The Saturday Night Supper Club Read online

  He watched her from the corner of his eye as they walked back to her car. She radiated contentment with her string bag of vegetables and sugary fingers. He didn’t believe it was because of his presence. Had the supper club given her a sense of purpose? She seemed so far from the guarded, suspicious woman he’d confronted at the food truck pod, he had a hard time believing she was the same person.

  “Thanks for letting me come along,” he said when they reached their parking space. “That was fun. Got me out of my writing cave for a while.”

  “Thanks for the company. You make a good farmers’ market wingman. Maybe I’ll take you along next time.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  They fell into another comfortable silence on the way back to Union Station, one that this time he was loath to break with idle conversation until she pulled up behind his car in a paid corner lot.

  “I’ll call you when I have a menu. Maybe we should meet at the end of this week to talk about the decor and the service and all that?”

  “Absolutely. Just let me know.” He smiled at her and climbed out of the car with an odd sense of loss. “Friday morning maybe.”

  “You’re on.” Rachel gave him a little wave and watched until he reached his car, then backed her way out of the tight lot.

  Alex shook himself. Rachel was the last person he should be interested in romantically right now. But the feeling of longing in his chest was suspiciously familiar as he drove to his empty condo, parked, rode the elevator up to the top level.

  He sat down at his computer in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows and began to type. The writing that flowed out of him, however, was something that he could never publish.

  For one thing, it didn’t contain even a hint of cynicism. And for another, it revealed far too much of his interest in a beautiful stranger.

  Chapter Fifteen

  SHE HAD TOO MUCH FOOD.

  Rachel scanned the contents of her countertop, taking stock of how long it would take her to eat this herself. A plateful of different amuse-bouche. Two versions of the scallop salad, each with minute but important changes that affected the perception of the overall dish. Two vats of flavored ices, swelled to gargantuan proportions by the constant tweaking and addition of ingredients. And now she was contemplating a tray of raw lamb chops and some quail, wondering how she could possibly justify cooking these when there weren’t enough hours in the day to eat it all. It felt like a waste, of both time and money.

  She’d already called Melody and Ana. An equipment emergency in the bakery had doubled Melody’s shift while she tried to batch bread in and out of the single working oven. Ana was equally occupied with a publicity nightmare involving a married celebrity and some compromising photos, an all-hands-on-deck sort of call from the head of the firm even though it wasn’t her client. So that left . . .

  Alex.

  She glanced at the clock in her kitchen, saw that the hands were edging past four on a Friday afternoon. No doubt he would be getting ready to go out for the evening, as someone like him did. Though technically she didn’t know him well enough to know what kind of someone he was. It was that uncertainty, and the conviction that she had misinterpreted the moments between them at the farmers’ market last weekend, that had prevented her from calling and setting up the meeting they’d discussed.

  But now, faced with the proposition of wasting all this food, her natural frugality won out. She dialed.

  Alex picked up on the third ring. “Rachel, hello!”

  He didn’t sound like she was interrupting anything. And the fact she was trying to gauge that by his voice showed exactly how far back she’d moved toward high school crushes. Not that she had a particularly large body of experience in that quarter.

  “I’m sitting here with a kitchen full of experiments and everyone’s busy. I don’t suppose you might be free, would you?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, a note of teasing in his voice. “Considering I seem to be the last resort.”

  Rachel flushed. “You know I didn’t mean it like that. I just thought . . . I figured you’d have plans.”

  He chuckled, and she relaxed. He was going to let her off the hook. “As luck would have it, my plans for tonight got pushed back. I would be happy to come over and help rid you of the excess experiments, as sketchy as that sounds.”

  “I promise, they are all edible. Actually, they’re all good. I could use some help deciding which ones should go on the menu.”

  “I’ll be right over, then. If you’re ready. Text me your address?”

