan laughed and said, “We’ll see. I have to get to practice.” Then he took a bite of apple and disappeared.

  Missy waited until the staff door creaked
closed before she asked, “Wanna tell me what that was about?”

  “That was . . . nothing. Logan being a pest as usual,” I said, waving off her question as if it were inconsequential.

  She raised an eyebrow but kept whatever comment was on the tip of her tongue to herself. “In that case, sheath your knives and bust open the bubbly.”

  “Way ahead of you,” I said, cocking my head over to the mimosa bar.

  Missy beamed a beauty pageant smile, dimmed only by the magenta pink, lime green, and sherbet orange of her shift dress. How she managed to radiate youth in a starfish- and flower-patterned ensemble that was better suited for a retirement village of sixtysomething, Vespa-riding Floridians I’d never understand. At least Missy added a punch of neon in a sea of blahness.

  “I brought nibbles,” she said, holding up a box of store-bought cinnamon rolls.

  “Simple carbs and saturated fat. My favorite.”

  “The only food group that matters,” Missy agreed with a wink, dropping her enormous designer tote beside the gallon of Fred’s hot sauce. Planners galore sprouted out of the top. She’d always been organized, but this was a level beyond neurotic. I could only imagine what they were all for—volunteer and charity responsibilities, sorority advisor duties, household tasks and appointments, her ever-evolving reality television calendar. She was a stay-at-home wife who juggled more commitments than Oprah.

  Total opposites in every way—Missy the popular social butterfly who flitted from group to group and me the content loner—we knew our friendship made no sense, which was probably why it had lasted through four tumultuous years of high school, culinary school for me, college for her, the beginning of my career, and Missy’s marriage.

  We’d first met when we were partnered in freshman home economics, charged with creating a mini baked-goods business for a semester. She’d cranked the numbers and run the financial reports, while I’d supplied the cupcakes and muffins. By the end of the term, we’d had the highest margins of any duo in the course and were single-handedly responsible for the wrestling team not achieving their weight class.

  And though we hadn’t seen each other in over two years, our friendship remained easy and unforced, our volley of Facebook messages, texts, and sporadic phone calls sustaining us.

  “Still taking fashion advice from Malibu Barbie, I see.” I pinched her arm, toned from playing tennis matches at the country club. Missy was proof that life wasn’t fair. I slaved in the kitchen ten hours a day—and had spent my four years in San Francisco hiking up and down the steep hills—and barely had the outline of triceps or calves to show for it.

  “And you’re still as chipper and monochromatic as Wednesday Addams. Now get over here,” she said, embracing me in a hug.

  Missy was the type of girl who invaded your personal space but did so in a way that comforted rather than suffocated. I breathed in her perfume, a vibrant mix of Sicilian lemon, orange blossom, and hints of bergamot, reminiscent of the lush, humid evenings I’d experienced on the Italian Riviera with my father.

  “Great to have you home, Gwen.” She pulled back, bright smile ever present, a dimple poking each cheek to match the tiny one in her chin.

  Her gaze traveled over my black chef’s coat, my white apron covering my gray utility cargo pants, but stopped at my water-resistant clogs. “Dear god in heaven, what are those?”

  “Shoes.” I shrugged.

  Missy wrinkled her nose. “No, I’ve seen shoes. Those ugly things are the footwear equivalent of a tragic dating profile.”

  Hey, at least my clothes were functional and comfortable for the job. Her attire, on the other hand, could only be practical if she became a guide for the flamingo exhibit at Disney’s Animal Kingdom.

  “They keep me from slipping,” I said, ignoring her pointed stare. “And they’re good for my back.”

  “When was the last time you got laid, Gwen?”

  “Missy!”

  “It’s a valid question,” she said. “Which we will address shortly. But first, let’s get this celebration started.”

  Grabbing the bottle of prosecco, Missy poured some into the champagne flutes along with fresh-squeezed orange juice. “Congrats on the new gig,” she said, extending one to me.

  We clinked glasses and I took a sip, confirming my suspicion that the little amount of juice she’d added only tinted the mimosas a pale orange and imparted no actual citrus flavor. Still, the taste of bright green apple and honeydew melon flooded my mouth in a burst of effervescence that lead to a crisp, clean finish. Damn impressive for cheap sparkling wine.

  While we drank our cocktails and snacked on cinnamon rolls—admittedly more edible than I’d expected—Missy filled me in on all things Junior League (nosy gossips), the country club (she’d led her tennis team to the regional tournament), and home decorating (apparently Restoration Hardware and Jonathan Adler were ah-mazing). She told me how her husband, Dan, was recently named partner at his law firm (soul-sucking assholes) and that Moneypenny, their Yorkshire terrier, was asked to compete in a local dog show (such a princess ham).

