The Chef's Choice (11 page)

Pumpkins for fall. He said the words casually but they reverberated in her head. “You're putting in a garden,” she repeated.

“This weekend. I already hit the nursery out by the highway to load up.”

He was serious, she realized. He was planting something that wouldn't come to fruition for months. Pumpkins for fall. This wasn't the activity of a man who expected to disappear in a few weeks when his ship came in.

This might, just might, be a guy who planned to stick around for a while.

Her wide smile was completely involuntary. “Have you got everything you need?”

“I popped for some tools and a wheelbarrow.”

“I mean for the actual garden.”

“It's dirt, water and seeds, right? And maybe some fertilizer?”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure, just like bread is water and flour. You've got to make sure the soil's fertile. If it's just been fallow, you're going to need manure or compost to enrich it.”

“What do you mean, enrich it? It's dirt, not a pan sauce. The weeds are doing fine without my help.”

“That's why they're weeds. If you want to grow good vegetables, especially up here, you need the right kind of soil.”

He sighed. “Okay, maybe you'd better make me a list. Or you could just come tutor me.” He flicked her a glance of amusement.

“All right.” The words took both of them by surprise. She hadn't planned to agree, hadn't planned to help. And yet…

Pumpkins for fall
.

Pumpkins for fall, and perhaps a very different man than she'd first judged him to be.

“You're going to come help?” he asked. “You mean it?”

Nervous tension bubbled through her. It was only an offer to do yard work, Cady told herself, but she knew different.

And so did he.

“For the afternoon,” she qualified hastily, “just to get you started. I can't do it tomorrow, though, because I'm going to Portland to see my sister. Anyway, there's still a risk of frost. You'd be better off waiting another week.”

“How about next Sunday?”

She nodded. “I'll bring some tools and a wheelbarrow. And a load of manure.”

“Thanks…I think,” he added after a beat. “Tell you what. I'll make you a deal—you help me put in the garden and I'll cook you dinner.”

She gave him a suspicious look. “This isn't part of your ‘educate my palate' program, is it? Are you going to cook me something weird like squid brains?”

“Squid brains,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Now, that's an intriguing—”

“Forget it,” she cut him off.

“Ah hell, you never let me have any fun. Okay, fine, you help with the garden, I'll cook you a non-squid-brain dinner. Sound like a plan?”

What it sounded like was a date. She took an unsteady breath. “It's your weekend. Are you sure you want to cook?”

“Are you sure you want to garden?”

It was an out, she recognized, but she didn't take it. She'd spent the week thinking about him, about them, and she hadn't come up with any answers. In agreeing to help, though, she realized that she'd known all along what she wanted to do. “Yeah,” she said. “You helped us move the furniture. This is payback. Anyway, it'll keep me out of trouble.”

“Are you sure of that?” He studied her.

“What, you don't think I can take you down?” she said lightly.

“Be my guest.” It wasn't said in the tone of a school yard taunt. He meant it.

She flushed.

“Okay, we're on for Sunday,” he said, letting her off the hook. “I can get you directions later in the week.”

“Good.” She nodded and turned to leave, but he caught her wrist to stop her.

Cady froze. “I should go.”

“I never really thanked you for the microgreens,” he said softly.

Her heart began to thump harder. “Oh. Well. It's not a big deal. It was to help out the restaurant…or my parents.” It was hard to think when the heat from his fingers was spreading up her arm.

“I'd like to think you did it for me,” he murmured and trapped her hands between his own. “Your fingers are freezing.”

“It's cold out.”

Not inside, though, not here where his palms and fingers were mesmerizingly warm against her skin. Not soft—a man with his job would never have soft hands—but they were strong, capable and somehow soothing. The ropes of sinew and muscle in his forearms spoke of power and yet his hold on her was gentle.

And if she stayed here with his hands wrapped around hers much longer, she might never leave. “I should go,” she said, making herself pull away from him. “I have work.”

“All right.” Those dark eyes with their flecks of gold gazed steadily at her. “Next Sunday is a long time away.”