  That’s right. She’d been to his place, but he didn’t have any idea where she lived. “I’ll do that right now.” She texted Alex her address, then got to work on the lamb and quail, both of which would take time in the oven. By the time they worked their way through the other courses, the meat should be rested and ready to serve.

  Then she looked down at herself.

  Beneath her apron, her cutoffs and skimpy tank top, chosen because of the heat in her un–air-conditioned kitchen, probably sent the wrong message. She pulled the apron over her head and tossed it on the table, then hightailed it back to her bedroom to put on something more conservative. Unfortunately, conservative didn’t necessarily mean nice: her wardrobe was decidedly circa-2005 with a strong concert tee vibe, ironic since she’d been too busy working to actually attend any of those concerts. She pulled on a pair of comfortably faded and worn jeans and a rumpled chambray button-down, the sleeves of which she automatically rolled back. Good enough. He was coming for the food and not for her anyway.

  Even so, she ducked into the bathroom, brushed her hair, and put it up into a reasonably neat knot at the top of her head. It was far more relaxed than her usual restaurant chignon, which she sprayed and combed into submission. While she was at it, it couldn’t hurt to put on a little face powder and mascara and lip gloss. Just enough to make it look like she hadn’t been sweating over the stove all day, but not enough to make it look like she was dressing up for him.

  Which, let’s face it, she totally was.

  She did a quick sweep of her house, making sure she hadn’t left anything embarrassing out: straightened magazines on the end table, collected a half-filled mug of tea, picked up the pair of socks she’d pulled off when she’d slipped on her kitchen clogs. She might as well start brewing a pitcher of tea in case Alex wanted something stronger than water. She didn’t drink soda, and besides her usual pot of coffee in the morning, she lived on the citrus-infused water that she stored in a jug in the refrigerator.

  Rachel was beginning to think Alex wasn’t coming when the doorbell rang. She strode to the door and yanked it open, her lips lifting into a smile. He stood there, far better dressed than the occasion called for, with a glass bottle in each hand and a third in the crook of his elbow. A set of keys dangled precariously from his fingers.

  “There you are,” she said. “You found it okay?”

  “I vacillated between the wine choices too long,” he said. “And then I decided to bring them both.”

  Rachel chuckled and took the one from his elbow. “A pinot gris. Perfect with the scallops. What’s the other?”

  “Sangiovese,” he said, holding it up.

  “You must have been peeking through my window. That will go well with the main courses.”

  “Courses, plural?”

  “I told you I’m still deciding.” She stepped aside and waved him in, then shut the door behind him. “What’s the third?”

  “Small-batch ginger beer. Nonalcoholic.” At her surprised look, he shrugged. “You weren’t drinking at Rhino Crash or Equity. I thought maybe you didn’t.”

  “You thought right.” She looked at him, marveling that he’d been so observant, then indicated he should follow her to the kitchen.

  He lifted his face and sniffed appreciatively. “Everything smells good. Can’t we serve it all?”

  “If you like everything, we can save some for next time. We are planning more
than one of these, aren’t we?”

  “That would be completely up to you.” He looked around. “What can I do?”

  She nudged him toward the shelf next to the sink. “Grab some wineglasses and open the white and the ginger beer. I’ll start putting things on the table.”

  He did as she asked, seemingly unconcerned with the directive to poke around her kitchen. Which was one of the reasons she liked the open shelving. Not only did it mimic the flow of her commercial kitchen, but it let guests help themselves without feeling like they were snooping around her private spaces.

  “Flatware?”

  “Drawer on the other side of the sink.”

  “Done.” He brushed by her on her way back from the refrigerator, his fingers trailing against her lower back as he squeezed by. The touch, even unintentional and absentminded, lit her up like a gas flame.

  It might be a long night after all.

  * * *

  Rachel’s place wasn’t what Alex expected, but he should have. From the outside, it was another slightly dilapidated Victorian of the type that dominated the Cheesman and City Park neighborhoods, the ones that remained having been either restored or converted into multi-unit properties. It needed a new coat of paint, and the original porch was sagging too much to claim structural integrity, but from the minute she opened the door, it was like getting a glimpse into her psyche.

