The Flirtation Game: Castle Ridge Small Town Romance Page 6

  The salmon pâté had melted in her mouth. The mushroom risotto had spread flavors across her palate. And the chocolate flourless cake had been packed with flavor.

  Quality control was her job. She tasted the dish for seasoning, texture, and temperature to make sure it was perfect before passing it to Chef for plating and final approval. The last thing they needed was a guest sending something back. Refires disrupted the flow of the kitchen.

  The head chef had enough to do. Plating, managing the tickets, and controlling the flow.

  Michael reached past her and brushed her chest.

  A zing shot from that exact spot to her core. If incidental contact had her reacting strongly, what would purposeful contact do?

  “Sorry. This kitchen is small.” His legs were wide, his back straight, getting him closer to the work.

  The warming lamps must be hotter than normal. It wasn’t her reaction to Michael standing so close. She waved her hand in front of her face. Of course, Michael was hotter than the old head chef. In several categories.

  “This is the best kitchen I’ve ever worked in.” She was awed by the work and the money Parker had put into the remodel. She knew the lodge’s financial situation wasn’t the healthiest. She’d worked here a long time, and heard the rumors. Where had he gotten the dough to make this happen?

  “A studio kitchen is so much smaller and laid out differently.” Michael picked up the next order. “Ordering…” He read out the appetizers, midcourses, and entrees.

  “Oui, Chef.” The entire staff called out.

  “How so?” She passed him the next order for plating, picking up their conversation without missing a beat.

  “No one gets in the way of each other.” He moved his elbows in an outward motion. “I’m afraid I’m going to elbow you. I’ve already crossed into your personal space.”

  He was a big, muscular man. He must lift weights or do some other type of physical activity in his off hours. She’d noticed his carved abs on New Year’s Eve. A lustful shiver rocked her body, remembering running her hands down his chest. She shook the image off.

  “Don’t worry about me.” She was used to working in close quarters, and couldn’t let his shape intimidate or confuse. The preparation was a well-choreographed dance. They’d practiced the meal several times. Still, it amazed her how well he fit into the choreography.

  Professionally and personally.

  Her body quaked again. She had to stop thinking of him in that way. No relationships. He was the competition. Her opponent.

  She organized the hot dishes on her side of the pass. What seemed like a simple four-table pickup compromised multiple pots and pans. “You’re the center of attention during your television show. That would be much different.”

  He was the center of her attention when she’d watched.

  “The sets are built in a way to present the food preparation and the talent for the cameras in the best way.” He coughed and quickly covered his mouth with his sleeve. “While a working kitchen is organized to be close and efficient.”

  “I’m sure a lot of the prep work was done offstage.” Using her toe, she slipped off one of her ballet flats with a pink bow and wiggled her toes. Not approved kitchen footwear, but much cuter than the black, plastic-looking clogs. “That would be nice.”

  Spotting her bare foot, his eyebrows flew up to the edge of his chef’s hat. “Isabel.” His sharpness should’ve warned her. His gaze swung around checking whether someone watched. “We discussed appropriate footwear. If something heavy fell on your foot you’d be injured.”

  “I haven’t had time to shop for something more appropriate. These have no heel.” She slipped her shoe back on. To distract him from her transgression, she asked, “Can you believe the second turn is fifty covers?”

  “I find it odd the second seating is less crowded than the first.” He ripped off a slip from the printer. “Ordering…”

  When he was done, the staff shouted, “Oui, Chef.”

  “We’re a ski town.” She’d forgotten how long he’d not lived in Castle Ridge. “People get up early, ski hard, and then want to eat.”

  “What about the après-ski, and late-night partying?” He moved his eyebrows up and down, suggesting she’d know about these happenings. His voice lowered and deepened, not wanting anyone else to hear, which was impossible in a kitchen with the banging pots and hissing steam and timers going off. “Do you participate?”

