Intercepting the Chef

by Rachel Goodman

  “You’re quiet. Everything okay?” he asked, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and undoing his bow tie, draping both over the back of a wing chair.

  “I’m fine,” I managed to say, hoping he couldn’t hear the tremble in my voice, sense how I was barely holding myself together.

  Logan looked at me with those blue eyes that pierced into the deepest parts of me, as though he were unveiling my secrets. Or had already known them all along. There was so much I wanted to tell him, so much I needed to confess, but the words were trapped in my chest.

  With Stephen, there’d always been a power imbalance at play, him as the executive chef always expecting me as his second-in-command to fulfill his whims without question or complaint. But none of that existed with Logan, and it left me completely out of my element, unsure how to act.

  I love you.

  Weren’t those supposed to be the easiest words to say? And yet they made me feel as if I were standing at the edge of a cliff, staring down at an unending ocean. I could dive in—everything inside me told me it would be worth it—except for the one tiny voice in the back of my mind that wondered what treacherous thing was waiting for me below the surface. If this whole thing between us would end in ruin.

  “You sure?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “I’m just tired,” I said, averting my gaze. I tossed my stilettos beside the chaise longue and started to head toward the bathroom, but Logan moved behind me, grasping my hips.

  “Tired enough that you won’t stay up a little longer?” His breath was hot in my ear, the stubble on his jaw scratching my skin. Logan unzipped my dress just enough to slip a hand beneath the chiffon fabric, and I shivered when he splayed his palm flat against my ribs, below my breasts, and pushed me closer against him. “I promised you I’d score a minimum of two touchdowns, and I always make good on my promises.”

  A warm, slow ache spread through me like maple syrup at the jagged edge in his voice, and as if of its own volition, my body melted against his. “I suppose I could be persuaded.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he said, mirroring what I’d told him that night in the Blizzards locker room after the Browns game.

  Logan pulled out the bobby pins from my updo, one by one, until my hair fell in loose waves down my back. Placing the pins in a pile on the side table, he swept the long strands off my neck. Then, torturously slow, he trailed openmouthed kisses along my exposed skin, and when his tongue traced my pulse point and his teeth bit into the juncture of my shoulder and neck, my whole body tightened.

  “Turn around, Gwen,” he commanded, and my entire body clenched at the way his voice had dropped an octave.

  My breathing was so faint and shallow I didn’t know how I was still standing. I spun to face him and looked into those piercing blue eyes again. Eyes that read me with the slightest glance. Eyes that flickered with desire. Eyes that made me believe anything was possible.

  Why did I ever think I could avoid getting attached, especially given our history? Logan had captured my heart the first day I’d met him when I was eight years old and had never let go despite years apart and miles of distance and me telling myself otherwise. It was inevitable we’d always end up in this place, I realized, and even though I was terrified, I knew this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

  “I never would’ve gotten through tonight without you.” He brushed a callused thumb across my mouth. “You’re everything, you know that? Everything I want. Now, tomorrow, forever.” Then he leaned in and kissed me like he was afraid he might lose me.

  We kissed as I untucked his shirt and undid the buttons, yanking the fabric over his sculpted shoulders and tossing it aside. We kissed as he kicked off his shoes and tuxedo pants and removed his boxer briefs. We kissed as he unzipped my dress the rest of the way so it gathered at my feet. We kissed with a fervent need so strong and intense it vibrated through each cell of my body.

  We stumbled toward the bedroom, bumping into furniture, but before we made it there, Logan dragged me down onto the floor in a flurry of hands and lips and skin. I could taste the champagne on his tongue and smell the spicy, woodsy scent of his cologne. A shadow of our entwined bodies danced across the ceiling as the wood in the fireplace crackled and popped.

  I ran my fingers over every inch of him, along the carved muscles on his arms, chest, abdomen, and lower, gripping and sliding my palm along where he was hard and ready. He grunted, kissing me harder, but didn’t stop his own exploration, touching me with an urgency I’d never experienced. My heart raced like a hummingbird was trapped in my chest, the mad fluttering stealing my breath.