  The interior was almost painfully orderly, decorated in an eclectic bohemian-industrial-vintage sort of vibe that he suspected was more out of utility than any desire to align with the current fads. From the front entry, he glimpsed a living room furnished with a dark-green velvet sofa set on a faded Persian rug. A stack of magazines had slumped against a glass lamp on a metal table that could have come from either West Elm or a local garage sale. Hard to tell.

  The kitchen, he saw as he followed her into her domain, was immaculate. Not nearly as “professional” as he might have anticipated, but clearly as scrubbed and sterile as a hospital. A green vintage refrigerator occupied a space by the back door in contrast to a gleaming stainless-steel cooktop and hood. Battered wood shelving carried around the entire space, holding an eclectic collection of white restaurant-style dishes, pans in steel and copper, and a mismatched set of glasses and stemware. For someone who didn’t drink, she had a remarkable variety of wineglasses.

  All in all, it was exactly what he should have expected of her—functional, vaguely stylish, and entirely unfussy.

  He collected glasses and silverware and opened the bottle of white wine for himself, then sat at one side of a long, scarred table while Rachel took out plates and bowls and pots from the refrigerator. She then began plating the various salads with as much care as she might in her own restaurant.

  He’d never thought that watching a chef at work would be sexy.

  Of course most chefs weren’t as effortlessly beautiful as this one, bent over the countertop as she dressed and garnished greens, tendrils of hair that had escaped from her bun falling against her neck. It made him want to trail a finger across that skin before tucking the hair into her knot.

  And from what he knew of Rachel, she might break his finger if he tried it.

  “All right, these are the options for the amuse-bouche. On the night of the actual event, I would bring one of these out first, one per person.” She produced a platter upon which three different composed bites were placed, evenly spaced down to the millimeter. “There’s crab with avocado and lemon crème fraîche on a sesame cracker. Chicken liver mousse with caramelized onions and apples. And Ana and Melody’s favorite, asparagus and leek on a Parmesan crisp.”

  Alex tasted them one by one, clearing his palate with a glass of ice water between bites. They were stunning. That was the only way to put it. Little bursts of unexpected flavor on his tongue, just enough to make him wonder what else she had in store. That was the point, he knew—a sneak peek into the chef’s world, something to build anticipation for what was to come.

  “So . . . ?” Rachel hovered by the table, her arms crossed in front of her and one fist pressed to her lips.

  He leaned back in his chair and considered the empty plate. “I don’t know. They were all amazing.”

  “You don’t have to be nice. I really want to know. This is your dinner party, remember?”

  “No, I’m being serious. They’re all different. If I had to narrow it down, I would say either the crab or the asparagus mousse. The Parmesan crisp is fantastic.”

  “Okay, that’s three votes for the asparagus, then. Give me a couple of minutes on the salads.” She swept away the platter and placed it in the sink, then put a pan on the cooktop and cranked up the flame while she took out a covered plate of scallops from the fridge.

  He pushed back his chair and crept up behind her, not sure why he felt so curious. She carefully placed each of the scallops in the hot oil in the pan, sending up a hiss and a sizzle. He had to resist the urge to touch her again while she didn’t know he was there, instead linking his hands behind his back.

  “They cook quickly, so you have to watch them,” Rachel murmured, and he realized she had been aware of him the entire time. “You see how they go from translucent to opaque almost immediately?” She stared at the scallops as if she could determine the exact moment they cooked through—she probably could—then took them off the heat with a pair of tongs and placed them on the bed of dressed greens sitting on the plate beside the cooktop.

  She picked up the plate and nodded toward the table, an indication he should sit down. But once more, she remained standing.

  “Aren’t you going to join me?”

  She hesitated.

