Scrumptious (7 page)

Marlene arrived at Chameleon bright and early Saturday morning, full of the energy and love of life that only the day after a hangover can bring. She felt more than able to take on any task, and she looked good too, thanks to her new highlights. Her hair now had so many different shades of red and gold and brown that it was hard to put a name to the color. Cranberry marmalade, maybe. Or hot whiskey. She’d definitely talk to Olivia about taking over the line today.

Chameleon wasn’t open for lunch on Saturday, so she didn’t expect anyone to trickle in until after noon. It was heaven to have the whole kitchen to herself. She spent the morning filling the freezer with rolled pastry shells for future lemon tarts and scones for her shortcakes, and she toasted almonds for her roulades. With every other egg she cracked, her mind returned to Joe. She hadn’t given this much thought to a man since, well, her father didn’t count, so never.

Joe Rafferty did not want her. No big deal. No problem. Plenty of other guys did. Like Danny for example. He’d been more than willing to stay with her instead of playing poker last night. She didn’t need Joe.

Unfortunately, the tiny little traitor that lived somewhere between her heart and her brain wanted to show Joe what he was missing. That inner turncoat was fluffing her hair, checking her makeup, and picking out scandalous lingerie. Oh yeah, and another part of her wanted to show him he wasn’t God’s gift to the kitchen. Especially her kitchen. That part of her was sharpening her knives. By hand.

Marlene poured egg yolks and sugar into the small bowl of her heavy-duty KitchenAid mixer on the counter. She stirred and scraped once, just to keep the yolks from burning, then secured the whip and let it rip. She turned around to pour egg whites into the bowl of her twenty-quart Hobart stand mixer and began whipping them at medium speed, wrinkling her nose as the egg white smell of wet dog rose from the stainless steel bowl.

“You always come in this early on Saturday?” Joe asked from the doorway.

Marlene looked up for a moment, just long enough to catch an eyeful of his broad chest and the swirl of dark hair peeking out of the collar of his T-shirt as he buttoned his chef coat. A sharp flash of lust arced through her belly, quickly chased by irritation. Not interested, she reminded herself. She began to add sugar, tablespoon by tablespoon, to the meringue. “I can’t stay late tonight, so I wanted to get my desserts prepped and my specials done early.” Samson had been known to misbehave when left alone too long.

“Can’t stay late, huh? Got a date?”

Inner traitor giggled. “As a matter of fact, I do.” Sam would share her dinner and her bed
—
that counted as a date in her book.

“Leaving early shouldn’t be a problem,” Joe said, making it sound as if he was giving her permission.

She gritted her teeth and added the last tablespoon of sugar to her meringue.

“Got a minute to go over the prep list?” he asked.

Marlene bumped up the speed on the mixer. “Sorry, my nice, fluffy egg whites aren’t going to hang around while we chat. Just write it down. I’ll get it done.”

He stood over her. “I’ll wait.”

“Your call.”

She folded the ground almonds into the yolks, and took her time folding in the whites, gently bringing the denser nut and yolk mixture up from the bottom of the bowl. She would not take her irritation out on her delicate sponge cakes. Just before the streaks of egg white disappeared, she divided the batter among six half-sheet pans and encouraged the bubbly batter toward the edges of each. She slid them into the deck ovens and shut the heavy door with care before she turned to face him.

“Now, what were you saying?” God, it was completely unfair that he was so attractive. She should not want to kiss a man who made her nuttier than the almonds in her cakes.

“Olivia wants to know if you have time to make the garlic mashed potatoes and white beans. She soaked the beans last night. We also need pesto, chimichurri, chipotle sauce, and onions and peppers, got that?” Joe asked.

“I’ll get right on it. Anything else, chef?”

He cocked his head to the side. “You make the word chef sound like an insult. You have something against chefs?” he asked, leaning a solid shoulder against her reach-in, blocking her in the bakeshop.

“Absolutely not,
chef,
” she repeated. “Just doing my job.”

