Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “Shop there much? Have a fetish for crocheted frocks and doorknobs shaped like animals?” I asked, surprised he even knew about Anthropologie, let alone what the faux-hippie, boho-chic store offered. “And I prefer the term ‘internationally sourced.’ Or ‘eclectic,’ if you’re being pedestrian.”

  Logan smirked, crinkles forming around his eyes, as though they’d become stuck that way after a boisterous laugh. “My ex, Nicole, loved all that kitschy crap, though she never managed to decorate with it so coherently.”

  I added minced shallots, salt and pepper, and the farro to the hot braiser. “So is that why you broke it off with her? Because she couldn’t coordinate?” I asked, curious despite my better judgment.

  “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Logan said.

  Warning bells blared in my head. What happened between Stephen and me was the last thing I wanted to discuss with Logan. What the heck was I thinking bringing up the topic?

  “I never kiss and tell,” I said, playing it off like a quip when inside I was squirming. I stirred the grains so they toasted evenly on all sides, then sprinkled in the wood ear mushrooms and ladled in a cup of hot broth, combining it all to start a risotto.

  “Fair enough,” he said with a wink, taking a long sip of wine. “Before you get too far along on whatever recipe you’ve decided on, should I do my best Ted Allen host impersonation to explain that you must use all the mandatory ingredients I picked out, and if your dish doesn’t cut it, you’ll be chopped?”

  “Please save us both the embarrassment, Wonder Bread. I’m not an amateur, and I’m well aware of the rules,” I said.

  “Should I at least set a timer?” he asked, his blue eyes regarding me with an amused gaze. “Pretend to make this a challenge for you.”

  To Logan’s credit, it had required three Missy-strength Bellinis before the complete image of the dish had crystallized in my mind—it’d been years since I’d created a recipe that was so plain in nature, composed of ingredients that stayed true to their most basic form. No significant modifications, liquid nitrogen baths, or fancy gels like at Brindille. The simplicity of it all had thrown me momentarily off-kilter and reminded me of why I’d pursued this career to begin with.

  “Aw, conceding to the nightly specials board already?” I poured more chicken broth into the braiser and slowly incorporated the liquid.

  “Gwen, you knew this whole thing was a farce from the get-go.” His voice dipped low. “An excuse for you to invite me over.”

  “I believe you invited yourself over.”

  Logan made a tsk-tsk sound. “Not so fast. You agreed.” He walked over to the island and peered into the pan, a billow of steam swirling around his face. “So what are you cooking for us?”

  “And ruin the surprise? Not a chance.” I drained the pickling liquid and dumped the jar of beets onto the butcher block, dicing them into symmetrical cubes and folding the pieces into the farro-mushroom-shallot mixture, giving the dish a luscious pink hue.

  “In that case, I’ll watch the magic happen as it unfolds,” he said, getting comfortable on a stool across from me and stealing a slice of salami from the charcuterie board I’d been snacking on earlier.

  “Reach for the cured meats one more time and I’ll be forced to wield my wooden spoon.”

  “Please, Gwen,” he said. “You may be five feet of attitude, but I’m used to tackles from guys three times your size with legitimate rage issues.”

  “So I saw during last night’s game.”

  “Then wouldn’t you say I earned a little salami after all those sacks?”

  The Blizzards offense had beaten the Detroit Lions defense, securing a 7–0 win. But the victory had been hard-won. With the score at 0–0 with less than ten seconds remaining in the fourth quarter, Logan had thrown a slant pass to Chris in the end zone. My brother had caught the ball right in the middle of the eighty-nine on his jersey, but a defender had hit him helmet first from behind and the football had bounced out of Chris’s hands. A penalty flag had floated in, moving the ball to the one-yard line. Logan had chosen to run the ball himself, diving over the goal line just as time expired and six defenders piled on top of him, crushing him under their weight. The scene had happened two other times during the game, leaving Logan limping and battered.

