9 - Chef

REBECCA’S heart pounded way too fast as she opened the passenger door and hopped out of the delivery van. Her head chef Raoul was driving, taking time off to help her. She owed him big for this, especially since—strictly speaking—he didn't work for her anymore. In the back of the van was his strapping son Dominic. They’d double-parked in the financial district, a busy area of Boston that mixed Colonial buildings and skyscrapers. Because Raoul couldn’t leave the wheel, Dominic was helping her offload her two shrink-wrapped six-foot-tall supply carts. Neatly packed onto the steel shelves was everything she needed for today’s menu. She knew this because she’d checked the contents as obsessively as her brother Charlie used to check his backpack for school.

She couldn’t afford to forget anything today. Every detail had to go perfectly.

She wiped sweaty palms on her clean black trousers, then grabbed the back end of the first cart to guide it down the van ramp with Dominic. He grinned at her, a nice kid who adored his talented father and seemed likely to follow in his footsteps. Once the second cart joined the first on the hot sidewalk, he flipped the ramp up and slammed the doors.

“Knock him dead, chef,” Raoul called out the driver’s window. Though they were friends, he often called her that. Coming from him, the title was a cross between “boss” and “hon.”

Grimacing at the butterflies in her stomach, she acknowledged his well wishes with a wave before he drove off. God, she hated being this nervous.

“You’ll be fine,” Dominic assured her like he was sixty and not sixteen. “You’ve done this sort of thing, what, two-and-a-half zillion times?”

“Pipsqueak,” Rebecca retorted as they shoved the carts toward the entrance of TBBC’s corporate headquarters. She might have done this a zillion times, but never with so much riding on the result. “If their kitchen sucks, I’m not letting you forget it for a year.”

The building’s doorman trotted over to open the non-revolving door. His charcoal gray uniform was sharp, his buttons bright enough to blind. Trey Hayworth and TBBC didn’t do anything half-assed. She’d need her A-game to

get this job with him.

Inside, the circular air-conditioned lobby was just as intimidating—soaring steel and glass and Carrara marble stretching to a hundred-foot atrium. Her mind boggled at the thought that two Jersey boys who’d barely cracked the age of thirty were responsible for Beantown’s latest architectural marvel. The spread she’d read in Boston Magazine claimed the pair had been integral to the design process, and that Hayworth in particular had caught an engineering miscalculation that would have resulted in large stretches of windows popping out in high winds. If she’d been applying for an architectural position, she’d probably have quailed before she set foot inside.

You’re a genius at what you do, she tried to remind herself. No one cooks for Bostonians like you.

Unless they did, and she’d been deluded all this time.

The stupid thought sank her stomach. God, please, let her not screw this up. She couldn’t beg that bastard Titcomb to take her back on staff, not if it meant working under the dumbass dickhead he’d hired to be her supposed boss. Titcomb liked the guy because he’d won some reality TV show. However he’d managed that, it wasn’t by cooking well. The only thing sadder than his overworked, over-seasoned dishes was watching him try to impress Wilde’s crew with his “credentials.” She knew the veteran cooks were hoping she’d get this job and could bring them over. Titcomb would be lucky if the new guy didn’t drive him out of business within the year.

Not that she’d be there to see it.

Molars grinding, she pushed her cart beside Dominic’s across the shiny lake of imported stone. The wheels bumped slightly at the lobby’s center where the company’s elegant gold logo was inlaid.

“Ms. Eilert?” said a security guard in a suit. He’d stepped out from behind his desk before they could reach it. He was trim and polite, his wireless earpiece adding to his professional air. “We’re holding the freight elevator for you if you’d like to follow me.”

“See,” Dominic murmured. “No way is this place’s kitchen going to suck.”

Rebecca smiled, amused by his confidence—despite her ability to be neurotic under almost any conditions. Calm at least for the moment, they and their carts made it to the twentieth floor before her palms broke into a sweat again.

She forgot they were damp the moment she caught a glimpse of where she’d be working.

“Whoa,” Dominic said, coming to a halt behind her.

TBBC’s corporate kitchen was a palace. Impeccably equipped, every pot, every burner, every inch of burnished steel worktop was spotless. Rebecca’s

entire brigade from Wilde’s could have cooked here with room to spare— assuming she still had a brigade, of course.