“Uh-huh,” he said with a sardonic grin. “Which job? Pastry chef? Prep cook? Troublemaker?” Joe pushed away from the reach-in and began to walk toward her. She swallowed, resisting the urge to step back.

“All of the above.” She lifted her chin and met his eyes, hoping he couldn’t read the bluff in hers. She wasn’t going to cause any more trouble. She just wanted her real job back, which unfortunately happened to be his job at the moment.

Joe stopped right in front of her. His blue eyes went gray, like an ice storm. “You don’t have any other nasty little tricks planned for me during service, do you, sugar? Because if you do, neither one of us will be laughing this time. I’ll turn you over my knee and give you the paddling you deserve.”

“Well, that would be something new.” She gave him a tight-lipped smile. He was so close that his breath feathered over her face and another lightning strike of simple, straight-up lust hit her in the gut.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. Maybe he wasn’t unaffected by the tension that charged the air between them. Frustration, pure and simple, made her crave some sort of satisfaction, and inner traitor wanted to remind Joe what he was missing. She reached out to smooth the cotton of his chef coat across the expanding width of his chest. “I don’t need dirty tricks to take down a schoolboy like you,” she said.

“You don’t, huh?” His deep voice rumbled quietly in his chest. “What do you need?”

“Not a thing.” Her palm slid over his firm muscles, caressed the warm column of his neck, and finally felt the rasp of his shadowed cheek. It did make a sound. She drew his face down to hers. “Just this,” she whispered against his lips.

Joe leaned into her kiss.

Heat rose between them. She hadn’t imagined how good their last kiss had been, after all. Their lips moved together in a perfect synchronization of shared breath, movement, and desire. She kept her eyes open. He did too. His strong arms sought her waist, pressing their bodies together from groin to breast, searching for a seamless fit. He surged into her, pressing her against the table behind her, lifting her onto its surface. Her back hit the storage shelf, and she didn’t care what precious garnish got destroyed as it hit the table.

His tongue found the sensitive inner edge of her upper lip and stroked along its length. She wrapped her arms around his neck and held on as he moved against her, creating more heat with his lips. His hands caressed her back, and she felt him tug the strings of her apron loose. She welcomed his hand on her breast beneath her T-shirt and wished he would get rid of her shirt too. Arousal spiked hot in her center, and insistent, insane heat consumed her. She watched his eyes drift shut, and shut her own to better concentrate on the breathless awareness between them.

You’re losing it
, her inner traitor warned.
You
made
your
point. Now walk away. Show him what he’s missing. Do it now. If you wait another minute, you’ll be on the floor, on your back, and it will be too late.

With effort, she loosened her hold around Joe’s neck and slid down his hard body until both feet touched the floor. Her kiss became teasing, deliberately seductive instead of spontaneously combustive. She gave him a playful shove and stepped back. “See? It’s not so hard to take you down.”

He crossed his arms, cocked an eyebrow. “I distinctly remember you saying that my virtue was safe from you.”

“Oh, I don’t think I hurt your virtue. Besides, if you can’t take the heat, stay out of the kitchen.” She grabbed her dirty dishes. “Let me know if you need anything else before service,
chef
.”

Joe caught her arm as she sailed past him. “Don’t forget about your cakes, sugar.”

Marlene wanted to continue her triumphant march to the dish room, but she knew from the nutty smell perfuming the bakeshop that he was right. Her almond roulades were done, maybe even overdone. She dropped her dishes on the table and pulled her cakes from the oven in the nick of time.

“Thank you,” she said formally, when all her cakes were safe.

“You’re welcome,” he said, just as politely. Marlene heard amusement ripple in his voice and barely controlled the urge to heave a hot half-sheet pan of cake directly at his head. Instead, she picked up the dirty bowls again and made her way to the dish room.

Olivia was coming in the back door.

“Are you all right?” Olivia asked, giving her a worried look.

“Perfectly fine,” she responded calmly. “But I need you to sterilize a knife. Quickly. I’m either going to kill Joe or slit my wrists.”

Olivia’s laugh echoed behind her as she swept out the back door to run home and let Samson out to pee.