  “But why do you play so aggressively? It looks painful . . . and dangerous,” I said, ladling more broth into the risotto. “Something you should consider when you face off against the Saints next week.”

  “Every career has a downside.” Logan swallowed another generous sip of the rare fruit-forward Pinot Noir from Burgundy that paired well with the meal. “Mine just leaves bruises.”

  “Maybe you should find another job. I hear there’s an open position at the Sleep Number store downtown. You could lie on a pillow top all day.”

  “If you want to get me into bed, all you gotta do is ask, Gwen.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

  I rolled my eyes for what had to be the thousandth time around Logan. “But seriously, aren’t you ever worried about the future, about how the risks you’re taking now will affect your health later? You’ve seen the recent reports in the news.”

  He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. “Sometimes. But I was aware of the hazards when I signed up to play this sport. On and off the field, the quarterback takes the hard hits. It’s part of the position.”

  But at what cost, I thought.

  “Oh, I almost forgot to mention it because I was caught up in the game,” he said, tapping an index finger on the island, “but congrats on the positive review in today’s paper.”

  I paused, biting my lip, unsure how to respond. “Thanks. It was . . . nice.” My voice caught, tripping over my lie, though I hoped Logan hadn’t detected it.

  “Must feel validating.”

  “And great press for Stonestreet’s,” I said, wondering if he noticed that I’d skipped over any mention regarding great press for me. I didn’t want to insult him or undermine all he’d achieved with starting a restaurant that might not mean that much to my career but meant the world to him.

  We lapsed into comfortable silence while I worked, him observing my movements with rapt attention. I added the blood sausage to butter melting in a stainless steel skillet and browned the outer casing, then cut the links into quarter-inch slices on the bias and gently stirred the pieces into the risotto. When the last of the chicken broth had fully absorbed into the farro grains, I spooned a generous helping of the mixture into a wide porcelain bowl and scattered pistachios over the top as a finishing touch.

  I slid the dish and a napkin and fork across the island to him. “Ready for the best humble pie you’ve ever tried?” I asked, steady and strong despite my heart beating erratically.

  I’d cooked for some of the most critical and discerning palates in the business, but the thought of Logan eating what was essentially glorified porridge made me so anxious and unsettled I worried my legs might give out right from under me.

  He scrunched his nose. “It’s pink.”

  “Did you expect the beets and blood sausage to impart a green tint instead?”

  Logan looked at me as if I were both infuriating and endearing, but it did nothing to quell the nerves twisting my stomach. “Want to do a drumroll?” he asked, tentatively spearing a piece of the sausage and scooping some of the risotto onto the fork.

  “Would you please just taste it?”

  He popped the bite into his mouth. I focused on the way his jaw worked as he chewed slowly, his expression revealing nothing. Logan took another bite, though I couldn’t tell if he was actually enjoying the flavors or if he was giving the risotto once last chance to impress him before he spit it out into his napkin. Swallowing, he polished off the remainder of his wine and slid the glass onto the butcher block beside my untouched Pinot Noir.

  “So, what’s the verdict?”
I asked.

  “Interesting.”

  What the heck did that mean?

  “Interesting good or interesting bad?”

  Sure, I was a tad rusty when it came to creating a recipe on-the-fly, but Logan had selected five foods that melded seamlessly, so the dish should have been a slam dunk. All of a sudden, what was supposed to be a tongue-in-cheek challenge felt like a test I was failing.

  He pushed the bowl toward me. “Try it yourself.”

  I plunged the fork into the risotto and tasted, closing my eyes to let the unique characteristics of each ingredient shine through. The farro provided heartiness and texture, the pickled beets acidity with a touch of sweetness, the mushrooms a savory earthiness, the pistachios a crunchy, nutty note, and the blood sausage a smoky, rich depth that balanced out the flavors.

  Delicious and so satisfying.

  When I opened my eyes, Logan was grinning at me. “Awesome, right?”

  “You could’ve come straight out with that to begin with,” I said in a huff.