  It was all too much and not enough.

  Logan settled himself between my legs, his arms braced on either side of my head, his gaze steady on mine. And when he sank into me, both of us groaned. His thrusts were smooth and assured and so good, and I knew I’d never feel anything as perfect as the two of us connected like this ever again.

  Logan recaptured my mouth as he continued to move in and out of me with long, fluid strokes. Wrapping my legs around his waist, I dug my heels into the back of his thighs to pull him in deeper. The sensation was so intense my body arched off the carpet and my nails scraped across his shoulder blades. A hiss escaped his lips, and Logan dropped his face to my neck, nipping and sucking at the sensitive skin there, murmuring words I couldn’t make out, thrusting faster and harder. So hard he had to grip my hip with his hand to keep from pushing me across the floor.

  Pleasure climbed up my legs and hummed along my spine, and pressure built in my stomach. I was reaching the edge, my whole body shaking, but I didn’t want to fall yet, desperate for this feeling, this moment, to last forever. But then Logan spoke in my ear, his voice gritty and hoarse, begging me to let go, a searing heat rushed through me as I tumbled over the edge.

  And I knew that I’d finally taken the plunge into that deep, dangerous ocean.

  * * *

  I woke just after dawn to pale rays of sunlight filtering in through the curtains, enveloped in a cozy, inviting bed and nestled against an even cozier and more inviting man. My whole body was sore and aching in all the right ways from Logan’s thorough attention.

  The harsh January wind howled outside, rattling the windows. Beside me, Logan stirred and mumbled, pressing himself closer and draping his arm over my waist. In seconds, he was fast asleep again, and for several moments, I allowed myself to lie there, listening to the steady cadence of his soft snores.

  When the clock on the nightstand clicked over to eight o’clock, I carefully extracted myself from his grasp and slipped out from beneath the sheets. Goose bumps broke out all over my skin. The fire had died out hours ago, and the heat had yet to kick on—old hotels were finicky like that. I contemplated rejoining Logan in bed, wrapping myself in his warmth, but everything inside me told me that the sooner I made the phone call to Trent, the more settled I’d feel.

  Rummaging around in my bag, I found a T-shirt Logan had left at my bungalow a few weeks back that I’d been using as pajamas and tugged it over my head, the hem hitting my midthigh. I tiptoed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind me, grabbed my cell from my clutch, and moved into the sitting area. Our clothes were still scattered all around the floor, and the untouched bottle of champagne was now floating in a bucket of water on the coffee table.

  Pacing back and forth, the blue carpet plush under my feet, I dialed Trent’s office number, silently praying for his voice mail. It was midmorning in New York, so maybe I’d get lucky that he was stuck in a meeting, unable to answer. But of course the universe refused to cooperate with me, because he answered on the third ring.

  “Hello, Ms. Lalonde. This is a nice surprise,” Trent said. “I assume you’ve reached a verdict regarding the audition?”

  I inhaled deeply, swallowing my rising nerves. “I have. Thank you for considering me for the position, but I can’t accept,”
I said, gripping the back of the antique sofa. “It seems like an incredible opportunity, but now is not the appropriate time for me to pursue a venture like this.” I kept my voice low so as not to stir Logan.

  Trent grew silent. “That’s . . . too bad. I was rather looking forward to tasting the menu you developed,” he said, a mixture of shock and disappointment evident in his tone. “You’re one of our most promising candidates, Gwen. I urge you to rethink this decision, as positions such as these are rare and highly sought after. I shouldn’t have to explain to you all the ways you’re limiting your future, not to mention squandering your talents, by rejecting this offer.”

