A Sip of You (The Epicurean Series) (21 page)

Beckett put his head in his hands and shook it. “Shut up! Just shut up, Cat. Your issue is that he’s keeping secrets? So what? We’re all adults, Cat. We
all
have pasts. We
all
have baggage. You don’t hold the exclusive rights to that.”

“And I’ve shared a lot of my shit with him, Beckett. All I get from him is him telling me I have to trust him. If this relationship is going to work, he has to trust me. Shouldn’t that be a priority in any relationship?”

Beckett folded his arms across his chest. “You want to talk priorities. Okay. Have you ever wondered what William Lambourne does all day? I mean, how exactly does a billionaire noted financier, philanthropist, vintner, restaurateur, and man about town spend his days?”

I could see where this was going, and I took a step back. My knee hit the couch, and I sat down hard.

“Working, Cat.
Working
. He’s got a lot of shit going on. Shit you couldn’t possibly know about. But you’re not a priority, right?”

I looked away.

“You know he’s done nothing but make you a priority in his life since the moment he met you. And what’s your response? You whined because he left you alone in his fabulous Napa Valley mansion for two days. With staff! I mean, cry me a river, Cat. He’s told you time and time again that he hasn’t felt like this with anyone else, ever, but that’s not enough for you. What does he need to do to make how he feels about you any clearer? I mean, for God’s sake, Cat, he took you to meet his family. It’s pretty apparent to just about everyone else that you
are
his top priority.”

I sat back and closed my eyes. I didn’t know if Beckett was right or not, but he’d definitely hit a nerve. I felt awful. I bit my lip to keep tears from falling and ruining my make up, and when I finally felt as though I had control, I opened my eyes. Beckett was kneeling in front of me.

“I’m saying this because I love you. You know that, right?”

I nodded. I knew Beckett loved me, and I knew he was saying what he thought I needed to hear.

“If your friends can’t tell you the truth, who can?”

I nodded again.

Beckett’s arms came around me, and he pulled me into a hug. “I just want you to be happy. It’s okay to choose happiness, Cat. No matter what you do, there’s always going to be risk. You just can’t let that hold you back anymore.”

Beckett rose and looked down at me. “Sorry if I upset you before your meeting with Hutch. You’re going to be great.”

I smiled weakly and nodded a third time, then watched as Beckett made his way to the door, exited, and closed it with a quiet click. This was not the morning I’d expected.

Laird came and put his head on my knee. I petted him and gave him a quick hug, heedless of the dog hair getting on my clothes. I felt pretty shitty about everything at the moment—my relationship with William, Beckett, my past. Even my future wasn’t looking too great. “We’ll go for a long walk later, okay?” I told Laird as I scratched him behind the ears.

I wished I could just lie on my couch for the rest of the day and sulk, but right now I had to get moving. I didn’t want to drive and mess with parking, which meant I had to hurry to catch the L if I was going to make it to my appointment with Hutch on time.

I went in the bathroom, freshened my makeup, and brushed my teeth. I swiped my face with powder and added a dab of lip gloss to my lips, then grabbed my coat and my bag, pausing when I passed the stack of mail on my coffee table. Beckett had been considerate enough to consolidate it all for me, so I might as well start going through it. I’d have time to read on the train.

I grabbed a couple of catalogs, a magazine, and a large envelope. It didn’t have a return address, so I figured it wasn’t a bill. Probably another catalog. I stuffed the mail in my bag, shrugged into my coat, and headed out. I pushed open the door to the building as a guy carrying a toolbox slammed the door of a white van and jogged up. “Hey, hold the door!”

I leaned back on the door, holding it open and juggling my bag and mail.

“Sorry,” the guy said. “Plumber. Leaky pipe on the first floor, and I’m already running late. Thanks!”

He breezed past me, and I started to walk away but then turned to look back at him. Something about him was familiar. Had I seen him around before? Nothing about him stood out. I just had a weird,
déjà vu
feeling. I shrugged it off and let the door close behind me. I had a meeting with sexy Hutch Morrison to make.