  “I had to make you sweat a little bit.” He shrugged, then stole the bowl back from me and quickly inhaled three more forkfuls. When I remained quiet, he met my gaze and frowned, as if recognizing something tense in my expression. “Wait . . . were you scared of my reaction?”

  “Not scared,” I hedged, feeling exposed and vulnerable. “I haven’t really pushed myself creatively in a while. I’m glad you approve of the dish.”

  Logan studied me, and I forced myself not to fidget under his intense stare. “What?” I asked after a moment.

  “I didn’t think my opinion mattered to you . . . You’re usually so self-assured.”

  “And that’s considered a bad thing?”

  He shook his head. “Not even close. It’s one of the sexiest things about you—your confidence, how you set your mind to something and achieve it, the way you’ve never let anyone stand in your way.”

  While I would like to believe that what Logan said was true—and perhaps it had been true at one time—in reality, after I started working under Stephen, all I’d cared about was his opinion and approval. Somehow, without me realizing it, I’d lost a vital piece of myself I so desperately wanted back. And the specials board, while small, felt like the first step toward achieving that.

  “With all that said, it begs the question . . .” Logan stood, circling the island in three long strides. He braced his hands against the butcher block, pinning me where I stood, the warmth of the stove at my back nothing compared to the heat rolling off Logan in waves.

  I inhaled a quick, sharp breath, my entire body tightening as a slow, torturous ache spread through me. Logan was leaning so close I could see a few tiny scars on his cheekbones from his full-contact method of playing, smell his scent—sunbaked grass and a hint of fabric softener—and it took all my energy not to pull him the rest of the way and kiss him.

  “What question?” I asked in a throaty whisper.

  “How in the hell did that guy in San Francisco convince you that you’re anything less than amazing?” he asked, peering into my eyes in a way I couldn’t escape.

  And just like that, the warning bells from before were now a full-fledged alarm.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Logan

  For a moment, only the sounds of simmering food and the low hum of a gas flame filled the air. Then Gwen cleared her throat and said, “I was stupid.”

  “Stupid, or in love?”

  Her expression became wary, her eyes tinged with pain and regret. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, reassure her, steady her, but I forced my hands to stay on the butcher block, hoping this time she’d fully let me in.

  “What’s the difference?” Spinning around, her shoulder blades brushing against my chest, she shut off the stove and started tidying the kitchen.

  “Depends.” Leaning against the counter beside her, I tucked my hands into my pockets and hooked my thumbs into my belt loops.

  “On what? If I fell in love with the wrong guy for the right reasons or vice versa?” she asked, which was the most honest and revealing thing she’d ever shared.

  “No, Gwen.” My voice remained calm despite the anger surging through me at the asshole who’d made her close in on herself this way, stolen some of the spitfire I found so irresistible about her. “On whether or not he loved you the way you needed—the way you deserved. Because if he didn’t, then you aren’t the idiot.”

  “Then what am I?” she asked, her usually deep brown eyes bright with curiosity.

  “You’re like the best parts of fall. Changing colors, the first brush of cool, crisp air. The stadium lights and cheering crowds, the scent of a well-worn ball Coach hands me after a win. All my favorite things wrapped up into one tiny, spirited package.”

  Gwen opened her mouth, but quickly closed it. She dropped the dirty pots and pans in the sink and wiped her hands on a dish towel. I watched, disappointment snaking through me, as her walls started to come back up.

  “Tell me what really happened in San Francisco,” I asked before she could shut me out completely.

  “Why? You already read about it from Andrea Williams.”

  I shook my head. “I want to hear your version, not what was written in some bogus gossip column.”

  Her gaze traveled over my face, studying me. Finally she sighed and said, “I slept with my boss, and as a result, my name and reputation were smeared all over the culinary world. Stephen made sure of that. The only place I could go was back here.”