“I think you'll survive.”

“You know, there's a restaurant supply store up in Portland I keep meaning to get to. I need an immersion circulator.”

“An immersion what?”

“An immersion circulator. To do
sous vide.
Never mind,” he said, mouth curving in amusement. “The thing is, maybe we could carpool.”

“To Portland?”

“That's the idea.”

It was simultaneously appealing and alarming. “I'm going to be there most of the day,” she said doubtfully.

“I'm sure I can find things to do. Give me a chance to look around the city. Tell you what. We can even take my car.”

“You only say that because you're afraid of my driving.”

He patted her shoulder. “Make that terrified, Mario Andretti, terrified.”

“A
re you sure we're related?” Cady threw a suspicious glance at her older sister, Max. Her gorgeous sister, Max, her statuesque sister, Max, her sophisticated sister, Max—only three of the many ways they differed.

The fourth sat before them.

“For heaven's sakes, I'm not trying to lop off a limb, Cady,” Max said in exasperation. “I just want to go in and look at that dress.”

“But that's the sixth place you've stopped,” Cady said. It wasn't a whine, not precisely. “And you've already bought something.”

“For work. This would be for play.” Max admired the fuchsia tank dress in the store window.

“I thought we were just walking back to your place from lunch. I didn't know we were on a shopping trip.”

“We
are
walking back to my place. I just believe in multitasking.”

“Multitasking,” Cady grumbled.

“I didn't notice you complaining when we went into the chocolate shop,” Max threw over her shoulder as they stepped inside.

The store had smooth maple floors, terrifyingly chic salesclerks and pricey-looking clothes. Then again, down in the heart of Portland's Old Port district, where Max lived, most of the boutiques were pricey.

“We're still going to find time to talk about the party, right?” Cady asked.

Max stuck her head over the top of the dressing room door. “Of course we're going to.” With a snap, she opened the catch of the door and stepped out.

“You know, if you weren't my sister, I'd have to hate you.” Cady watched her turn to and fro before the mirror.

“And if you weren't my sister, I'd have to hate you,” Max rejoined.

Cady blinked. “Why?”

“Oh, being your own boss with no office bs, wearing jeans to work every day, having that gorgeous red hair.” Max waved away the hovering salesclerk and turned to the dressing room with a satisfied nod.

“You wouldn't say that if you had skin that blushed every ten minutes.”

Max peeked over the top of the door again. “What have you been up to that you're blushing about?”

“Oh, well, you know,” Cady said awkwardly.

“I don't.” Max stepped back out. “But it sounds like I should. Come on, let's pay for this and go back home so I can feed you wine and pump you for details.”

Out on the street, the breeze off the water was mild enough to enjoy without a jacket. “Mmm, I love the first really warm day of the year,” Max said. “It makes you believe summer's really going to happen.”

“You must believe in it, considering how much you spent on that dress.”

“I'll get a lot of wear out of that dress.” The sun was warm on their shoulders as they walked over the cobblestones. “Back to this blushing thing, what's the deal?”

“Nothing. Not much, anyway,” Cady amended.

“Not much? What, are you moonlighting at a strip club? Is there a twenty-four-hour Cady Cam on the Internet?” Max looked at her more closely. “Or do you have a new guy?”

And Cady felt the telltale flush spread up her cheeks.

“Oh, perfect, new guy,” Max said gleefully as they turned into the doorway that led to her loft. “I'm definitely feeding you wine now.”

Sunlight streaming through the skylights made parallelograms on the exposed-brick walls of the loft. Cady wandered around, looking at the sepia-toned photographs of old diners Max had hung on the walls. Amy Winehouse played in the background.

“Tell me about your guy,” Max called over from the kitchen, her voice muffled as she reached into a cabinet for wineglasses. “Who is he, where did you meet, what's he like?”

Cady flopped on the squashy leather sofa. “Is this true/false or multiple choice?”

“Essay.” Max opened the bottle.