Morrison Hotel was located downtown in the South Loop. It was usually a pretty quick ride on the L, but today the train was crawling along and lingering at every stop for much longer than normal. I had plenty of time to think about my fight with Beckett.

We hadn’t fought very many times during our friendship, but the few times we had had been epic. The last big fight I could remember was after Jace had died, when I wanted to give up photography. I couldn’t bear to take surfing pictures anymore, and I thought that was all I could do.

We’d argued about it casually over the phone for months, but once I told him I was starting to look for jobs—I didn’t care what I did at that point, I just needed to pay the rent—Beckett lost it. We had a huge fight and Beckett told me he would never speak to me again, especially if I took the receptionist job at Discount Tire Warehouse I’d been offered. He was serious. He had more faith in me than I had in myself at that point and he’d argued I could make anything I photographed exciting—even radishes. Then he’d basically dared me to come to Chicago and give it a try. I was so pissed at him, I didn’t speak to him for over a month. But I did turn down that job. We made up and eventually I took him up on his offer. Of course, once I’d come to Chicago, I’d decided to stay. And Beckett—damn him—had been right about the radishes. And about me.

He tended to be right about pretty much everything, which meant I could either be pissed at him for a week and then admit he was right—that I hadn’t exactly been fair to William—or I could admit it now. If I admitted it now, it would cut out a few steps.

Fine. So Beckett was right. I was selfish. I really never thought about everything William had to juggle to fit me into his schedule. And I also knew that all the annoying secretive shit he pulled, like having me followed or leaving me in Napa, he did because he cared about me and wanted to protect me. Was it so bad having a boyfriend who wanted to keep me safe, even I didn’t know what, exactly, he was protecting me from? The world he inhabited was so completely foreign to me—what could I possibly know about what he dealt with on a daily basis? I should just be happy he cared about me enough to go to all the trouble.

As for Beckett’s argument about Jeremy, I still wasn’t convinced sleeping with my dead husband’s brother wasn’t a big deal. I could work on forgiving myself for it though, especially now that I had squared things with Jeremy as best I could. Maybe my shame would fade over time. Maybe.

But I did know one thing for certain. I loved William Maddox Lambourne. I loved him so much it hurt when we weren’t together. Our texts this morning had been nice, but it was killing me that we were still fighting.

I reached into my bag, looking for something to take my mind off the state of my relationships, and pulled out the stack of mail. I had several thick catalogs—Pottery Barn, Williams Sonoma, Restoration Hardware, Chefs Catalog…that one was for work. The last piece of mail was the large envelope. I looked at it more closely and noted it had only my name and address on it. It had been mailed in Chicago just a couple of days ago.

I ripped it open and pulled out three proof sheets. I hadn’t even considered Fresh Market might return the proofs of my asparagus and cherries shots with comments. I flipped the sheets over and gasped. These weren’t pictures I’d taken. I stared instead at pictures taken of me.

They were candid shots of my everyday activities—images of me walking alone, walking with Laird, running by the lakefront, juggling bags as I got out of my car, walking up the front steps to my building. They looked like they’d been taken on different days and at different times—I could see the varying amounts of snow in the background, indicating whoever was watching me and snapping away had been doing so on a regular basis.

I tried to remember if the envelope had been in the pile Beckett amassed during my days in Napa or if I’d pulled it from my mailbox and, if so, when. But I couldn’t remember at all. Maybe William had intended to tell me he was having me followed and this was how he’d planned to share it with me. But what was the point? To show he was having me watched even during the mundane, routine parts of my life? To demonstrate that he could keep tabs on me
because he could
? What the fuck. Didn’t he have anything better to spend his money on? And what did this prove anyway—other than he was a bit obsessive? I stuffed the photos back into the envelope and sighed. We were only going to work if this kind of shit stopped.

I arrived at Morrison Hotel only three minutes late for my meeting with Hutch, which had to be some kind of record for me. The restaurant was housed in an ordinary-looking, two-story, red brick store front.
Morrison Hotel
was arched across the front window in big white letters drop-shadowed in red. I stepped inside and squinted slightly until my eyes adjusted to the dark. It was small and intimate, and I had a view of the entire layout from the entrance. It appeared empty, but I could hear voices and sounds coming from the kitchen, which I could see was in the back.