***

In spite of her agitation, or perhaps because of it, the hours flew by after she returned from doggy duty. Marly cooked white beans with fresh rosemary and thyme and made sauces and mashed potatoes while she filled the almond roulades with caramel mousse and baked a new batch of chocolate cheesecakes.

Tonight’s special dessert was a crème brûlée infused with star anise, basil, and ginger, and spiked with a bright green herbal liqueur called Chartreuse. The customers loved it. In fact, they had sold so many brûlées last night that the waiters had burned more on the fly. This morning, she had walked in to a huge mess in her reach-in because the no-good slackers hadn’t bothered to finish caramelizing them all.

Marlene pulled the leftover brûlées, covered with thick piles of white sugar, out of her fridge. She lit the propane torch and tipped it toward the first brûlée. The sugar on top sputtered and burned, spitting hot, black flecks onto her hand. “Ouch!” she yelled. The sugar must have been damp from spending the night in the cooler.

She opened the bin under her table and sprinkled another thin layer of granulated sugar on top of what was already there. She touched it with the torch. That’s better, she thought, as the sugar turned amber and rolled toward the edges of the ramekin.

She topped the rest of the custards with extra sugar too, and waved the torch back and forth, covering each custard with a thick, hard sheet of amber sugar.

Joe was right, she thought. She did have something against chefs.

She had been crushed when Olivia brought Keith home and put him in charge of the line, the line Marly had been guarding while Olivia got her pretty piece of paper that declared she was a real chef. At first, Marly had tried to work with him, but there was only so much she could do to cover his mistakes. She’d lasted a year and a half and then hoped his inability to cook good food would be revealed when she quit the hot line. Instead, Olivia had taken over the job of babysitting her husband’s plates. Marlene had retreated to the bakeshop to make desserts and pray Olivia would come to her senses. And she had.

But did Olivia give Marly her old job back? Nope, she sure didn’t. Instead, she called her buddy Joe in to pinch-hit, and then she put an ad in the fucking paper. Seriously, what did it take to get some respect around here? The torch hissed as Marlene shut it off. She stored it under the table, making sure the hot tip wasn’t touching anything remotely flammable.

When she stood, Jacques was peering over the top of the waiters’ station. “You let your mama get near your head again, kid?” he asked, grinning and scratching his gray braid.

“Mom’s never wrong about hair, Jacques. It will calm down.”

“You got a little cake for me?”

Jacques was the best, a solid gold dishwasher with a sweet tooth, which she kept well supplied. She handed him the uneven first slice from the end of the last almond roulade on her table. The rest were tucked in the freezer for the week.

He licked the caramel cream cheese mousse oozing from the spiral of crunchy cake. “The new guy seems good.” He spoke around a mouthful of cake.

“He’s temporary,” she said flatly.

“Guess you don’t like him.”

“I didn’t say that.” She stacked dessert plates in the makeshift window. She had run home once more to take care of Sam, but Joe and Olivia hadn’t needed any help from her for over an hour, even though they were really cooking up there. She might as well go home. They didn’t need her.

Marlene wiped her table with sanitizer and took off her apron.

“You do like him, then?” Jacques asked, watching her.

“I didn’t say that either.”

He smoothed cake crumbs out of his drooping mustache and goatee. He gave her a sage nod. “First time for everything, kid.”

Joe finished a plate and slid it into the hot window.

“Any idea why Marlene wants to fillet your testicles?” Olivia asked him.

He grinned. “She does, huh?”

“You like that idea? You’re sicker than I thought. I knew you guys were perfect for each other. You ask her to help you with brunch yet?”

He would die, buried under omelet pans, drowning in waffle batter, choking on hollandaise before he would ask that little minx to help him with brunch tomorrow.

The white beans in his sauté pan were thick and gloppy. He checked the flame under the pan. Not hot enough. The opposite of the problem he was having with Marlene. He cranked the dial sharply to the left. Every time she got close enough to touch him, he remembered how her breasts filled his hands. How her mouth made him crazy. “I’ve got it under control,” he said.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Did you ask her to help?” Olivia asked.

