The Chef's Choice: The Chef's Choice. Kristin Hardy
Cady told them. “I have to go change."
Tucker raised a brow. “Jeans and a T-shirt not dressy enough for planting flowers?"
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I’ve got to fill in for one of the waiters during dinner tonight."
The two men stared. “You?” Damon asked.
“What about me?”
“Well, getting let loose on the unsuspecting general public, for one."
Her brows drew down. “Hey, it’s either me or Dad and he looks to me like he needs the night off."
“Uncle Ian knows about this?” Tucker shook his head. “He must be sick if he’s agreed."
“Can we just move the chairs, please?” Cady muttered.
Tucker grabbed a chair and hoisted it with a grunt. “What the hell are these things made of, iron?"
“Teak,” Cady supplied. “It’s heavy.”
“No kidding.”
“Okay,” she said, “I’ll take the chairs for guesthouse one, you guys can get guesthouse two."
Tucker eyed Damon. “She likes to run things.” “So I’ve noticed.”
Ignoring them, Cady carried a chair toward the stairs of a guesthouse. She stopped at the bottom step, eyeing the treads.
“Overambitious, too,” said Tucker, stepping around her with the chair he carried.
“Yep. And permanently cranky,” Damon added, neatly lifting the Adirondack out of Cady’s hands, ignoring her squawk of protest.
“You’re a good judge of character,” Tucker approved as they began climbing the stairs.
“It doesn’t take a genius and it doesn’t take long,” Damon said.
“You can talk about me like I’m actually here, you know.” Cady’s voice was testy as she carried up the little drinks table. “And I didn’t need you to carry that chair for me."
“You hear something?” Damon asked Tucker.
“Probably the wind in the trees.” Tucker reached the deck and set down his chair with a sigh of relief.
“Wind from somewhere,” Damon added.
“Funny, guys,” Cady said, scowling. “How’d you get to be so funny?"
“Just natural talent,” Tucker said modestly.
Chapter Seven
Hauling furniture wouldn’t have been his choice of a way to spend a couple of hours, Damon thought as he fired entrées for the staff meal, but all things considered, it hadn’t been bad. Not that he was happy to see Ian McBain sick, but schlepping chairs had been a good excuse to be outside. And to spend time with Cady.
He’d kept his distance after that afternoon in the greenhouse, in part to give her space, in part to give himself time to get his head together. He was supposed to be walking the straight and narrow now, not turning around to make the same mistakes with the same kinds of people. But Cady wasn’t quite like anybody he could think of, and he wasn’t at all sure that she was a mistake.
He finished up another plate and slid it across the steel counter under the overhead shelf to the pass where waiters picked up plates. The servers were beginning to crowd around
like cats at the sound of a can opener. Even as they were filling the butter dishes for the bread baskets and topping off salt, pepper and cream containers, they could smell the food. They knew the staff meal was near.
Staff meal or family meal was traditionally a haphazard exercise in turning leftovers and scraps not fit for diners into something vaguely edible to keep floor and kitchen staff going through service. Damon had never subscribed to that approach, though. In France, Descour had always served family meal at the table, with plates and napkins and real food. Treat the staff right and they’ll treat the customers right, was his theory. A good one. And Damon had carried it out ever since.
Of course, that didn’t mean that family meal couldn’t double as the waiters’ meeting and tasting. Especially now, when he was shifting the old menu over to the new one by a half-dozen dishes a night. The servers needed to taste the new entrées and appetizers, see how to place them on the table, know the ingredients and presentation so they could answer questions, if necessary.
With a quick flick of the wrist, he drizzled brilliant green chive oil around the last plate and pushed it over to the pass. “Okay, listen up, people. We’re still in the process of changing over the menu. Tonight, we’re launching the new seafood—“
And then Cady walked in and his train of thought didn’t just derail. It went right off the damned trestle.
He’d seen her already that day, watched her in her worn jeans and T-shirt as she’d planted flowers, moved furniture. Watched her and tried not to remember how she’d felt in his arms. But the woman who walked in wearing the uniform of white tuxedo jacket and narrow black skirt bore no resemblance to that Cady at all.
Slender, he’d no idea she was so slender. Perhaps it was the formal clothing, but she looked graceful, taller somehow. The skirt was far from short, almost demure, and yet it seemed almost indecent as it revealed a pair of startlingly lovely legs. She’d drawn her hair back with combs. There was a delicacy to her face, he saw now, one he’d never fully appreciated. Her mouth looked soft and tempting beyond all sense.
She’d kissed him with those lips, kissed him and gasped against him and spun his world right around. And though he could tell himself that he shouldn’t have done it, he wasn’t a damned bit sorry. And, he realized, he had every intention of doing it again.
Regardless of the consequences.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s talk about the new entrées for tonight."
You didn’t grow up around an inn like the Compass Rose without learning every aspect of the business—whether you wanted to or not. Working in the restaurant might have been Cady’s least favorite activity, but she’d bussed and even waited tables from the time she’d been sixteen.
So she put on the white shirt and bow tie and the tuxedo jacket in preparation for her shift. If she added lipstick and actually took a few minutes to fuss with her hair, it had nothing to do with seeing Damon. She was merely being professional, she told herself, nerves roiling her stomach as she walked into the kitchen. But the little buzz of purely female satisfaction she felt when he gave her the double take had nothing to do with professionalism.
It was strictly personal.
Given her choice, Cady would have skipped family meal. Showing up two hours before the start of dinner service ate up precious time and she didn’t trust herself around Damon any more than was absolutely necessary. Her parents had insisted, though. And now, as she stood at the end of the line and stared at the plates, she understood why.
Things had changed—the menu, for one. Gone were many of the dishes that the Sextant had served for decades. Those that remained had been reinterpreted—the baked New England dinner of seafood covered in bread crumbs had morphed into pan-seared scallops with brioche minicroutons and lemon beurre blanc, for example. And to the delight of the servers, Damon was serving the plates for family meal.
Fancy plates, Cady saw, arranged like sculptures, painted with color. Pretty enough, but it was the incredible smell wafting up from them that had her mouth watering. Of course, it had the same effect on the crowd of floor staff currently digging in with forks and knives.
“Alfred, for chrissakes, that was my hand, not the veal,” complained a tall blonde named Sylvia.
“And here I was going to tell Chef that the meat wasn’t tender,” stocky Alfred returned, shoveling a bite of roasted potatoes into