Brunch at Bittersweet Café Page 12

  * * *

  Her calm conviction lasted as long as it took to get ready the next evening. She’d have liked to pretend that she pulled the first thing her fingers touched out of the closet and put it on, but the truth was, she began planning her outfit when she woke at 2 p.m. and didn’t make a final selection until a quarter to six, when she had to either choose something or show up at the door naked. Somehow she figured the latter might give him the wrong idea of her intentions.

  The weather had swung back to the warm side of the thermometer, presenting them a string of sixty-degree days and melting all but the largest snow piles in the corners of streets and parking lots. As soon as the sun went down, the temperature would rapidly drop thirty or forty degrees, but at least she only needed to give a nod toward the weather rather than bundle herself up head to toe.

  She finally settled on a pair of black skinny jeans and a loose-cut black T-shirt beneath an Aztec-patterned cream-and-black blanket cardigan. Ankle boots and a floppy felt hat completed the outfit. It was cute but casual, stylish without trying too hard. Comfortable. Unpressured.

  Who was she kidding? She’d spent two hours doing her hair and makeup. “Comfortable and unpressured” was the last thing she would call herself.

  She was about to change her clothes again when the buzzer on the intercom rang. She moved quickly to the door and pressed the button. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. Can I come up?”

  “Sure. Number six. But you already knew that or we wouldn’t be talking on the intercom.” She let go of the button and banged her head against the doorframe. Brilliant.

  His laugh came over the speaker. “Then buzz me up.”

  Shaking her head at her own idiocy, Melody pressed the button that would release the latch on the front door and went to find her handbag, a tan leather satchel that could fit half of her earthly possessions. By the time the knock came at the door, she had pulled herself together.

  At least she’d made the right wardrobe decision. Justin was wearing a light sweater under his shearling coat with a pair of dark jeans and boots, his hair artfully mussed, a day’s growth on his jaw.

  He looked her over with open admiration. “You look great.” His attention transferred to her surroundings. “Wow, this place is amazing! You’d never guess from outside.”

  “Being inspired is better than keeping my security deposit.”

  He wandered around the room, hands in his coat pockets. “You did all this yourself?”

  Melody trailed him, looking at the decor through his eyes. “For the most part. The furniture is either thrift store finds or curbside cast-offs that I refinished. I did have the Louis XVI settee professionally reupholstered. It’s just a reproduction, but it was too complicated to do myself.”

  “Impressive. And here I was congratulating myself for buying a sofa that wasn’t black leather. I didn’t even give in to the call of recliners.”

  Melody laughed. “It was worth the effort. Your place reads more gentleman bachelor than aging frat boy.”

  “Thanks. I think.” He stopped in front of her bookshelf. “This is your collection?”

  “This is a quarter of my collection. My bedroom is lined with bookshelves.” She cleared her throat before he could ask to see them . . . or not. “Should we go?”

  He pulled his hands from his pockets and checked his watch. “I guess we should. Our reservation is at 6:15.”

  Melody nodded and grabbed her purse, then locked her apartment door behind them. “Where are we going?”

  “Have you ever been to Soyokaze?”

  “I went there with Rachel when it opened and haven’t been there since. The food’s great.”

  “And here I thought I was going to surprise you.”

  Melody smiled, her earlier nervousness melting away. “Between Rachel and me, we’ve either worked for, met, or eaten the food of every chef in Denver. But I admire your taste. It’s a very good restaurant.”

  “Thank you for throwing me a bone.” He held the front door open for her, then led her down the walkway to the street where his Mustang sat. In the waning light, she now saw the car was charcoal gray with black racing stripes, reflecting back the pink-orange rays of sunset. No worse for the wear after its adventure, apparently. He unlocked the passenger door and held it open for her. Nice. What a change to go out with a gentleman.

  Justin circled to the driver’s side, giving Melody a moment to inspect the interior. It had a stripped-down, hard-edged masculine quality, all black upholstery and shiny silver accents. It was every bit as neat as his apartment, not a speck of dust on the dash, not a single stray leaf or smudge of dirt on the floor mats.