“Not yet.”

“Joe, Sunday brunch is slamming. You’ll need two people, and Anthony isn’t up to speed yet. Sorry.” Olivia shot an apologetic glance in the salad kid’s direction. He flushed.

“Never mind. I’ll come in,” she capitulated.

“No way. You’re running on empty already,” he said.

“So ask her already. Or I will. I’m beginning to like the idea of a day off,” she said.

Suddenly, flames engulfed his pan, shooting up around its sides. He cut the heat all the way down the stove and dropped a lid over his sauté pan. When he pulled the pan off the stove, flames shot up into the hood. Joe swore.

Olivia stood frozen, tongs in hand. “Salt, girl!” He thrust the box of kosher salt at her and took off for the bakeshop, almost running through Jacques on his way down the short hall.

“I need baking soda,” he said when he reached Marlene. She thrust a five pound bucket into his hands and didn’t ask any questions. He sprinted back to the line where Olivia was still frozen, kosher salt box in hand. He elbowed her out of the way and dumped soda on the flames. It hit the stove in a powdery whump, and the flames sputtered, still trying to break through the heavy powder.

“I hope this does it,” he said. “If the Ansul system drops, we’re done.” They couldn’t serve food from a kitchen covered in flame-retardant chemicals. That’s why he hadn’t reached for the fire extinguisher in the first place.

Servers and busboys crowded the front of the line, trying to get a good view. Marlene must have followed him up there because Joe heard her shooing them back into the dining room. He poured again, tasting the soda on his tongue, feeling it coat his nostrils.

The flames sputtered, died out, then disappeared.

Olivia swayed next to him. Tears streamed down her face. He grabbed her around the waist, putting one hand on the back of her head, shoving down. “Head between your knees, kiddo. Lean on me.” He held her that way for a moment, bent over, cradled in the curve of his body until her shoulders relaxed. Joe pulled her slowly upright, still supporting her weight.

“You gonna make it?” he asked.

Olivia nodded. She sagged against the salad station. At Joe’s sharp gesture, Anthony tentatively took her hand and drew her away from the line.

Joe jerked the grease catchers from underneath the burners. The right-hand one was dripping with blackened oil.

“I just changed that a few days ago!” Marlene exclaimed behind him.

Joe raised his eyebrows.

“No, really,” she protested. “Wednesday. I was doing it when the dairy order came in.”

“Well, it looks like somebody dumped the fryer in there. And then dropped a lit match,” he said. “Jacques, would you get me a hotel pan, please?”

“Wait.” Marly elbowed Joe out of the way and reinserted the trays into the stove. “Do this first.” She grabbed a big ladle and pulled the burners from the stove. As they hit the sink, the hot stink of steaming cast iron filled the air.

Joe brushed the remaining baking soda through the stove into the trays underneath, while Marly rinsed the stove inserts. Then he pulled the trays again and tipped the sizzling oil into the hotel pan Jacques shoved through the window. He teased the sticky, blackened foil away from the edges of the tray and then carried both pans into the dish room.

“Thank you,” he said solemnly as Marly replaced the eyes of the stove.

“You’re welcome,” she returned. Humor lit her coffee brown eyes, which told Joe that the role reversal was not lost on her either. “Order me some baking soda on Monday.”

“Sure thing,” he said, replacing the now clean trays.

Joe busied himself checking sauté pans full of half-finished dishes, trying to see if anything could be saved. They’d lost ten, maybe twelve minutes while all hell broke loose, and it would be double that before he caught up with the tickets.

What a freakin’ mess.

Marlene stood by his side, facing the stove. She bit her lip. The sight of her white teeth digging into her full, pink lip made him stiffen. A waiter called an order. If he didn’t get his mind off her mouth, he was going to see some serious weeds. He didn’t analyze the urge that prompted him to ask, “You ready to put your money where your mouth is, sugar? I could use a hand until Olivia gets her act together.”

“You don’t think I should go check on her?” Marlene glanced down the hall toward the office.