  “Okay, okay, enough of the idle chitchat,” I said, tossing our empty paper plates into the trash and untying my apron. “What I need to know is if you’ve buried Ellen in the backyard yet.”

  Missy groaned, her whole body collapsing against the stainless steel counter. Ordinarily she was five feet six of sunny, sparkly enthusiasm, loyal as a cocker spaniel, and with the temper of a honey badger when one of her own was threatened, but when it came to her mother-in-law, Missy had the spine of a Raggedy Ann doll.

  “How much time do you have?” she asked.

  “All day.” I smiled. “Come on, I’ll give you a quick tour of the restaurant, then you can catch me up.” Topping off our mimosas, I led her through the still-empty dining room, around the bar, and into a private lounge lined with vintage wine bottles and a smaller aquarium with exotic fish. The staff would be arriving in an hour to get ready for the dinner service, but for now we still had Stonestreet’s to ourselves.

  Missy kicked off her heels and sat on one of the leather sofas. “Last month during Sunday tea, Ellen once again brought up the notion of us getting pregnant with a passive-aggressive nursery mention. ‘Oh, sweetheart, the new paint throughout the house looks fabulous. Though when you chose that butter-yellow shade in the upstairs guest room, I’d hoped it was for a different reason than to brighten up the space,’ ” she said in her best Ellen impersonation.

  “Ouch,” I said, claiming the seat beside her. In truth, Missy’s mother-in-law had been suggesting, requesting, then demanding grandkids for nearly the entirety of Missy and Dan’s relationship.

  “I considered inviting Ellen to share her frustrations with the fertility doctor at our next consultation, but instead I just offered her another cucumber sandwich and imagined stabbing her with the sugar tongs.”

  “Does she think you’re purposely not having kids to spite her or that pestering you will magically cause your ovaries to cooperate?”

  “Probably both. But really she has her genetics to blame. Turns out Dan’s sperm are crappy swimmers, small in number, and lazy as hell.” She laughed, a quick, short burst that bordered on sounding cavalier, but her glassy eyes betrayed her hurt.

  My heart clenched. I wished there was something I could do to lessen the pain. For as long as we’d been friends, Missy had seemed tailor-made to be a mother, though lately I’d questioned if deep down it was a role she’d truly wanted or if it was what she’d thought society expected from her. I’d witnessed Missy passionate before—about tennis, when she ran for student body president in high school, during that ill-advised foray into ballroom dancing in college. She was someone who, when genuinely excited, didn’t need to wear loud patterns and neon colors to radiate happiness. I hadn’t seen that kind of enthusiasm in her in a long time.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, hoping
she knew my words came from a place of sympathy and never pity.

  “Thanks. You’re the only person who never pushes or makes me feel like my sole purpose in life is to get knocked up. Anyway,” she said, polishing off the rest of her mimosa in two gulps and setting the glass on the stone coffee table, “enough deflecting. Spill it, Gwen. One moment you’re in San Francisco cruising in the fast lane with Steve, and the next, you’re back in Denver getting cozy with Logan in the kitchen. What happened?”

  “The third Michelin star happened,” I said, trying to ignore the pinch in my chest at Stephen’s betrayal. I wondered when the anger and confusion and heartache would dissipate. Perhaps it’d never leave, burrowing deep inside, a constant reminder of the cost of getting too close, of committing too much. Maybe this whole thing had been a hard-earned lesson about risk and reward, about the benefits of playing it safe.

  My father had warned me that a sous chef’s role was to support the executive chef, not eclipse him. He’d urged me to branch out on my own long before my tasting menu had ruined everything, but I’d loved Stephen, believed in his rise to fame, and desired to learn from his innate talent. It’d never occurred to me the feelings weren’t reciprocated. That in a fit of jealousy, he’d cast me from his kitchen, his bed, and his life in the most humiliating of ways.

  Missy’s mouth dropped open after I finished telling the whole sordid story. “What a dick.”

  “If we’re boiling him down to least impressive body part, there won’t be much left to resent.”

  She cackled. “Still, he should have praised you, not fired you.”

  “Yeah, well.” I shrugged, watching the bright red coral sway in the aquarium as tropical fish circled around it.

  “No, Gwen.” Her expression sobered. She clutched my hand, gently squeezing my fingers, and continued. “You’re a damn good chef, and he’s an idiot for letting you go. But maybe . . .”