Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “I’m sure I can find something that suits your taste,” he said, his voice dripping with innuendo. Logan flashed that easy, cocky, sexy grin that sent a rush of heat through my veins.

  Earlier, when I’d put on this expensive gown, I had felt like an amateur playing dress-up. There was a reason I’d chosen to stay behind the scenes and out of the spotlight, remain steadily in the kitchen in my grungy chef’s coat and checkered pants—I didn’t belong anywhere else.

  I’d expected to spend the entire evening completely aware of how ridiculous I looked on Logan’s arm. But that all changed when I’d stepped onto my front porch to find Logan in a custom tux, his face lighting up as his gaze raked over my body, staring at me like I was everything he’d always wanted. Like I was all he would ever want.

  “Promises, promises,” I said as the driver stopped and a valet opened the door. “Oh, and, Logan? Just so you know, I’m not wearing any underwear.” I winked and exited the limo, smiling at his bewildered expression as he climbed out after me.

  A horde of cameras nearly blinded me as Logan led me down the red carpet. While my heart was lodged in my throat and my stomach was a bundle of nerves, there was something warm and solid about Logan’s palm pressed against the small of my back that anchored me, made me feel secure, protected.

  And even as reporters shouted questions from every direction—Why do you think the team couldn’t handle the Chiefs yesterday? What’s your goal for tonight’s festivities? Are you going to be prepared for the Blizzards’ first playoff game against the Steelers?—and Logan responded with short, canned answers—Kansas City was better prepared than us; to spread awareness about ovarian cancer and raise money for research; we will do everything we can to be ready—his hand remained firmly in place on my back.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Andrea Williams hanging around the fringe, and I wondered why she wasn’t in the thick of the fray, recorder out and ready. Then again, maybe she intended to blindside us with another exposé in the paper in the morning. Ordinarily the mere possibility of something like that would send me running, but right now, in the safety of Logan’s presence, I couldn’t bring myself to care about anything Andrea Williams might do.

  Relief spread through me when we entered the quiet hotel. Beside me, Logan also relaxed, and I realized that maybe he wasn’t as comfortable or confident speaking with the press as I’d originally thought.

  “If I forget to tell you later, thank you again for coming,” he whispered in my ear.

  “I haven’t come,” I whispered back. “At least not yet, anyway.”

  Logan nearly tripped on an antique rug at my response but quickly recovered. “Oh, so you think you’ll be coming twice tonight?”

  “Twice?” I arched an eyebrow at him. “Given that I squeezed into this dress—and only this dress—for you, I expect you to score multiple touchdowns.”

  “I think that can be arranged.” Logan laughed and kissed my temple.

  We walked through the elegant atrium lobby that left me in awe—the stained glass ceiling, the intricate iron railings framing the balconies that rose eight floors above the ground, the marble detailing that adorned nearly every surface—and ascended the grand staircase to the Onyx Room.

  While Logan greeted and shook hands with benefactors, I accepted a canapé of tuna tartare on a crispy black rice cracker from a server at the doorway and admired the frescoes painted overhead, humming along to the jazz band set up beside the stage and allowing myself to blissfully fade into the ornate scenery.

  “What would you like to drink?” Logan asked me once he was done, tracing a finger along my bare shoulder.

  “A white wine. Something bright and slightly fruity with balanced acidity.”

  He stared at me like I was speaking in tongues, and I smiled. “I’ll have a Sauvignon Blanc,” I amended.

  We wove our way through the ballroom to the bar, and I noticed that Logan’s father was already there, a glass of scotch in his hand, laughing too loudly at whatever he and the bartender were talking about.

  Immediately my mood darkened. I didn’t want to deal with Bob’s alcohol-laden scorn, but for Logan, I’d do my best to keep tensions low. At least there was a crowd tonight, and in any case, I doubted Bob would allow himself to indulge to the point that he’d shame Jane’s memory at an event like this. Though perhaps a hefty tip and a suggestion to the waitstaff to water down his drinks would not be out of line.