“Nah, she’s a big girl. She’ll be back in a minute, but I’ve got a dozen tickets to re-fire. Wanna play catch-up with me?”

***

Oh boy, did she.

Marlene wanted to hop up on the salad station and pull Joe into her body, wrap her legs around him again, and get some more of those soul-torching kisses. She was painfully aware of the tips of her breasts and their round fullness, heavy in her bra. She was tingling at her core, ready to play just about anything, especially catch-up.

Marlene’s memory fed the fire.
Joe
roughly
yanking
her
shirt
over
her
breasts. His hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back. Joe thrusting his leg between her parted thighs and pulling her hips to meet his own. Bending her backward…

Oh, shit. He was waiting for an answer.

Busted.

Marly hoped none of what had just flashed through her mind had appeared on her face, but his smug look told her it probably had. She cleared her throat and turned to the grill, studiously ignoring her dampening panties. This was her opportunity to show this Kentucky boy how to do the job right.

They better get things rolling pretty quick, get those first tables out, or they’d get hammered when the rest of the orders came in. Joe was fast, she had to give him credit for that, but he couldn’t put up a hundred dinners by himself tonight. She cast an eye over the tickets hanging in the window and the half-grilled meats dripping on the cutting board, pulled off the flames when the stove caught fire. Joe was almost finished restarting the dishes that had been ruined.

He turned to her. “Well? Are you looking for some action? Can you put your energy into the grill and see if you can keep up with me until Olivia gets back? Or won’t your hot date wait?”

What date? Shit.

She was glad she’d gone home so many times to let Samson out. Marly grabbed a pair of tongs from the rack and began laying the meat back on the grill. “My date is very patient, but you better get moving, buddy. I’d hate for my food to get cold waiting for yours to catch up.” She could take him as long as there was an even mix of grilled and sautéed items in the orders. She could take him even if there wasn’t.

“Anthony, are you all up on table two?” Joe asked.

“I’m good, chef,” Anthony called from the farthest corner of the salad station. He had returned to the line alone shortly after he’d left with Olivia. Anthony never said much, but tonight he was silent, staring at them as if they were highly unpredictable animals. He must be worried they’d never get out of the weeds. Marlene gave him a reassuring smile, but he still looked nervous as he ran his hands through his short, dark hair.

“Wash those hands, kid,” Joe said, pointing at the sink in the dish room.

“Yes, chef.” Anthony ducked his head and all but sprinted to the hand sink. Marlene flipped steaks. She could feel Joe standing behind her. Probably checking her work, she thought acidly.

She didn’t want to turn around until he moved, scared her inner traitor would give her away. She wasn’t sure if Joe actually breathed a mocking laugh into her hair or if she imagined it.

Thank God it was hot up here. Her flushed cheeks could be attributed to the heat instead of lust.

For now, she would concentrate on food, narrow her world to the two perfectly crosshatched rib eyes for table two. Finish them with a velvety soufflé of garlic mashed potatoes, a zinfandel demi-glace, and confetti vegetables. Garnish. Place them in the window at the exact moment Joe wiped the rim of his pasta dishes.

Damn. He was fast.

Marly dropped the oven door and gave her fillets a firm poke, pulled the medium and left the well done in there to char a minute longer. Who the hell would order a steak well done, anyway? A waste of good meat. She liked hers red, raw, and dripping. Steak made her think of wine, and wine made her think of sex, and sex made her think of…

Joe.

Damn it. She slammed the oven door shut.

“Fire table four. And I’m going up on table six. You ready?” He was already plating. That was cheating.

Marlene fired the fish on table four and pulled a smoking hot plate from the heated rack, hissing a bit. “You got the stuffed apple and the sweet potato cakes for my veggie plate?”

“Sure do, sugar.”

They came together in the middle of the line. Marlene unmolded a timbale of toasty quinoa pilaf onto the plate and Joe reached around her with the apple. She held still, enjoying the feel of his body against her arm. She breathed in his scent, a mix of soap and sweaty man
—
the most potent aphrodisiac she knew.

