A Dash of Love. Liz Isaacson
caught sight of him and waved. Paul liked the bartender, and they’d started spending some time together outside of work. Paul didn’t usually do that because he didn’t have time. And he didn’t want to be buddy-buddy with his sous chef or his pastry chef. It was very lonely as the executive chef, but Paul had never really minded until a few months ago.
So when Jerrod had run into Paul at the rec center, they’d played basketball together. They’d started doing that more and more, and Paul could really use a friendly face tonight.
“Hey,” Paul said as he eased his tired body onto the barstool.
“What’s it tonight?”
Paul smiled, though nothing about tonight warranted such an action. “Oh, something that pairs with frustration.”
Jerrod gave him a knowing smile. “Got it.”
The woman next to him smelled like strawberries, roses, and other red things. He tried not to look at her too quickly, but he turned that way anyway. He noticed her wide, innocent eyes in a peculiar shade of brown. They pulled at him and wouldn’t let go.
Her hair shone with some dark notes, too, and he wondered what color it would be in natural light. She was dressed well, wore makeup, and that scent…
He smiled at her, his eyes falling to the bar—where a bowl of cassoulet sat. His heart pumped out an extra beat, and he was suddenly anxious to know what she thought of it. “See you have the special. How was it?”
The woman, who had been nodding and smiling, faced the bar again, her grin fading. “Uh…it was, uh. It was okay.” She turned toward him, her loose curls falling over her shoulder. The grin appeared, and it lit something in him that had been dormant for a while. “I just wasn’t that hungry.”
She was also not that great at lying. “But you got to try it, at least, right?” He gestured toward it as if she hadn’t noticed the bowl in front of her. He watched her face for a reaction.
“Mm-hm, yeah. I did.”
And the bowl was still full. He couldn’t help himself. Maybe if he had some real customer feedback, Holly would listen. Or maybe he just liked the way this woman’s voice sounded and he wanted to keep talking to her. No matter what, he asked, “Did you like it?”
“Oh, um.” Her voice was barely audible above the elevator music wafting down from the speakers in the ceiling. She actually looked over her shoulder to see if anyone was lingering nearby. “Yeah, I’d pass, maybe. Try something else, perhaps.” She giggled and nodded like they’d just shared a secret with each other.
He’d been watching her, but now he dropped his gaze to the bar. A quick half-laugh left his lips. “What was it about it that you didn’t like?”
She stared at the bowl of offending cassoulet. “It was just a little bland. I think it needed something. I don’t know.”
Though he had used the exact same word—bland—to describe the cassoulet, his pride was taking a serious hit here.
He picked up his glass and swirled his wine. “Good to know.” He took a sip, wishing his emotions weren’t quite so at war with each other. Would he have liked her more if she’d enjoyed a cassoulet he knew was inferior? He should be grateful she seemed to possess a discerning palette. It wasn’t like she’d tasted and then critiqued his recipe.
She turned back to him, leaned in, and whispered, “You know, frankly, I’m a little surprised.”
Paul was, too. Holly had been slipping for months, and he didn’t know why. He set his wine glass on the counter and worked hard to school his features before he looked at her. “It was that bad?”
“No, it’s just…” Her denial came quickly, and she considered the bowl of food again. She scrunched up her lips in a cute way that Paul wished he didn’t find quite so attractive. “It could’ve used something to…pizzazz it up, you know? It just wasn’t—it didn’t really have that ‘wow factor’ that I was expecting.”
Paul nodded though he wasn’t sure what she meant. “The ‘wow factor.’” He couldn’t help the twinge of annoyance in his chest, though her assessment of the cassoulet was spot-on.
The woman nodded, a little too emphatically, in his opinion. “You know, Holly probably just needs a new executive chef or something. That’s what I’m thinking.” She gave him a wide-eyed look like her word would become law.
Paul gave a single nod in slow motion. A smile came to his lips, but it wasn’t exactly happy—more like he was trying to figure out what she’d just said and why it felt like she’d stabbed him in the heart with a fork. All four tines of a fork.
“Sounds like you eat out a lot,” he said, his voice miraculously even.
She obviously mistook his smile for friendliness. “No, no. I—I, uh, just know a lot about food.” She didn’t seem bothered by what she’d said, and of course, she had no idea who she’d said it to. She grinned at him, and his frustration edged up a notch because he actually found her honesty and innocence so attractive.
“Of course you do. Because…you eat food.” The smile on his face felt manic, stretched too far. “Everyone’s a food critic these days.” He laughed a couple of times and wanted to drown this day in his glass of red wine.
“Oh no. I’m not a food critic. Actually, a lot of people think that I am. I was at the grocery store last week...” She trailed off, for which Paul was grateful.
He struggled to hide his exhaustion and his irritation with Holly, and he couldn’t camouflage his feelings for much longer. When she asked, “I’m sorry, did I say something to upset you?” he knew he hadn’t hidden them well at all.
He exhaled, the tension leaving his shoulders. What would telling her who he was accomplish? Nothing. She didn’t seem like Holly, and maybe she would listen to him, but after the day he’d already had, he decided revealing who he was—the very executive chef she’d just suggested firing—wasn’t worth the conversation.
So she was pretty. She had a good air about her. She knew food. But she also thought he should be replaced, and though he’d never feared for his job here, he suddenly did.
“No,” he finally said in response to her question. “No, I just, uh, I just got some bad news tonight.” He couldn’t find a reason to make her feel embarrassed that she’d insulted him.
“Oh, sorry.” She seemed genuine, too, even if she turned back to her pathetic bowl of cassoulet a moment later. “Well, if it makes you feel better, I’m sure your news isn’t as bad as the feedback they’re getting on this cassoulet.” She gave him a flirtatious smile, and Paul had no other choice but to laugh.
She giggled with him, longer and with more volume. He needed to get out of there. Even though he agreed with her and wanted to change the recipe, his defenses still battled with what she’d said. After all, she’d just bashed his cooking.
Not my recipe, though.
He eased away from the bar while her laughter still rang in his ears. “Have a good night.” He made it to the exit before he turned back to look at her. She slouched against the barstool, clearly a bit flummoxed as to what had just happened.
Paul wasn’t, though. Her opinion of the cassoulet was his, too. And he needed to do something about it.
Nikki wished Angela had told her to come at eleven o’clock instead of ten. Customers lingered, and while she usually left when a restaurant closed, the possibility of meeting Holly still dangled on the horizon, an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.
Angela disappeared into the kitchen and didn’t return. Nikki wasn’t sure how long she was supposed to wait, and she waved off more wine from Jerrod. Her gaze landed on the vacant seat next to her where that man had sat.