  I was about to mention it to Logan when a group of his teammates intercepted him, while my favorite members from the WAG box pulled me aside.

  “Gwen!” said Brittany, embracing me in a hug that was as fake as her too-large breasts. “Well, isn’t this a surprise. Where’s your brother? I have a friend who would love to meet him.”

  What else was new?

  “I’m sure Chris is getting drunk somewhere in this hotel, sulking over last night’s loss,” I said, tugging on the beaded chiffon fabric that fit so snugly it refused to budge. In truth, I had no idea where my brother was; all I knew was that he was attending tonight.

  “Oh, I assumed Chris was your date,” she said, her expression growing suspicious.

  Jennifer Clark, once again dressed for a nightclub in a red sequined fabric that barely covered her body, jumped in. “Actually, she came with Logan. Saw them walking the red carpet together. Gwen’s the executive chef at his restaurant, remember?”

  The bottom of my stomach dropped out when Jennifer shot Brittany a knowing smile. One that indicated they’d not only read the vapid gossip article about me but they’d thought it’d been accurate when it had named Logan as my latest dish.

  During my evening in the WAG box, I’d learned that most sports wives and girlfriends purposely shied away from reading or listening to anything football related, gossip included, but I guess these two were the exception.

  Brittany smirked. “That’s right. How charming.”

  “It’s certainly a tactic I’ve never tried, using a family member and work connections to bag a football player. It’s positively incestuous. I’m only mad I didn’t come up with it,” Jennifer said, and I wondered what Austin Thompson would think about her words, if he’d even care.

  “It was easier than stalking hotel lobbies,” I said, refusing to show weakness in front of these women, letting them see just how much their words were affecting me.

  Brittany snorted and tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. “And even more calculating. Points for creativity though. I can only imagine what you must get up to in the kitchen.”

  “They do say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. I’m sure Logan can verify,” Jennifer added.

  “True,” Brittany said, giving me a thorough up and down that immediately brought back the flush of insecurity I’d felt when Logan had picked me up. “Though I wouldn’t have pegged you as the jersey-chasing type, Gwen. I was hoping the rumors circulating about your extracurricular activities outside of the restaurant weren’t correct, but hey, if that’s what it takes to create a name for yourself.”

  Once again I was being labeled as a conniving, social-climbing leech desperate to get ahead. This exact situation was what I’d wanted to avoid and why I’d been hesitant to accompany Logan tonight.

  “Logan and I hadn’t seen each other in years. He hired me because he needed a chef and I was looking for a new opportunity,” I said in a pitiful attempt at explaining myself that sounded more like an excuse than the truth.

  “You certainly found one,” Jennifer snickered.

  “So then are your extracurricular interests based on past hobbies? Or is your interest in Logan new?” Brittany asked.

  “Define new,” Logan said, rejoining me, his hand returning to the small of my back. “Because Gwen and I have known each other since we were children—our families have been close for years.”

  “Oh. So the rumors
aren’t true, then. You’re just old friends.” Brittany glanced at Jennifer with a self-satisfied grin.

  “I think the best lovers were friends first. Wouldn’t you agree, Gwen?” Logan asked, his palm sliding lower, stopping just above the curve of my butt.

  I resisted the urge to jab his rib for his hand placement. “Actually, if you’ll excuse us, there are other guests we need to greet. Enjoy the rest of your evening,” I said, whisking us away before Logan could share any more private details.

  “Everything all right?” he asked when we were out of earshot, studying my face, his brow furrowed.

  “Why did you encourage them like that?”

  “Gwen, come on. Those girls are harmless,” he said. “And besides, who cares what they think?”

  “Harmless? Sure, like rabid raccoons or you in the fifteen minutes between waking up and your first cup of coffee.”

  “Aww, be nice, they aren’t that bad.”

  I shook my head but didn’t press. Tonight wasn’t about me. And it wasn’t as if Logan would understand anyway. He wasn’t the one being called opportunistic.