  “Not as much as I used to.” Her offended tone came out harsher because she was tired of drinking and dancing and flirting. Her partying days were definitely numbered. But how else was she going to meet the man of her dreams?

  Michael’s expression was one of studied concentration. His fingers were deft, arranging the food on the plate. He appeared confident, not irritatingly so. He was knowledgeable, without being overbearing. He was authoritative with the staff, and fair. Well, except for the whole not-dating thing.

  He caught her staring. “I’m pleased everything went so smoothly during the first turn.”

  Nodding, she glowered at the counter. She shouldn’t be assessing his attributes while there was work to be done. “We’re you worried?’

  “Yes,” he whispered in a confiding tone.

  Her spirits lifted. Confiding was similar to trust.

  “About the staff? We’re professionals.” Except she didn’t know Alfred well. He’d been hired in her absence.

  “I saw in the test runs. I just don’t want anyone embarrassing themselves publicly.” Michael spoke fiercely, already seeing the staff as people he needed to protect.

  Which was her job. “That’s the main purpose of my job.” She took a small bite of salmon with a taster fork. The flaky fish melted on her tongue. “Finding any embarrassing mistakes before you plate and the food goes to the customer.”

  “I meant embarrassing themselves in the kitchen.” He ripped off another slip. “Ordering…”

  “Oui, Chef.”

  Her voice was less loud than the others. She couldn’t imagine what he was talking about. A slip and fall? A knife wound? “No one sees what happens in the kitchen. We look out for each other. It’s like Las Vegas. What happens in the kitchen stays in the kitchen.”

  He paused in his actions and studied her. “If only that were true.”

  Chapter Six

  Michael took a huge breath in and let it out again. They’d done it. Their first night had been successful. The second turn was winding down. No complaints or refires. Most tables were at the dessert stage, which the pastry chef had under control.

  He might not have shown his nerves, but he’d felt it. Felt the drips of sweat gathering on his back, and felt the intensity of the night. Usually, the perspiration was caused by the bright camera lights. Tonight, it had been plain fear. His career depended on making The Heights’ re-opening a success, and making Kitchen Catastrophe a failure.

  In this kitchen, what happened in the kitchen wasn’t going to stay here unless the happenings were boring. Which was his plan.

  His career would survive. He’d go back to L.A. and pitch a new program idea about how a real grand opening or re-opening of a top notch restaurant went. Which was what he’d thought he’d signed up for.

  He’d loved working with the construction crew on the remodel, and planning the details of the design. He enjoyed training or re-training the staff. He liked putting best practices into action.

  Leaning against the pass, he watched Isabel gracefully wipe down stations, organize the remaining mise en place, and encourage the tired staff to keep moving. She understood you were only as good as your final plate. If she’d gotten the position, she would’ve made an excellent head chef.

  Guilt made acid burn in his gut. Television shows took several takes, even with a live studio audience. Cooking for a restaurant was real-time, with each portion of the meal prepared to coincide with the rest of the meal. Patrons had to be happy from their first bite to their last.

  She joked with t
he guy who had commented on her legs. His gaze strayed to her long limbs. Leaning forward, her muscular thighs contracted. The long, tight pants she wore under the chef’s coat rose higher, enticing. His pulse raced. What guy wouldn’t peek?

  He snapped his attention back to the kitchen and berated himself. He couldn’t get involved. He’d made the rule about no relationships between staff because the cameras were watching. Always watching.

  Scowling between the columns of buff white china running the length of the pass, he caught the glint off the tiny piece of glass revealing the most intrusive lens. The network had been thorough hiding the cameras. Even he didn’t know where they were all located.

  His skin prickled. He hated not knowing the details, especially since he’d been fooled. He hated the thought of exposing the staff members to ridicule if something went wrong. He hated risking Isabel’s reputation.

  “I’m going to check in with the diners. Hold down the fort. Let’s not get behind on prep work for tomorrow.”

  “Already on it.” She waved him off while wiping down a counter.