  Gwen had said that Denver—and Stonestreet’s—was where she needed to be at this point in her life, but now I was certain she was merely hiding, afraid to put herself back out there again. It was why she’d accepted a position clearly beneath her talents. What happened to that girl from high school who’d been consumed with wanderlust and achieving her dreams?

  She picked up her untouched glass of wine and swallowed a hefty sip. “I was so starstruck at his talent, at this prestige that surrounded the great Stephen Durand, I didn’t understand how much of myself and my career I was jeopardizing when I blindly followed him. Or when I went to bed with him.”

  “You make it sound like an affair, or an indiscretion. But if what Andrea Williams said is true, then you were with him for years. You deserved better than the way he treated you.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe, but it doesn’t really matter now, does it? Because he won.”

  I moved closer to her. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. From what I read, Stephen has you to thank for a lot of his success. And yeah, right now in the messy aftermath, as the one who’s had to start over, it feels like a loss. But do you really think that’ll be the case six months from now? That you don’t have the edge here? You’ve got time, space to regroup.” I inched even closer, careful not to touch her despite the ache building inside me, my whole body desperate for contact. “Not to mention a new boss who’s got a fancy kitchen and is an easy bribe.”

  I intended for the last bit to sound like playful teasing, anything to lighten the mood and conjure a small smile from her, but it clearly didn’t register that way, because Gwen shook her head and said, “You have to realize, Logan, if things go bad here, I have to start over. Not at another restaurant, but in another city. Somewhere no one knows me. My career can’t afford the scrutiny. Not again.”

  “You’re forgetting one very important thing, Gwen,” I said, stealing the wineglass out of her hand and placing it on the island. “I’m not Stephen.”

  “I don’t know that.”

  “Really?” I took a final step toward her and slid my hands over her hips, unable to keep my distance any longer. Her breath hitched, but she didn’t back away. “When was the last time Stephen truly kissed you or made you feel like anything other than a footnote?”

  She furrowed her brow, and I could almost see the gears turning in her hea
d.

  “You can’t remember, can you?” I asked.

  Before she could respond, I tugged her against me and kissed her like I did everything else—all in and with my undivided attention. Coaxing her mouth open, I slipped my tongue inside, and a rush ran through me at her moan. She tasted like dark fruit and spice from the wine and even more incredible than my memory recalled.

  Gwen threaded her fingers into my hair, gently yanking at the roots. It was all the encouragement I needed. Lifting her onto the butcher block, I wrapped her legs around my waist and pressed every inch of my body against hers, relishing in the gasp that escaped when she felt just how much I desired her. How much I’d always desired her.

  I trailed my mouth down her neck, licking, sucking, and nipping as I went, seeking out every inch of available skin. She clutched my shoulders, her chest heaving with her labored breathing, and when my tongue dragged over the sensitive spot above her collarbone, her head fell back and she arched into me. An intense yearning to be inside her ripped through me, and it was all I could do not to consume her right then and there.

  But before things went too far, I pulled back. Not because I wanted to stop—I wanted to touch her in ways I’d only fantasized about. But Gwen was like a skittish cat, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. If I pushed too hard too fast, I could scare her away.

  I caught her lips one more time, then forced myself to walk out of her bungalow, tossing over my shoulder as I left, “Let me know how long it takes you to forget all that.”

  * * *

  The New Orleans Saints had a fourteen-point lead on us with seventeen seconds left in the second quarter. We were on third and eight from our own twenty-five-yard line, and time was winding down before halftime. Most teams would run out the clock. Not the Blizzards. Not with our offense that after five consecutive wins and the only team currently undefeated was deemed the best in the league.

  But it took more than talent to win against the Saints.

  The game had started badly. Solid-armed Saints quarterback Richie Walsh had attacked us on the first play, hurling a spiral down the left sideline toward their wide-open receiver, who practically waltzed the ball in for a touchdown. It had the one-two effect of knocking our defense on their heels and riling up the fans to uncontrollable levels. After that, every yard gained had been a hard-earned achievement.