  “Can we find the alcohol now?” I asked.

  He laughed. “Lead the way.”

  The next two hours were a blur of making small talk with donors and attendees, nibbling on one-bite appetizers, drinking specialty cocktails, bidding on auction items, posing for cheesy pictures in the photo booth, and Logan signing the occasional autograph. Finally, the master of ceremonies announced dinner was ready to be served.

  Logan and I found our spots at the front center table that was only a few feet from the stage. His father and several members of the foundation’s board of directors were already seated. I introduced myself to our other diners, and to my surprise Bob stood, pulled out my chair, and said, “You look beautiful, Gwen. I’m glad you came to support Logan.”

  I wasn’t sure if his gesture and words were meant as an olive branch for his behavior during Thanksgiving dinner, but I appreciated them nonetheless.

  “Thank you, Bob,” I said, taking my seat. “I have such wonderful memories of Jane, so I’m honored to be here tonight. I’ll never forget how welcoming she was, or how inviting your home always felt.”

  After everyone was settled, waiters distributed what had to be the most overdone and overrated salad ever created but a staple at any banquet—field greens with dried cranberries, blue cheese crumbles, candied walnuts, and a champagne vinaigrette. While we ate, a video played on the large screen behind the podium, highlighting the foundation’s accomplishments during the past year.

  The short film ended and the lights brightened. I noticed Logan hadn’t touched his food and that his leg was frantically bobbing. I slipped a hand under the table and placed it over the fingers gripping his knee. The bouncing stopped, and when Logan met my gaze, he appeared as if he might be sick—his forehead was dotted with sweat, his skin was pale, and his eyes seemed unfocused.

  You okay? I mouthed.

  He nodded, even though he looked like he was ready to bolt as the servers delivered the second course—a duo of beef filet and sea bass au poivre with potato puree and grilled asparagus that was somehow even more bland and boring than the salad.

  I’d never seen him act anything less than confident. Even when he’d been angry and berating himself over a bad performance, he was still self-assured and focused on what needed to be fixed. But now he seemed . . . scared, which I wasn’t sure I could handle. Not from someone as strong and capable as Logan Stonestreet. When he’d said he needed me by his side tonight, I hadn’t realized how much he’d meant it.

  “Hey, you can do this,” I whispered. “You’ve practiced this speech, and nothing you can say up there is wrong.”

  Logan squeezed my wrist and nodded again. The emcee announced his name as the guest speaker and cheers and applause erupted through the ballroom. He pushed back his chair, straightened the lapels of his jacket, and jogged up the steps to the podium as though he’d done this sort of thing hundreds of times.

  “Thank you for such a warm reception,” Logan said, his voice wobbling. He retrieved the speech from his inner coat pocket and adjusted the microphone. “Tonight we’ve come together to honor the women who have lost their lives to ovarian cancer, those who are battling it, and those who have beaten it.”

  Logan stared out into the audience, his gaze finally landing on me. His pause lingered, his hands clutching the sides of the podium, and I smiled in encouragement for him to continue. When he spoke again, all of his earlier nerves were gone.

  “My father and I began this foundation in memory of my mother, Jane. There are so many things I remember about her. The warmth of her hug. The way a quick glance could put me in my place. How she lit up a room whenever she walked in. The lasagna she made before each of my games or anytime I had a bad day. She used to rise early and go to bed late to ensure I showed up to every practice—and every class,” he said with a chuckle.

  I glanced over at Bob, my heart clenching at the tears welling in his eyes and the shattered look on his face.