  She watched him approach the driver’s side, trying to reconcile all the disparate things she knew about him. The jet career, the flashy classic car—both suggested he’d have an ego to match. He certainly had plenty of confidence. And yet he was also kind, calm, and courteous. Which side was an act?

  He climbed in the driver’s seat and stuck the key in the ignition. “Tell me the truth: What do you think?”

  She felt her cheeks heat before she realized he was talking about the car. “It’s gorgeous. You did all of the work?”

  “Mostly. I had the upholstery done by a pro and some parts rebuilt by the factory. Like you, I know when to leave things to the experts.” He flashed her a quick smile as he pulled away from the curb with a throaty rumble of the engine. “I always intended to turn it around, but when I was done, I couldn’t part with it.”

  “That’s a relief. You were starting to strike me as disturbingly practical.”

  “Not entirely. Though I did remember to check the weather forecast before I left tonight. Wouldn’t want you to have to rescue yourself this time.”

  “It would be the most exciting thing to happen this week. The most variety I’ve had was having to reduce the water in my doughs to compensate for the humidity.”

  “At least the bar is set low. Makes it easy on me.” He threw her a mischievous look before his eyes went back to the road, and she found herself smiling.

  She liked this guy. A lot.

  When they got to the restaurant, he once again did the chivalrous thing and opened the car door for her, holding out his hand to help her out of the low-slung seat. His fingers closed around hers and held them for a second; then he swept his hand in the direction of the restaurant down the block. It was a former auto garage in an untrendy residential neighborhood in Stapleton, complete with the original glass-inset roll-up door.

  “You’d never know this was here, would you?”

  “Proof the food is excellent,” Melody said. “If you can survive tucked away here, you can survive anywhere.”

  Justin held the door open for her and then gave his name to the hostess, who grabbed two menus and led them to a small table in the corner. Despite the plain commercial exterior, the inside was moody and atmospheric, with the original brick walls, dark paint, concrete floors, and an abundance of quirky lighting. It had changed since the last time she’d been here, more on trend, and she instantly liked it.

  Their server approached as soon as they were seated, a tall, tattooed guy with a sleek ponytail and a nice smile. “Welcome to Soyokaze. I’m Donovan. Can I get you something to drink while you look at the menu?”

  “I’ll have some ice water and a glass of Kubota,” Melody said.

  “And you, sir?”

  “Water for now, thanks.” As soon as the server left, Justin leaned forward across his folded arms and said, “Tell me you didn’t just order sake by name.”

  “I did. You’re not going to have anything?”

  “Not tonight. I’ve got an early flight, and my contract states twelve hours bottle-to-throttle.”

  “I’ve never heard that term before. But I guess I’d feel better knowing my pilot hadn’t been drinking. Do you always follow the rules to the letter?” The question came out with a tinge of flirtation.

  He smiled. “Always.”

&nb
sp; “Why?”

  “Because I like my job. Because there are good reasons for the rules, especially when it has to do with my passengers’ safety, not to mention my own and the plane’s.” He cocked his head and studied her. “I take it you’re not much of a rule follower.”

  “I wouldn’t quite say that. It’s more that I see them as guidelines that should be followed where possible. It’s just not always possible. You should be glad I’m not such a stickler or I would never have let you in.”

  Justin chuckled. “But you’re a baker. Isn’t that precise? All chemistry and physics? Unalterable natural laws?”

  “Well, I’m never going to make water boil higher than 202 degrees at this altitude, however convenient it would be. But everything else is negotiable. You change one thing, you compensate with others. It’s all about manipulating the environment to get a desired outcome.” She pegged him with a stare. “And don’t start reading into that. We were talking about baking.”

  “Somehow I have a feeling that isn’t limited to baking.” Now that definitely had a flirtatious sound to it. “Considering how persuasive you are, I’m surprised you haven’t convinced the bakery to let you take over the place.”

