The Saturday Night Supper Club Read online

  When Alex pulled up several blocks away from the food truck pod, it would’ve been obvious the party was in full swing if only from the distinct lack of parking. Music pumped from the patio, long lines stretching from the trucks and the bar alike, good-natured laughter ringing out from the tables. Alex couldn’t help himself—he looked for a familiar brunette even though he knew she would be home checking and rechecking her lists for tomorrow night. They fell into line in front of Dina’s favorite truck—the barbecue one—and were soon taking heaping paper baskets of ribs and brisket and beans back to the tables beneath strings of twinkle lights. They finally nabbed a square foot of bench each at the end of a long table full of college students, leaning over the space between them to hear each other.

  “Got a boyfriend back in LA?”

  Dina choked on a bite of ribs. “Uh, not something I’m going to talk to my brother about.”

  “So that’s a yes?”

  “That’s a ‘not anymore.’ I was seeing someone and it didn’t work out. Word to the wise: don’t date actors.”

  Alex didn’t press, instead attending to what was very good Texas barbecue until Dina asked, “What did Mom and Dad say when you told them I was flying in?”

  “I didn’t tell them.”

  She stopped and put down her fork. “Why not?”

  “You didn’t want me to. I figured if you wanted to see them, you’d tell me.”

  “That’s surprisingly hands-off for you.”

  “Listen, I don’t know what was said when you left, but I know they miss you and you miss them. I also know you are all too stubborn for your own good. But I’m done playing mediator. You guys can work it out yourselves.”

  “Easy for you to say. When’s the last time you even saw them?”

  “Once-a-month dinners at the old house, remember? Mom gets to grill me on why I’ve abandoned my education, I get to hear about their latest research, and everyone ignores the fact that they want to talk about you but no one wants to be the one to break.” He nudged her hand. “Gee, I can’t imagine why I don’t do it more often.”

  Dina gave him a reluctant smile and finished her food, then rose to throw away the empty container in a nearby trash can. “Should we go? I’m really tired. I just want to go to bed, especially since it’s going to be a long night tomorrow.”

  There it was again: an underlying hint of unhappiness below her tough tone, enough to sound warning bells. But she wasn’t going to tell him what was bothering her, so he rose. “Let’s get you settled, then. The couch is already made up for you.”

  Dina was quiet on the short ride home, and all the way up the elevator to the apartment. Alex dropped her suitcase at the end of the sofa and nodded toward the bathroom. “You can use the shower first if you want.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “No problem.”

  “No, I mean, for flying me out here. It’s good to be home.”

  “Thanks for helping me out.”

  “Well, it’s the least I can do if I can finally help you nab a girlfriend. You’re not doing so great by yourself.”

  Alex lunged for her and chased her around the sofa. “Take it back.” He got her in a headlock and rubbed her head until she screamed.

  “Never!” She broke free—he didn’t try all that hard to keep her—and dove for the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. Alex laughed, out of breath, until the memory of his earlier suspicions sobered him. Something was going on with his sister, and he needed to find out what it was.

  Chapter Nineteen

  PRODUCT PREP. Check.

  Sauté pans, serving bowls, plating kit, and knives. Check.

  Clean jacket, apron, and extra side towels. Check.

  Rachel stood staring at the growing pile of equipment in plastic milk crates near her front door, crossing each item off her list as she came to it. She’d been up since dawn, cutting and chopping and slicing and parboiling, ensuring she had the minimum number of tasks to complete for tonight. She was all too aware that it wasn’t only her food that would be under scrutiny, but her method, so she would do everything she could to make sure she worked as cleanly and professionally as possible. Someone might forgive a disorganized chef as long as the food tasted good, but they certainly wouldn’t invest in her restaurant.

  Of course, this level of organization in any other profession would be cause for clinical treatment.

  Rachel glanced at the clock and saw the hour hand was already edging toward four. Enough time to shower, dress, put on a little makeup, and then get over to Alex’s to set up ahead of the first guests.