I studied the sleek, modern lines. The exterior of the building didn’t suggest the interior at all. The floors were stone throughout and the tables were polished dark wood. Some had already been set in preparation for dinner with crisp white tablecloths and wine glasses. Tables lined either side of the center aisle framed on one side by plush banquettes and by simple metal and cushioned navy chairs on the other. The ceiling, ornamented with wooden and metal arches, was open, and sleek industrial lighting spotlighted the tables, while circular fixtures gave the entire restaurant a soft glow.

I had only been standing in the entrance for a moment when a leggy brunette in a tight black skirt and a white blouse walked toward me. “You must be Catherine Kelly,” she said, heels clicking on the stone as she crossed the restaurant.

“Yes.” I still had my hands in my pockets to keep them warm, but I took one out and she shook it. “I’m here to see Hutch Morrison.”

“He’s waiting for you. I’ll take your coat.”

I wasn’t quite ready to give up the warmth of my coat, but I shrugged it off and let her hang it on an antique coat rack near the door. She led me into the restaurant, and I figured she was taking me back to the kitchen to meet Hutch. But as my gaze swept the room, my spine began to tingle, and when we neared a booth that had been hidden from the entrance by a dark blue partition, I knew right away the man seated there was Hutch Morrison. He looked exactly like his picture—cocky, confident, and sexy as hell. He was blond, tan—interesting since it was deep winter in Chicago—and heavily inked. As I neared, he gave me a slow, sexy smile, which made my heart thunk in my chest. For a moment I was a bit dazed.

Hutch stood, unfolding his long, lean body and easing to a standing position right in front of me. And then it struck me why I was reacting to him so strongly: he reminded me of Jace. They were about the same height, and had a similar build and coloring. I might be with a tall, dark, and handsome man now, but blond and ripped had always been my type. Jace’s hair had been naturally blond, and Hutch’s looked more light brown with blond streaks from the sun, but the two men really did bear a resemblance. Of course, with all the tattoos, Hutch looked a whole lot edgier and more than a little dangerous. He wore a close-fit black v-neck t-shirt, and I noted the tats peeking out on his upper chest.

I took in his corded, defined arms, also covered in tattoos. I could imagine those arms braced on either side of a woman as he knelt above her in bed. I took a shaky breath and tried to banish the image before I looked too closely and had to admit the woman I pictured him pleasuring was me.

“Thank you, Madison,” he said, dismissing the woman. His eyes never left my face. “Miss Catherine Kelly?” His voice was the same one I remembered from the phone, slow and soft. The way he said my name, in that Southern accent, was completely disarming.

“Hi,” I said.
Hi
? That was so not the way I began business meetings. If Beckett were here he’d be sniggering already. “I mean, yes. I’m Catherine. You must be Mr. Morrison.”

“Sweetheart, I told you on the phone. Mr. Morrison is my daddy.” He took my hand and led me to the booth. “You can call me Hutch.”

“Alright, Hutch. It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“Likewise. Let me take a look at you.” He gave my hand a little tug before I could sit on the cushioned seat. “Black.” He grinned at me. “My favorite color. I hope you have that tight little body from working out and not starving yourself. I intend to feed you, Catherine.”

“I”…” I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I should probably have been offended, but I found myself smiling. “I’m not really hungry, but I wouldn’t mind some coffee.”

His smile turned mischievous. “Oh, that’s sacrilege. You can’t come into a chef’s signature restaurant without an appetite.”

I flushed, embarrassed I’d been so careless with my words. He was right, of course. I didn’t mean to offend him before our meeting even began. I started to apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I—”

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I
know
you’re hungry.
You
just don’t know it yet. But you will.” He winked at me. “Wait until you try my cooking.” Before I could answer, he tugged me toward him. I realized he hadn’t ever released my hand. He did now, moving a hand to the small of my back and holding me against him as we made our way into the kitchen. We were so close that I felt like we were long-lost friends.