“First of all, he's not my guy.”

“Have you gone out?”

“No,” Cady said, but she made the strategic error of looking down.

Max's eyes brightened. “Kissed?”

“Once or twice,” she acknowledged grudgingly.

“Well, which is it? Once or twice?”

“Twice, I guess.”

“You're not sure?”

Cady thought back to the feel of Damon's mouth over hers. “Oh yeah, I'm sure.”

“Well, kissing counts in my book,” Max said briskly, handing Cady her wine and settling on the sofa. She raised her glass. “To things that count.”

“Things that count,” Cady echoed.

“And your guy.” Max settled on the couch facing Cady and crossed her legs. “So?”

“So?”

“So, dish. What's he like?”

Cady gave in, drawing her legs up before her on the couch. “Oh, funny, smart, charming. Confident. He just assumes everything's going to go his way and it does.”

“Not a G-boy, is he?”

“Hardly. More like a bad boy. He doesn't seem to pay a lot of attention to rules,” she continued, not noticing the sharp glance her sister gave her. “But he busts his behind to do what he thinks needs to get done.”

“Ah, the old charming renegade type. That can be sexy. Dangerous, but sexy.”

“He is, too much for his own good.”

“But you've managed to resist him so far?”

“Yeah.”

“It's a good lesson for him.” Max took a swallow of wine. “A man should never underestimate a McBain woman.”

“Oh, I think he's figured out the stubborn Scot part already.” Cady laughed.

“Good for him. It'll come as less of a shock, getting used to it now. And what do we call him?” At Cady's hesitation, she frowned. “What? Tell me.”

“You can't breathe a word to Mom and Dad.”

Max gave her a suspicious stare. “Why do I not get a good feeling about this? Who is he?”

Cady cleared her throat. “Um, Damon Hurst.”

“Damon Hurst?” She stared. “You mean the new chef?
That
Damon Hurst?”

“Do you know of another one?”

“No, but I was sort of hoping that you did. You know, Mom told me you were ranting about him like he was the devil incarnate when he first showed up, but you've been here four hours and you haven't made a peep. I was kind of wondering.” She shook her head as though she was a wet dog. “Cady, why in God's name are you getting involved with a guy like Damon Hurst?”

“Why shouldn't I? Because I'm not some celebrity babe?” Cady retorted.

“No. Because you're…” Inexperienced, Max thought, and more vulnerable than anyone would guess from the prickly attitude. She let out a breath. “You're my kid sister, okay? I don't want some get-around guy getting around with you.”

“I'm twenty-seven, Max, and he's not going to. Give me some credit. I mean, we're not really even involved yet.”

“Except for the kissing part.”

“Except for the kissing part,” Cady admitted.

“That's a pretty big part.”

Cady rested her chin on her knees. “I know it doesn't make sense, but something happens when I get around him. I mean, I can sit here talking to you and I know I'm nuts. I'm not his type. He's out of my league and I should just get the hell away. But when I'm with him, when he looks at me—” she shook her head “—none of that matters. It all goes away and I just believe him. So what do I do, go with my head or go with my gut? You know about guys, Max. What do I do?”

“Does he make you feel good?”

“Make me feel good?” Cady repeated. And slowly a smile bloomed across her face. “Incredible, more like. It's the way I always thought it was supposed to be. Like it happens for everybody else. I mean, you know how it's been with me. I'm interested in a guy and he doesn't know I exist, or if he does, he runs the other way. Damon makes me feel special, like I matter. It feels like…”

“Like what?”

“Oh, this'll sound goofy but remember this afternoon when we were in that cold store and then we stepped back out on the street and into the sunlight? It feels like that. Warm and…and golden.” She rolled her eyes. “Does it sound as bad as I think it does?”

“It sounds nice.” And if this joker was messing with her, Max would cheerfully see him talking soprano. Max took a breath. “Are you going to sleep with him?”