  He exited the kitchen and stopped to let his eyes adjust. The soft ambience of the dining room was so different from the harsh lights in the kitchen. The rumbling hoods and flaring flames were replaced by conversation and light jazz. The scent of the food was less intense. The air much cooler.

  Several two-tops finished dessert, too busy talking to eat. A few four-tops sitting back and drinking their wine. Most of the tables were emptying out, and many of the people moved toward the bar next to the roaring fireplace.

  The weight he’d carried all day lifted. People enjoyed the meals he and his staff had created. His shoulders rose, and he enjoyed the sense of accomplishment. It was good to cook for real people again, not a faceless television audience who never actually tasted his food.

  He strolled through the restaurant, checking on whether the last order was in. There were stragglers. The mood was festive. Many of the diners were on vacation, but he knew the food and the wine definitely contributed to their happiness.

  Stopping at a table with several couples, he asked, “How are you enjoying your dinner?”

  “The steak was excellent.” One of the men rubbed his belly.

  A woman with black hair and lots of make-up touched his arm. She gave him a practiced pout. “Are you the chef?”

  He ignored her obvious attempt to get his attention. Being on television, many women came on to him. In the beginning, he would’ve picked up on the invitation. After years of one meaningless date after another, he wanted something more. He just didn’t know where to find someone in L.A. “I am.”

  “Obviously,” the man touted. “He’s wearing a chef’s coat.”

  “You are so talented.” She sidled closer, her shoulder rubbing against his thigh.

  “Thank you.” He took a step away, trying not to get mad.

  “Leave the guy alone, Rhonda.” The first guy grabbed her hand and yanked it away.

  Waving a goodnight, he escaped from the group and continued his mission.

  His future brother-in-law sat in a booth with a blonde woman. Not Danielle. He trusted his friend, but his curiosity tipped. “Great to see you, Luke.” Michael patted his friend’s shoulder. “Where’s Danielle?”

  The woman peered at him with interest. Her perfectly-groomed blonde hair, white-not-wind-burned skin, and black business suit told him she wasn’t in town on vacation. She appeared to be strictly business.

  “Dani went home with Bri. School tomorrow.” Luke got to his feet and the two men shook hands. “Both of them enjoyed the meal and the atmosphere. They tried to sneak in the kitchen to say congratulations. You were busy.”

  Michael’s emotions dipped. He would’ve loved to have celebrated with family. What would dear old Dad have thought about his return to Castle Ridge and opening night? He probably wouldn’t have come. Just like he hadn’t come to his first television show, or his first book signing. Despair swept through him. He’d worked hard to prove his father wrong.

  “Dani and Bri didn’t want to stay for a boring business meeting.” Luke intruded on the negative thoughts.

  Michael put on his charming-chef act. The one he reserved for network executives and celebrity diners. “How could business be boring with such a lovely companion?”

  The woman arched her brows in an amused expression, seeing through his bull. Maybe he was losing his touch. Or his desire to flirt.

  “Let me introduce you to Vivienne Tucker. She’s my agent.”

  He shook hands with her. “Similar to a business manager?”

  She regarded him with professional interest. “We do a lot of the same things.”

  He regarded Luke. “Didn’t realize you still needed an agent. I thought you were retired.”

  “I have a couple of commitments.” He didn’t appear happy about them. “And Vivienne will keep track of royalties and commissions for years to come.”

  His confidence in her made Michael’s own situation sour. “Must be nice to have someone you trust.”

  “Is that derision I hear?” She sounded interested. Her nose for business must smell his stinky situation.

  “My business manager and I parted ways.” His mind clicked through his prospects. He needed someone on his side who was reliable and trustworthy. “What type of clients do you represent?”

  Vivienne pulled out a card from her bag. “If you’re looking, I might be able to help. I’ve got a few television personality clients.”

  He angled his head. She knew who he was. “Now’s not the right time. I’ve got more work in the kitchen.”

  “I’m only in town for a few days. I’d be interested in hearing how you ended up here.”