I also felt his body against mine. It wasn’t only his arms that were muscled and defined. I was pretty sure he hid hard washboard abs and a tight chest under that t-shirt. And there was something so intoxicating about the way he smelled—woodsy and smoky.

The kitchen was just a few steps away, and it was seriously awe-inspiring, even for a novice like me. It was big, much bigger than the kitchen at Willowgrass. It was completely open too, so diners could see just about everything that was going on. Cooking as theater. It was bright and spotless, the stainless steel appliances gleaming, the white surfaces immaculate. It looked meticulously organized and like a perfect stage for Hutch’s brand of elegant, refined cuisine. A chef in a white coat and black trousers nodded when we entered. He was at the other end of a long, gleaming, stainless steel center table finely chopping vegetables, likely the
mise en place
for the night’s service. Above the table, cylindrical light bulbs hung in glass cases, reflecting softly off the steel.

“This is majorly impressive,” I said.

Hutch smiled at me. “This is home.” But for someone who was home, he looked a lot more serious than he had in the restaurant’s seating area. He moved confidently around the counter where food was expedited and toward the ovens and stove tops. He looked completely at ease and also completely focused. I could tell he was a man who was intensely passionate and dedicated to his art.

At the other end of the prep table, Hutch began to mix ingredients, and while I sort of paid attention to what he was doing, mainly I watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed and released.

“What are you making?” I asked.

“A little sampling from our upcoming menu. Brown sugar and cinnamon beignets with a simple blueberry compote and café au lait with chicory. Sound good?”

“It sounds fantastic. Now I understand why it’s so hard to get reservations here.”

He glanced up at me. “We don’t take reservations, honey,” he said. “We sell tickets.” He moved toward the stoves, heating the oil to cook the beignet dough he’d just prepared.

“My friend Beckett mentioned something about tickets. He’s a food stylist and a big fan of yours.”

Hutch looked over his shoulder, a knowing grin on his face. “I bet. So you haven’t eaten here?”

“No.”

He turned toward me. “For shame, Miss Catherine. We’ll have to change that.” He moved to the prep table again and began doing something with blueberries. “The way Morrison Hotel works,” he said, never taking his attention from the food, “is that you buy a ticket to one of my food
events
. Right now the theme is ‘London Calling.’”

“So what kind of food is that?”

“It’s
my
kind of food. I was really interested in exploring the French influences in Marrakech and I also love London pub fare. You know, fish and chips, bangers and mash, mussels, roast beef. Really hearty, traditional English food. I explored the different flavor profiles and textures and came up with some of my own techniques for combining them, then I made it all work. That’s what I do.”

Hutch gave me a satisfied grin as I stood there, speechless.

“The upcoming theme is ‘Sticky Fingers,’ and that’s going to be Southern and Creole fare. Much more down home for me. A little simpler too. I’m from Alabama, you know, just outside of Mobile.”

“Thus the beignets.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be exploring the food of my youth for a while, but I’ll move on to something else in three months or so. I decided to go with tickets because I knew reservations would be impossible to get anyway. This was going to be the hottest restaurant in Chicago the minute the doors opened.”

“That’s pretty cocky,” I said before I could think.

“I’m only cocky about three things, Catherine, and those are things at which I excel. One is cooking. When you taste this little snack, you can be the judge as to whether I’ve oversold myself. But back to the restaurant.” He moved again to the stove, working on his beignets. I had forgotten he was even cooking. He was so relaxed and confident. He reminded me a lot of William in the kitchen.

“If you want to eat at Morrison Hotel—well, not you, darlin’, you can be my guest anytime—you buy a ticket for the theme. It’s going to cost you about a hundred and fifty bucks or thereabouts, depending on what we’re serving and whether you want wine pairings. You pay in advance, and your place is reserved. You don’t have to wait to be seated. You don’t have to flag the waiter down at the end of the meal and ask for the bill or face that awkward moment when no one is sure who is going to pay. That’s all taken care of. You just bring your appetite and sit back and wait for the show.”