.
messages and got sidetracked with an attached article in an email. His beer came, and shortly after, his salad arrived, which tasted better than any he’d ever had from Rita. Changing up the dressings turned out to be a great idea. Or maybe the improvement had something to do with using fresh spring greens other than iceberg and romaine?
When his main course arrived, plated like nothing he’d ever seen at The Drumcliffe before—the perfectly medium rare tenderloin was sliced and balanced on an oval mound of brown and crisp sliced potatoes, and topped with mustard sauce and fresh parsley—where had they found the new chef?
Half-starved, he dug right in, deciding to leave the questions for after dinner. Wow, was his mouth happy about that decision. Several times he sat straight, purposely slowing down his chewing to savor the flavors and tenderness of the meat. And Abby was right about the potatoes. They tasted like a little piece of starch-and-butter heaven, with a hint of cheese. They were so good they had to be bad for him.
“What do you think?” His mother appeared at his booth. She seemed to be primped up more than usual for the Saturday night crowd, her natural red hair cut just below her earlobes, parted on the side in a classic style, her green eyes sparkling like she had a big secret. Wearing beige slacks and a top nearly the same color as her eyes, Maureen Delaney slid into the booth across from him.
He shook his head, smiled with sealed lips because his cheeks were crammed full of the delicious food. He swallowed half of it. “Best meal I’ve ever had here. Ever had anywhere.”
Maureen grinned, seeming to enjoy watching him eat as if she’d cooked it herself. When his plate was scraped clean, he pushed it away.
“My compliments to the chef. That was, hands down, the best meal I’ve ever tasted.”
“Ever?” Obviously surprised, she gave a relieved smile.
“Ever. And you can tell whoever replaced Rita, I said so.”
Maureen sat still, weighing her thoughts. “Why don’t you tell her, yourself?”
He had thoroughly enjoyed his meal, and they’d obviously hired someone who knew what she was doing. With him being out of the loop and chronically busy with work, just like he’d missed Rita’s last day, he’d probably missed the new employee newsflash, too. Who read hotel memos, when he had to read hundreds a day at work?
He understood the value of a good chef and a compliment for a new and nervous cook would probably go far, so he agreed. “Okay.”
Conor finished his beer and headed for the hotel kitchen, aware his mother stayed behind at the booth. Grinning, and ready to do his good deed for the day, he barreled through the door to the busy and hectic kitchen. “That was the best dinner I’ve ever had. My compliments to the chef!”
He scanned the activity and zeroed in on the area of the stove, to a petite female in a double-breasted pink chef jacket with gray cuffs and a matching slate chef beret, her short light brown hair barely sticking out from beneath. At the sight, a sudden ball of emotion wound tight and rolled from his chest to his overly stuffed stomach, then dropped to his knees, locking them, and he came to a dead stop.
Shelby. Lyn. Brookes. Turned out the new chef was the woman who’d not only broken, but ripped out, stepped on and chucked his heart into the ocean exactly two years, seven months and three weeks ago. Not that he was counting.
She looked as stunned as he was. Busy juggling various dishes at the eight-burner stove, obviously flustered, her hand slipped, spilling a bottle of something that looked like whiskey over a thick and quickly grilling steak, and onto the gas flames. A fire flashed, like a magic trick going awry, and she jumped back, her previous rattled expression turning to pure fear. She squealed as a blanket of smoke covered her, and he sprung to action.
Being in a job like his, one filled with surprises and challenges, and having grown up in and around the hotel kitchen, he wasn’t dealing with his first fire. Conor had the presence of mind to locate, rip from the wall and use the extinguisher over the flaming steak and burners, putting out the fire in record time...at the expense of a prime cut of meat and a few other meats grilling nearby. At least he’d avoided the blare of a fire alarm. He kept the most unexpected and unwelcomed meeting with the new hotel chef between him and her, and, oh, the startled restaurant crew...who all stood around with mouths agape and eyes wide.
* * *
Shelby couldn’t believe what’d just happened, or the fact Conor Delaney had put out the fire she’d started. Because of him!
She knew she’d have to face him at some point when she’d applied for and accepted the job offer from Mark Delaney. Her choices were nil back east and she needed to regroup before moving on. Now here she was facing down the guy she’d left behind. The guy she’d betrayed. The guy she used to love like no other.
And setting a fire.
Why did he have to come for dinner on her very first night at The Drumcliffe?
Seeing Conor, the sweetest person she’d ever known, all grown up and devastatingly good-looking in that deputy sheriff’s uniform, she’d lost control of her hands. It didn’t help that she was overcome with a huge surge of guilt. Good thing he’d had the sense to grab the fire extinguisher.
Conor set the empty extinguisher on the stainless-steel counter, leveled her with a haunting stare, reminding her how careless she’d been with their promise, then left without a word.
Maureen showed up. “You okay? Everyone okay?”
Shaken, Shelby gave a nod. Her sous-chef began tossing the fried meat and ruined food into the trash. The kitchen cleanup crew—one mature woman from housekeeping looking for extra shifts—took over from there.
Maureen draped her arm over Shelby’s shoulders. “No burns? You sure you’re okay?”
“I just need a minute. I’ll make up for this.” She couldn’t lose her job, not on her first night. She had dinners to cook, people to feed. A reputation to save.
“I know you can,” Maureen said with a sympathetic gaze.
Rather than stand there shaking, Shelby jumped back to work, and while she did, her mind worked overtime.
Slapped-down by life, and now a devout realist, she knew the only way to make her dreams of becoming a great chef come true was to start small, to prove herself, work her way up from there, then one day run her own first-rate NYC kitchen. Not to depend on anyone but herself. Maybe, if she worked hard enough, she could put The Drumcliffe Restaurant on the map in Central Coast California. But not if she burned the place down first!
Grabbing a fresh pan, she chose another prize cut of beef, seasoned and buttered it before placing it on the cleaned grill. “Abby?” She called over the waitress who’d ordered the steak. “Please give a complimentary appetizer to your table for the wait, but let them know their meal will be right out, okay?”
The waitress gave a smiling agreement, grabbed a large prong shrimp appetizer from the iced waiting bin and left.
Sure Shelby knew her new job almost certainly guaranteed she’d see Conor. Mark had warned her Conor still lived at the hotel when he’d hired her, and realizing it would be inevitable, she’d been prepared. But man-oh-man, she was anything but when Conor had walked into her kitchen.
Instead of quitting on the spot, she was determined to prove that after all those years in New York, she hadn’t wasted her training in culinary school. She belonged in this kitchen. But seeing Conor immediately reminded her how much she used to care for him, and the fact he was a living, breathing heartthrob hadn’t helped a bit. He seemed to have just kept on growing, looking larger than life. And handsome, oh, momma, was he handsome.
Here she was at twenty-nine, still trying to hit her stride, find her place in the world, and he was obviously a grown-up, dependable, responsible man in uniform. The polar opposite of all the other men in her life since leaving Sandpiper Beach.
She flipped the steak, doused it in seasoned butter and