  Her inquisitiveness jolted. She expected a sad tale, not a stupid one. A tale he really didn’t want to divulge. “That would take hours.”

  “I’m a night owl.” Her keen gaze assessed. “If it’s okay with Luke, I’d love to meet with you after our dinner and you’re done working.”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “We’re done with our business.” Luke’s obliging tone displayed his approval.

  “I’ll be at the bar waiting.” Her confident smile reassured Michael. If she could get him out of this contract and out of Castle Ridge, he’d hire her on the spot.

  “I should get going.” He waved in the general direction of the kitchen. “Tell Danielle and Bri I said hi.”

  “Tell them yourself.” Luke’s stern frown awakened the acid in Michael’s stomach. “Dani has been trying to get you to come for dinner since you arrived in town.”

  “I’ve been a busy with the remodel and getting the menus set.” The acid rose. He’d been avoiding his sister because she could always tell when something was wrong. They’d had coffee and she’d stop by the kitchen to say hi. Any private, in-depth conversations he’d avoided.

  “Your first night is under your belt; you should have more time now.” Luke used his got-you voice.

  Michael had to face the inevitable. She was his sister, and he wanted to spend time with her and his niece. He just didn’t want his sister digging for secrets. “Tell Danielle I’ll be there on Sunday.”

  “Don’t disappoint her.”

  After promising he’d be there, he headed back into the kitchen. The other staff were cleaning, including cutting the gas feeds and shutting off the warming lamps. They’d pulled up the black carpet runners and shook off the crumbs. The end of the evening had him realizing how tired he was. It had been an excellent first night, and without Isabel’s help, he never would’ve made it through with confidence.

  Uneasiness scraped, as if a cheese grater slid down his spine. It must’ve been difficult for her to accept him. Yet, she’d been a trooper the last couple of days, and his right-hand woman. He appreciated and enjoyed the ease of their coordination and communication. He also appreciated her easygoing attitude, her efficiency, and her laughter.

  Laughter that quieted his nerves and spiral
ed tendrils of desire down his spine.

  Not seeing her, he nodded to the staff and headed into his office.

  Isabel sat with her shoes off and her feet on the desk. Reading the orders, she twirled her hair around her finger like she did in high school when she’d been studying.

  Strange how he remembered specific things about her and no one else. The scraping on his spine grew louder.

  She rubbed her foot again and noticed him standing at the door. “Michael. I mean, Chef.” She stumbled to her feet. “I was checking orders for tomorrow.”

  “Sit down.” He motioned for her to sit and moved beside the desk. “Michael is fine when no one’s around.” Bending down, he picked up her bare foot. Her pinched toes were red and lines marred the skin on the sides. Why did woman torture themselves? “Those flat shoes have no support. Your feet must hurt.”

  “No.”

  Ignoring her denial, he used the heel of his hand to rub the arch of her delicate foot. She moaned and the sound shot straight to his loins. He could imagine other ways to make her moan.

  “So your feet don’t hurt?” He teased. “I’ll stop.” He went to set her foot back on the floor.

  “Nooo.” Another moan.

  He wished she was moaning the word yes and to a completely different question.

  No fraternization. He’d have to have the saying tattooed on his forehead.

  Using his thumb and forefinger, he kneaded her soft skin. The flesh gathered and stretched. Caressing her skin, he held back a moan of his own.

  “That feels good.” She trilled with pleasure on the last word.

  “Working in a kitchen in anything but appropriate shoes is dangerous.” He couldn’t change his rules because her feet were pretty. Lecturing and pampering her at the same time was a new sensation. The push and pull sensation of conflict excited.

  “Kitchen clogs are so ugly. Plain black and rubbery.” Her voice grew softer. Her body lay in the chair, completely relaxed.

  He wanted to inch up her ankle to her calf, to her thigh. Even higher. He could cajole her with his caresses. Make her feel good in an entirely different way. Rules flew out of his head.