  At his words, I felt my resolve crumbling. It was too easy to picture myself at the helm of a thriving restaurant in Manhattan, commanding a kitchen with full authority and autonomy. It was too easy to envision myself winning a James Beard award, earning a coveted Michelin star on my own merits, gaining the respect and admiration of my fellow chefs and critics alike.

  But none of that was guaranteed. And I couldn’t abandon my family and friends once again, give up the man who held my heart and a happiness I’d only recently found here in Denver for uncertain rewards. Not when the risks were too great. So I forced myself to stay the course.

  “I understand the consequences, Mr. Keller, but I need to do what’s best for me.” Needed to trust my gut that I wasn’t making a giant mistake.

  Trent sighed in disapproval, and somehow it felt so much worse coming from him than it ever had from my father. “It’s unfortunate I can’t convince you otherwise. But ultimately the decision is yours—and final at that. There are no take-backs in this business, Gwen. I wish you all the best in your future endeavors,” he said, then abruptly ended the call.

  “Who were you talking to?”

  I jumped at the sound of Logan’s raspy voice behind me, and my heart stopped for a beat before it sprung back to life, hammering hard against my chest. I whipped around to face him. He stood in the bedroom doorway, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He’d put on his boxer briefs, and his hair was sticking up in all directions, no doubt from my fingers running through it all night.

  I sensed a frustrated, almost accusatory edge in his tone, but I told myself I was probably misinterpreting things.

  “Nobody important,” I said, trying to ignore the stab of guilt I felt at my lie. “Just someone who wanted to speak with me about my role as a chef and my cooking.”

  I should’ve shared the whole story, but what was the point? I’d turned down the opportunity. And like Logan had said during his speech, once you made a decision, there was no looking back, no regrets, no wondering about the what-ifs. There was only the what-is and the path ahead.

  He studied me a moment, apprehension written on his face, and I had a brief moment of panic where I thought he’d somehow found out about the opportunity in New York. But surely he would have mentioned something about it if that were the case.

  Finally, he visibly relaxed and said, “Then get under the covers with me. It’s freezing out here, and I can think of a few ways for us to warm up.”

  That sly, charming grin I adored so much surfaced, and I laughed, following Logan back into the bedroom, all the while knowing I’d follow him anywhere.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHTEEN

  Logan

  When I was growing up, my father had often compared football to a religious experience—the legendary players, the sacred fields, the game-day rituals, the sense of fellowship, community, and tradition. And while I’d always agreed that football was a way of life, a sport that touched people deeply and provided hope, it’d never felt as true as it did right now during the AFC championship game against the Patriots.

  The atmosphere around the stadium was charged, the adrenaline and tension in the air so thick it was like a veil of energy covered everything. The crowd was the largest—and the rowdiest—in Colorado history, a chanting, cheering, roaring sea of powder blue and silver that only grew louder and more riled up as the fourth quarter progressed.

  Removing my helmet, I jogged over to the Blizzards bench as special teams raced onto the field, punting the ball so it sailed near the sideline, took one bounce, and went out of bounds at the Patriots’ four-yard line. While we’d failed to boost our 14–10 lead during this last possession, at least we’d managed to pin the Patriots offense deep in their end of the turf. And in a game that was evolving into a field-position battle, even small victories mattered. Now twelve minutes of playtime were all that stood in the way of us advancing to the Super Bowl.

  An assistant handed me a water bottle and a tablet with the game film already pulled up. I took a seat between Chris and Tony and pressed play. Something had felt different about New England’s defensive formations during the previous set of drives, and I wanted to figure out what had changed. As I watched the video, I noticed they’d sent the middle linebacker on a blitz almost every time.

  “Damn, number fifty-one never covers anyone or waits for the play to develop,” Tony said over my shoulder. “He just goes straight for the ball, always coming at you on your blind side.”

  I nodded. It was the Patriots’ way of exerting extra pressure on us and forcing me to think and react quickly on my feet. It’d also meant I’d spent the majority of the last possession running instead of passing. Somehow my knee was still functioning, the pain minimal, but if last Sunday’s divisional playoff game against the Steelers was any indication, that wouldn’t last for long.