  “I might not need to.”

  “Oh?”

  “Rachel and I are opening a restaurant together.”

  Before he could respond, Donovan returned with Melody’s sake and a bottle filled with ice water to share. “Are you ready to order?”

  Justin looked down at his menu as if seeing it for the first time. “I haven’t looked yet.”

  Melody took it out of his hand and handed both to the server. “We’ll let the chef choose for us tonight.”

  “We will?”

  She smiled at him and looked back to Donovan. “We will.”

  The server seemed amused at Justin’s bafflement. “Very well.”

  Justin leaned forward and pitched his voice low. “He better not bring me something that’s still alive.”

  “Oh, relax. When you let the chef choose, you get the best thing on the menu . . . or even off the menu. I’ve known them to make something special when they aren’t busy, just because they can. You do eat fish heads, don’t you?”

  Justin’s eyes widened, and Melody broke into laughter again. “Sorry, I’m kidding. I promise.”

  “You’re mean.”

  “Just testing to see how adventurous you are,” she said.

  “I’m pretty adventurous, but I draw the line at things that can look back at me.” Justin folded his hands. “Now, did I imagine it, or did you just say you and Rachel are opening a restaurant?”

  A twinge of insecurity bit into Melody’s insides. “Is that so hard to believe?”

  “No, but a week ago, you were talking about it like a distant dream, and now you’re doing it. How did that happen?”

  Melody shrugged, still self-conscious. “I admit, it did come about fast. But my grandmother was very specific about me using my inheritance to follow my dreams, and this has always been my dream, so . . .”

  “You’re gutsier than I gave you credit for.”

  Something in his tone gave Melody pause. “You think it’s too risky?”

  “You already know it’s risky. I’m just impressed. Most people say they want something, but when they’re presented with the opportunity, they’re too scared or set in their ways to take it. I admire the fact you’re going for it.”

  The look on his face as he leaned back in his chair, a mixture of fascination and respect as if she were suddenly the mesmerizing, adventurous one, made her heart drum against her ribs. She averted her eyes and fiddled with her flatware, suddenly not sure what to do with her hands, while she scrambled for a new topic.

  “Tell me the craziest thing that’s ever happened on a flight.”

  That look vanished, and she could breathe again. “Passenger-wise or pilot-wise?”

  “Both.”

  Justin thought for a second, then launched into a story about a time he was ferrying a married couple between their home in Connecticut and their house on Nantucket. “At some point in flight, the wife figured out the husband was having an affair, and she clocked him with a decanter. So they’re literally rolling around on the floor of the jet, the wife screaming obscenities the entire time. Since I was acting as the F/O on that flight, I had to get up and physically break them apart. Then the husband took a swing at me for putting my hands on his wife. . . .”

  “What happened?” Melody asked, simultaneously fascinated and aghast.

  “I had a black eye for a week. And the worst thing is, I couldn’t hit him because he was an owner. Not for long, though. He was ‘encouraged’ to sell his shares by management in return for me not pressing assault charges. My copilot was ticked because while I was restraining the idiots in the cabin, he had to be on an oxygen mask in the cockpit. And then there was the matter of getting blood out of the carpet before the next leg.”

  “No, really?”

  He held up a hand. “Scout’s honor. I am a whiz with a carpet cleaner when the situation calls for it.”

  Melody laughed. He kept surprising her. “Why do you do it, then? If you flew for an airline, you wouldn’t have to deal with crazy passengers and carpet cleaning.”

  He smiled. “You sound like my dad.”

  “Not pleased you didn’t follow in his footsteps?”

  “Nah, he just started back when airline pilots were treated like gods. Doesn’t understand why I’d want to be a ‘glorified limo driver.’ His words, not mine.”

  “That seems a little harsh.”

  Justin shot her a mischievous look. “I tell him at least I’m driving a limo. He’s driving a bus. It’s in the name.”