There was a long silence. “Yeah,” Cady said softly, “I'm going to. Part of me thinks I'm out of my mind to take the risk, but the other part thinks I'd be out of my mind to pass it up. I mean, you know my record. I may never come across another guy who'll give me the time of day, let alone luck out with a guy like him.”

“You ask me, he's the one who's lucky,” Max said.

“You say that because you're biased.”

“No, I say that because I'm your big sister and I know best.”

“Always pulling rank,” Cady groused. “I swear, if I—” The sound of a cell phone ring tone cut her off. “Just a sec, let me get this. It might be Damon.” She walked over to her jacket and fished the handset out of her pocket. “Hello? Oh, hi.”

The words were breathless, the smile wide.

Max watched from across the room. The swaths of sunlight on the wall had faded as day moved into afternoon, but as she watched, she saw Cady glow, saw the pleasure and hope in her eyes.

Saw what Cady hadn't yet admitted to herself.

Max rose and carried the wineglasses back to the kitchen. “What's the deal?” she asked as Cady put her hand over the phone.

“He wants to know if I have any idea when I want to leave,” Cady said.

“Well, it's about four. We still need to talk about Dad's party for a while. Tell him to meet us at Soleil on Exchange Street at five-thirty. We'll go to dinner.”

“Dinner?” Cady squeaked.

“Dinner,” Max said firmly. “I want to check this guy out.”

Cady saw him as they turned the corner to Soleil, a little bistro tucked away in one of the old brick buildings down in the Old Port. He leaned against the wall by the door in his leather jacket, looking relaxed, dark and just a bit reckless. Then again, she felt just a bit reckless herself.

For a few steps, she watched him, admiring that gorgeous face, that long, lean body. Definitely out of her league, but she was going to go with it until whoever it was that pulled the levers in the universe realized there'd been a mistake and changed everything back.

And then he turned and their gazes locked and it was like the thump of power from an electrical shock jolting through her. Connection, more intense than it had ever been. Every step felt weighted with importance, every instant felt crystalline and shimmering.

“I guess you found it.” Her voice came out oddly breathless as they stopped before him.

“I guess I did,” he agreed.

“You could have gone inside.”

“I wanted to wait for you. Besides, I'm inside too much as it is. It's nice to see the sun for a change. It's nice to see you, too,” he added.

“Oh. Well.” She sounded like an idiot, Cady thought.

“I take it this is your sister?” He turned to Max. “Nice to meet you. I'm Damon Hurst.”

“I'm Max McBain,” she said, shaking his hand. “I'm also hungry.”

Damon grinned. “Then I guess we should go inside.”

The restaurant was narrow, the exposed brick walls hung with mirrors to make the space seem bigger than it was. Industrial heater vents trailed over the ceiling high above them. Pendant lamps in blue and red and green hung down low. In the open kitchen tucked in the back corner, the sounds of sizzling rose as white-capped chefs did magical things with fish and fowl, sending out scents that had Cady's mouth watering.

“How was your trip to the restaurant supply store?” Cady asked as the waitress opened the wine. “Did you get your immersion circulator?”

“I did. We'll be using it to make some of the food for your father's party.”

“Ah, you're the chef for that,” Max said.

“The assistant,” he corrected. “Roman, the sous chef, had a lot of the groundwork done already when I got here, and Cady can tell you, he's a pretty good cook himself. I'm not going to come in and take over. I'm just pitching in where he asks me to.”

It was like him, Cady realized. For all that she'd heard about his ego, she'd never once seen it in evidence while he'd been at the Sextant.

“What are you guys making?” Max asked.

“Oh, lobster, pork chops with rosemary cider sauce, duck breast with blueberry coulis. Sorry—” his eyes glimmered at Cady “—no pizza. Although we did consider having cheese Danish for dessert.”

Max was used to being looked at by men. She was accustomed to capturing their full attention, whether she wanted it or not. As appetizers gave way to entrées, and on to dessert, she didn't see what she'd feared. Oh, Damon was good company. He joked, made clever comments, asked all the right questions, but with every moment that passed, one thing was clear.