“The walk-in is that way,” the suited guard informed her, gesturing toward its door. “Feel free to use anything in it. Mr. Hayworth has cleared his schedule for 1:30. If you suspect your food won’t be ready, please use the phone on the wall to warn his assistant.”

“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rebecca was slightly breathless from the lovely toys around her.

The guard smiled at her. “Good luck,” he said, exiting politely. “Am I staying?” Dominic asked, hardly containing his eagerness.

The terms of Rebecca’s tryout allowed her an assistant. She’d been planning to do everything herself. When you had her experience, creating a tasting menu for just one person wasn’t overly difficult. On the other hand, Dominic had sufficient training from his father to carry off simple sauces and fine chopping. Seeing his pleading look, she remembered how eager she’d been to learn when she was his age. If he stayed, she’d have to keep her nerves wrapped up for his sake—which might not be a bad thing.

“You’ll do what I say?” she asked, pointing her sternest chef’s finger. “No getting ‘creative’ with my instructions?”

Practically bouncing, Dominic crossed his heart.

“All right,” she said, swallowing back a surge of adrenaline. “God help me, you’re my sous-chef.”

~

A tasting menu’s purpose was best described as amuse-gueule: amusement for the mouth. Small portions kept taste buds in a state of attention, while creative presentation seduced the eyes. Flavors could be subtle, but they had to communicate. I am basil. I am lamb. Do I not blend magically with my companions? Ideally, courses took diners on a journey: from surprise to delight, from pungent to delicate. Childhood memories could be evoked or exotic global trips. If food was emotion, a tasting menu was a tale packed with adventure. Creating one proved a chef possessed imagination as well as skill.

The journey Rebecca had devised mixed comfort and surprise. Naturally, preparation didn’t occur without hiccups. Adjustments invariably had to be made en route. In the end, however, when the minute hand on the wall clock clicked to 1:29, she felt as confident as she was capable of.

She smoothed the front of her chef’s whites, polished a faint smudge from the first plate’s cover, and turned to face the door. Dominic had set up the little table

at which her sole guest would eat. Rebecca believed in working clean. Although later dishes were still in process, very little chaos remained.

At precisely 1:30 and ten seconds, Trey Hayworth entered the kitchen.

He and his business partner Zane Alexander were among Boston’s most glamorous bachelors. In addition to making their mark in commerce, they supported numerous charities. Rebecca had seen shots of Hayworth in his tuxedo climbing out of limos too many times to count. She knew the young CFO was hot stuff.

She hadn’t known meeting him in person would stop her heart.

He was tall and tan and shaped from shoulder to hip like a pro athlete. His black hair was long enough to tie back and as smooth and shiny as if he’d just brushed it. The cuffs of his beautifully fitted Oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An expensive watch gleamed on one wrist, but his soft suede shoes were as scuffed as if he’d kicked around in them for years. The overall effect was one of effortless stylishness, suggesting weekends in the Hamptons or maybe Ralph Lauren ads. He literally looked polished.

Maybe he buffs himself with money, she joked, trying to recover her humor.

From what she'd heard, the bad boys had enough of it.

Her cynicism shredded the moment his gaze met hers.

Clear and bright, his surprisingly hot green eyes were the color of bottles deposited on a sunny shore. Glints of amber increased their intensity, as did their lush frame of dark lashes. His thick eyebrows were crazy-sexy—brooding, manly—unavoidably sinking their hooks into her where she was most girly. His gaze seemed to penetrate her soul . . . evidently as preparation for wetting her panties.

“Hello,” he said with a smile that hinted at unfairly deep dimples. Squirming already, Rebecca experienced the oddest shiver of deja vu.

“I’m Rebecca Eilert,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite steady. Annoyed with herself, she offered him a hand that damn well was. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you what I can do.”

The panty-wetter took her hand in both of his, holding rather than shaking it. Again, Rebecca quivered with arousal—an inconvenience she could have done without. Hayworth’s palm was unexpectedly callused, possibly from rowing. Her college-age little brothers were on a crew and had similar rough spots. For a second, Hayworth seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Whatever it was, Rebecca didn’t know how to supply it.

“Would you like to begin?” she asked politely.

His mouth was well-shaped but not full. At her question, it slanted to one side

—as if he were enjoying a private and slightly rueful joke.