  It sounded like he had a good relationship with his dad if they could joke around like that. If she tried something like that with her mom . . . well, she’d never try that with her mom. Melody could barely breathe without offending Janna as it was.

  “Why do you do it?” he asked. “The bad hours and the hard work and, you implied, low pay?”

  “Because I love what I do. I love baking bread especially, because even though it’s the simplest, most basic form of nourishment, when it’s done right, it’s a revelation.”

  “Almost biblical,” he teased.

  “Exactly. And then on the pastry side, it’s an utter indulgence. No one needs dessert. People order it to celebrate special occasions or to brighten up a bad day. And there’s nothing better than seeing the delight on a guest’s face when they order something unexpectedly whimsical or taste something that’s better than they could have imagined.”

  “That’s a good answer.”

  Melody raised her water glass. “To good answers for difficult jobs.”

  He clinked his own glass to hers. “Cheers.”

  Almost as if he’d been waiting for the lull in the conversation, Donovan returned to the table with two bowls, both heaped with noodles and seafood, balancing a third plate on his forearm. “Tonight we have for each of you an udon bowl with mushroom dashi and halibut collar, topped with crispy fried shallots. These are soft steamed pork-belly bao with scallions and ginger to share. Enjoy.”

  Melody smiled at Justin. “No eyeballs in sight. You first.”

  Justin picked up his chopsticks—expertly, she noted—and levered some of the udon into his mouth. His eyebrows flew up. He dipped a spoon into the bowl of broth and sighed at his first sip. “That’s really good.”

  “Go ahead and say it.”

  “You were right. Melody Johansson, will you be my culinary guide from here on out?”

  Melody threw her head back and laughed. “Okay, smart aleck. I deserved that.”

  Justin smiled and went back to his meal, and Melody dug into hers. It was every bit as good as the rapturous look on his face had suggested, and she was quite sure this wasn’t on the menu. Score one for insider knowledge.

  As the night wore on and went from supper to a dessert of strong coffee and daifuku, mochi
balls filled with fruit-flavored cream, the conversation turned into a good-natured contest to tell the best story. Justin told tales of unruly passengers, unexpected weather, and even an emergency landing because of a small fire on his jet. Melody countered with stories of being lost in foreign cities, having to fill in for a pastry chef when she was still barely competent as an assistant, and a small fire in one of her ovens. And then she decided to pull out the big guns.

  “I sang in the Grand Ole Opry.”

  Justin blinked at her. “What?”

  Melody nodded. “I was twelve. Touring with my mother. She was a guest performer, and she pulled me up on stage to sing a duet.”

  “No kidding.” Justin looked fascinated. “I didn’t know you could sing.”

  Melody lowered her voice. “That’s the thing. I can’t. It was a total disaster. Somehow my mom missed the fact that what was cute when I was eight was no longer cute when I was a pimply, awkward almost-teenager.”

  Justin cringed and covered his eyes with his hands. “Oh, that’s just painful. Did you disappear afterwards?”

  “I tried, but of course it made the newspapers. Most of the reporters were kind because I was just a kid, but a few made snide comments about how I was certainly not going to follow in her footsteps.” Melody sighed. The memory no longer held embarrassment, just the recollection of how out of touch her mother had been with anything but her own life. Still was, for that matter.

  “So you know I have to ask—who is your mom anyway? She’d have to be a big deal to sing at the Opry. Would I know her?”

  “You’d know her. Her publicist makes sure of that. As far as who she is . . .” Melody shrugged. “Beats me. At this point, I doubt she even knows herself.”

  It was a dodge, but the last thing Melody wanted to do was insert her mom any further into what had been a thoroughly enjoyable night out. The thoughtful look came back to Justin’s eyes, and then he deliberately folded his napkin and set it beside his plate. “You win. That is definitely the best story of the night.”

  Melody caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “What do I win, exactly?”

  Something intense lit in his blue eyes, setting the jitters back in her midsection. Her fault, because she had stirred it up. She didn’t feel sorry.