  “It makes me uncomfortable to have you serving me if you won’t join me.” He nudged the chair across from him away from the table. “Please.”

  Slowly, she slid into the seat. He pushed the salad plate to the center of the table. “You need to share this with me. I’m never going to make it all the way through the courses if you make me eat it all myself.”

  “No one’s forcing you,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m not willing to let food this good go to waste. So, come on. Get to it.” Alex picked up his fork and knife and cut a piece of scallop, then forked it into his mouth with a stack of greens. The seafood was indeed perfectly cooked, tender and sweet and juicy, and the slight tang of the dressing complemented the mild flavors of the scallop.

  “What’s in the dressing?” he asked.

  A crafty smile formed on her lips, a sparkle in her eye. “The dreaded fennel.”

  “That’s fennel? I like it. It’s not all that licorice-y.”

  “Not in these concentrations.” Rachel took a bite, lifting her eyes to the ceiling as she considered. “I like this one. Simple. Tastes like summer to me. But it’s too . . .”

  “Common?”

  “That’s exactly it.”

  “I don’t know. I like the scallops. They’re perfect. Maybe with some sort of starch. Not as light.”

  Rachel took another bite. “Puree. Artichoke maybe, with wild mushrooms.” She gave him a reluctant smile. “I knew I made the right decision in calling you.”

  “You agonized over that one, did you?”

  “Not really. I didn’t want to be too presumptuous.”

  Impulsively, he reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “You do realize that we’re in it together, don’t you? Partners.”

  “Are we?” The edge to her voice could have either been amusement or challenge. “Because no matter what you say, you don’t seem to have much at stake here.”

  “You’re still questioning my motives.”

  She pulled her hand from beneath his. “I’m not so much questioning your motives as . . . Okay, so I’m still questioning your motives.”

  “Because we don’t know each other.” He folded his arms on the table in front of him. “Ask me anything.”

  “Why did you write that article? And don’t tell me it was out of concern for me.”
r />   That was the last thing he’d expected her to ask. Once more, he’d underestimated her. “Truthfully? I was angry.”

  She simply looked at him and waited for him to elaborate.

  Alex sat back in his chair. “When I started writing, I was determined. Obnoxiously so. I had given up a profession I’d already spent almost seven years studying, and I had to prove I was capable of doing this. I wrote nonstop, article after article on spec—that means before I got paid for it or even knew there was interest—until eventually I landed something at Slate. One thing led to another and I was writing for Wired and Rolling Stone. When I wrote a very popular essay for the New Yorker—which in itself is a Holy Grail sort of experience—a literary agent called me to see if I wanted to do a book. She said I was the next big thing, thought she could sell a book on the buzz alone.

  “Of course I was flattered. Maybe a little cocky. I figured there was nowhere to go but up. And for a while, it looked like I was right. There was a bidding war for the book, and it sold for a lot of money.”

  Rachel lifted a skeptical eyebrow. “I’m not getting the part where you should be angry.”

  It did sound pretty impressive from the outside. He’d been just as seduced by the big numbers. “Here’s the thing about selling a book for six figures. It’s a risk—for the publisher and for the author. You have to hit it big, and the pressure is immense. Even before the book was out, pundits were using the deal as an example of what was wrong with legacy publishing.”

  “And people begin to form opinions before they even read it.”

  “Exactly. When the book released, lines were already drawn. Half the reviewers loved it. Half of them hated it. Sales were what really mattered, though, and they weren’t great. They weren’t terrible, but it wasn’t the instant New York Times bestseller everyone was banking on.”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “I know that must have been frustrating.”

  “It was. But I’m a grown-up. I understand how these things work. Publishing is an educated guessing game. I just didn’t expect the flat-out venom I got. People who didn’t even know me, taking pleasure in being cruel. Assuming things that weren’t true. It stung. It made me angry. So when I saw Carlton Espy making all sorts of unfounded allegations in his review, it was the tipping point. I’d had enough.”