  Logan set down the note cards and took a deep breath, for the first time relaxing his posture. “But most of all, I remember her grace and her strength as the cancer ate away at her. I remember, in the weeks before she died, asking her how she could remain so positive, how she could still laugh, when all I wanted to do was rail at the unfairness of it all. But of course she smiled at me in that infuriating, all-knowing way of hers and repeated the words she’d told me my entire life. ‘Happiness is a contact sport.’ It was only after she’d died, after people had sent emails and cards and handwritten notes, that I truly understood what she’d meant or began to see her through the eyes of those who’d known her as more than a mother, more than a wife,” he said. “Through other people’s stories, I learned about a woman who loved cooking and dreamed of opening her own restaurant one day. A woman who’d fallen madly, wildly in love with my father, a man who was set on his own course with his own aspirations, and a woman who had the fearlessness to choose a new path, to live a different dream from one she’d originally planned.”

  Around me, guests sat frozen in their chairs, listening intently as Logan spoke so openly and genuinely about such an incredible woman, and it filled me with both admiration and pride to have known Jane.

  “To some, it would seem an entirely selfless decision, one my mother did for the benefit of my father and me. But throughout my life, my mother taught me over and over again that happiness isn’t something that happens to us, and neither is it something someone else can give or take away,” he said, his tone turning almost wistful, his expression earnest. “Happiness is something you have to work at every single day. It’s a result of our choices. And in making those choices, something inherently gets left behind. But you can’t spend time worrying about the what-ifs or the what-could-have-beens. True happiness is achieved by cherishing what you have, not having it all.”

  His words struck right through to my heart. The rest of his speech was a blur, my mind reeling over what he’d said.

  For so long I’d believed that happiness meant reaching a certain level of professional success, of being deemed the best in my field on my own merit. And until I’d returned to Denver, every choice I’d made had been in pursuit of obtaining that—attending a prestigious culinary school, traveling the world to enhance my craft, accepting positions at the finest, most respected restaurants.

  Now I wondered if I’d merely been doing those things with the expectation that happiness would find me instead of the other way around. Perhaps that was why at every spot I’d ended up, I had always been on the hunt for more. Desperate to have it all. But like Logan had said, that kind of feat was impossible.

  And as I stared up at him on that stage, it hit me with stunning clarity that perhaps everything I’d been searching for was him. The realization crashed into me so hard and quick it stole my b
reath. Yet it had been so obvious. What Missy—and Chris in his own way—had kept trying to tell me, and what I had always known but hadn’t been ready to admit.

  Loud applause erupted from the crowd, and I snapped back to attention as the whole room rose to their feet in a standing ovation. Logan exited the stage and rejoined me at the table, but he didn’t take his seat. Instead he whispered in my ear, “The band should be starting up again soon. Wanna get out of here?”

  “Yeah, I do,” I said, grabbing my satin clutch and his hand.

  We rushed out of the Onyx Room, down the grand staircase, and to the bank of elevators adjacent to the lobby, where a member of the Brown Palace staff was holding one for us. We stepped inside the century-old box, the button for the top floor already lit up.

  “Enjoy your stay in the Eisenhower Suite, Mr. Stonestreet,” the man said with a slight bow, then walked away.

  “Well, that was formal,” Logan said, lazily running his fingers up and down my back.

  I murmured in agreement. The elevator doors glided shut and it started its climb. Away from the rest of the world and standing so close to Logan, my skin felt too tight, my mind too jumbled, my emotions too powerful. The scent of him rolled over me in waves—something rich and warm and decadent that I wanted to wrap myself in—until every nerve and synapse fired with the thought of him.

  A bell dinged, and the elevator doors slid open to reveal a private corridor that led to a single entrance.

  “Ready to discover where Eisenhower spent the summer of 1955?” Logan asked, threading our fingers together. A current of energy surged through me at his touch.

  My throat felt too dry to reply, so I simply nodded and let him guide me down the hallway and into the penthouse suite.

  The decor reminded me of the White House—rich blue carpeting, formal furniture, patterned curtains, and columns that acted as accents throughout the space. A fire blazed in the hearth in the main sitting area, providing the only light, and a bottle of champagne chilled in a bucket of ice on the coffee table. I noticed our bags were set up on luggage racks just inside the bedroom, and the duvet had been turned down on the four-poster cherrywood king-size bed.