  “The line needs to block better to give me more time in the pocket,” I said to Tony, wiping sweat off my neck and forehead with a towel. Denver was experiencing unseasonably warm temperatures for late January, keeping my muscles loose, my hands nimble.

  “Yeah, I’d like to catch a ball sometime this half,” Chris added, squirting Gatorade into his mouth. Though I didn’t know what he was complaining about. The two touchdowns we’d scored in the first half had been a result of him actually doing his job as wide receiver.

  “Man, screw you guys. You both worry about you, and the line will worry about the line. We’re doing the best we can out there.” Tony grabbed his helmet off the ground and walked away.

  Chris shook his head at Tony’s retreating back, his knee bouncing. “You think New England will keep up this tactic?”

  “I do,” I said, and why wouldn’t they? It was working. “But now we know what they’re doing. We can adjust, use a running back or a tight end to help block. Alleviate some pressure so I can breathe out there.”

  And sure enough, when it was time for the Blizzards offense to take the field again after our defense had prevented the Patriots from gaining any significant yardage, Coach called out a play that would have tight end Austin Thompson drop back and pick up the blitzing linebacker rather than run a route.

  “Thirty-five liberty, eagle, gun dance, right,” I shouted to the guys in the huddle. In unison, we all clapped and got into shotgun formation.

  My heart beat furiously against my ribs the way it did before every drive. The noise around the stadium had reached deafening levels, and I lifted my leg slightly, signaling to the center I was ready for the snap since it was impossible for me to call out audibles and be heard. The ball sailed into my hands, and with the linemen holding their stances and Austin’s added protection, a tight pocket formed and allowed me to deliver a long pass to Dustin Olson as planned, earning the Blizzards a first down on the Patriots’ seven-yard line and putting us into goal range.

  I pumped my fist and rushed down the field to meet the rest of the offense to set up the next play. My helmet radio crackled, and Coach Ashley’s voice came in my ear. I held up my thumb, signaling I understood the call, and joined the guys in the huddle.

  “We’re gonna do java, thrasher domino, X-flash,” I shouted, and we broke apart, everyone finding their positions.

  I lined up behind the center and took the snap. I faked t
he handoff and rotated around the left end. The New England middle linebacker charged forward again, forcing me to change direction. He was partially blocked by a Blizzards offensive tackle but managed to reach his arm out and grab a handful of my jersey. No way was I letting him wrap me up, not after I’d figured out the Patriots’ blitz strategy. I spun out of his grip, spotted an opening, and ran, vaulting my body into the air over New England’s safety.

  I had an instant to recognize the impact of my legs against his helmet, a heartbeat to get lost in the whirl of gravity, a moment to feel a searing pain explode in my side. Then suddenly I was flat on my back in the end zone, struggling to breathe. Judging by the fact that I wasn’t buried under a mound of players, and that Doc Baxter and two trainers hovered above my face, mouths moving though I couldn’t make out the words, I suspected I’d gotten knocked out and for more than a split second.

  A hammer was pounding against my head, my stomach rolled with nausea, and my ears were ringing. Everything around me was out of focus, made worse by the blinding stadium lights that caused white stars to obscure my vision. My helmet was gone—it must have popped off when I’d landed—and I felt hands squeezing my arms, legs, feet. One of the trainers touched my left knee—my good knee—and I jolted.

  Whatever they felt there must have told them everything they needed to know. Before I knew it, I was fastened onto a hard-board stretcher with a cervical collar around my neck and loaded onto a waiting ambulance that drove me away from the stadium and away from the one dream I’d been working toward for as long as I could remember.

  * * *

  At least you can feel your toes, I silently repeated to myself on the drive to the hospital. Feeling in my toes meant I wasn’t paralyzed. Feeling in my toes meant somehow everything would be okay.