Joe turned to snag the sweet potato cakes and lean them up against the rice. It wasn’t the usual presentation, but she had to admit it looked good. “Sauce?” he asked.

She nodded and finished the plate with pinot noir–dried cherry sauce and some spiced walnuts. She put the veggie plate in the window and pulled down three more hot plates. Joe piled a good handful of rosemary roasted bliss potatoes on two of them and she spooned polenta onto the third. “Grab that well-done steak will you?”

He nodded and reached into the oven with his gloved hand.

“Show off,” she said.

He grinned and returned to the stove.

Marlene plated the two steaks and a half a chicken, precisely piled bâtonnet vegetables next to the meats, and sauced everything. Plates in the window. She snagged a potato that was escaping from the herd on the plate and popped it in her mouth.

“New York State has a glove law, you know.”

“Oh, shut up,” Marlene shot back. “Your pasta is late on table six.”

“Wrong. It’s on her tray.” Joe gave Beth a charming smile. “Don’t pull anything out of the window until all the plates are up. I don’t want my food getting cold waiting for hers to catch up.”

“Yes, chef.” Beth had the grace to look abashed, but Marlene was sure her blush had more to do with the way Joe’s eyes crinkled up when he smiled. It was very George Clooney.
Or
very
shar-pei
, she thought uncharitably.

“Don’t worry, sugar, maybe you’ll catch me on the next table,” he said.

Marlene considered beaning him with a handful of vegetables from her station, but she didn’t want to set a bad example for Anthony. Instead, she grabbed a wet towel, stretched it between her hands, and twirled it into a tight rope.

“Don’t even think about it.” He gave her a warning look. She gave the towel one more twirl and let it fly.

Joe caught it, midair, and used the towel to haul her forward. Her clog caught in the mat, so he caught her too, pulling her roughly into his arms. Their bodies fit together, instantly and perfectly. She felt satisfaction burst in her chest when Joe didn’t let her go. She tipped her head back, felt him harden against her belly, even as she saw shadows darken his blue eyes.

“Uh, guys, do you really think this is an appropriate time for that?” Olivia said from the hot window. Her eyes were red-rimmed and watery, but her expression was calm. She walked behind the line and examined the board.

Marlene and Joe had put out six tables in twenty minutes. Joe’s hands slid down Marlene’s bare arms to her wrists, leaving every tiny hair raised in their wake. He took the towel out of her hands.

“Your pastry chef should do something about her impulsive streak,” Joe said to Olivia.

“She’s tried. It’s hopeless,” Olivia said.

“Order in! It’s a ten top.” Eric dropped the ticket.

“Time to rock and roll.” Joe glanced at Marlene. “You in or out?”

She itched to cook him into oblivion, but a look at the clock told her it was pumpkin time. Samson had probably tried to dig a hole in her couch by now. “I’m out,” she said, keeping the regret from her voice.

“Right. Your date.” He turned to the board, then the stove.

Dismissed. It was a slap in the face.

“Who’s the lucky guy?” Olivia took her place in front of the grill.

“Sam,” Marlene shot her a wink as she turned away.

“I love Sam, he’s a sweetheart,” Olivia said, playing excellent backup.

“Yes, he is. A real sure thing.” They shared a grin. Marlene gave Joe an encouraging nod. “Nice work,
chef
, but I don’t have time to continue your lessons tonight. I usually don’t mind keeping a man waiting, but Sam is very special to me.”

“How about tomorrow?” Joe looked up from the stove. “Olivia needs a day off. I’m doing brunch. Want to help me sling eggs?”

Olivia smacked his arm.

“Please,” Joe added. “Pretty, pretty please.”

“You’re on.” Marlene headed for the bakeshop to get her purse, disturbed by the intense pleasure she felt at the idea of cooking with him again.

***

Joe reluctantly pulled his attention from Marly’s retreating backside and laid two pans on the fire for the next table, automatically slowing his pace so Olivia could keep up with him. He watched her lay steaks on the grill, frown, and turn around to check the ticket again.