  She wasn’t sure which made her more nervous: the inaugural meeting of the Saturday Night Supper Club or the prospect of seeing Alex again.

  She’d kept her distance for the past several days, claiming preparations for tonight but really needing space from both him and her feelings toward him. That could, of course, be the wrong approach. It was just attraction, after all. Chemistry tended to wear off once you got to know a person and learned all their quirks and flaws. The fact she hadn’t yet found any deal-breakers was simply proof that she hadn’t spent much time with him.

  A text message beeped through on her phone, as if he knew she was thinking about him. How’s everything going? Need help with your supplies? Should I bring a paper bag for you to breathe into?

  She texted back, I’ll text you to help me carry everything up when I get there. Have paper bag standing by.

  Immediately, his response: Yes, Chef.

  Somehow, the fact that he was thinking about her and planning ahead took some of the nervousness from her stomach. He was taking this as seriously as she was, making sure she was okay, that everything was running smoothly. This should be a piece of cake anyway. She was an award-winning chef. Her problem was one of image, not talent or execution. The menu was excellent, creative but not too high-concept, both elegant and accessible. It was a good representation of what she had done at Paisley, what she was capable of executing on a larger scale. As long as she kept her head in the game, smiled and made polite small talk, and didn’t burn anything, it would be fine.

  She managed to convince herself of that through her shower and makeup. She selected a bright-blue, pleated jersey tank that no one would see under her jacket, simply because it was her favorite. Her hair got braided first and then twisted into a knot on the back of her neck, her typical no-nonsense kitchen style; though tonight she added a pair of big silver hoop earrings. She wavered on footwear before sliding her feet into her least orthopedic-looking pair of kitchen clogs. It was what she was used to, and standing on Alex’s concrete floors for hours would wreak havoc on her back without them.

  And then there was nothing left to do. Time to go.

  She gave herself one last once-over in the mirror, took a deep breath, and grabbed her tote. Showtime.

  When she arrived, Alex was waiting for her in the parking lot, obviously taking her at her word that she would be there at six sharp. He hopped off the low brick wall and strode toward her car, looking so casually handsome in his dress pants and relaxed button-down shirt that her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Thank goodness she had tinted windows or he would see her gaping at him. She’d thought the impact of those good looks would have worn off by now, that it was simply her memory constructing an improved picture of reality, but every time she saw him, she was taken aback all over again.

  God had done good work when it came to him.

  She stepped out of the car and put on a confident smile. “Door-to-door service. I’m impressed.”

  “I aim to please,” he said, beaming that megawatt smile in her direction. “Everything’s in the back?”

  “Three crates,” she said. “And the cooler.”

  He took the cooler and the heaviest of the crates, leaving the others for her, and they half-walked, half-waddled up the sidewalk into the lobby. “I hope you approve of the decor. My sister has been fussing over the details since she got up this morning and
telling me I know nothing about design.”

  Rachel grinned. “I can’t wait to meet her.”

  “And she can’t wait to meet you. I apologize in advance for the questions you’re going to get. Dina is nosy.”

  “That’s okay. I’m used to it. I have the two nosiest friends in the universe.”

  Alex juggled his load and pressed the elevator button with his elbow. “Do you need more than a half hour to set up? I put seven on the invitation, but one couple is perennially early.”

  “Nope. We’re good. Everything’s ready.” She didn’t tell him that she had a list of tasks, timed to the minute, stuffed in her pocket in case she got overwhelmed. It had been a long time since she needed a cheat sheet, but it had also been a long time since she worked with a new menu in someone else’s space. Catering and private cheffing were far different than cooking in a commercial kitchen. She’d made sure to adjust for the residential cooktop and standard oven when she made her schedule.

  The elevator leveled out at the top floor, and Alex leaned against the door to keep it open while she moved her boxes out. No sooner did his hand touch the condo’s door handle than the door swung open to reveal a pretty young woman.

  “There you are! Do you need any help?”

  “Nope. This is it.” Alex hustled his crates over to the kitchen, then returned for Rachel’s. “Dina, this is Rachel Bishop. Rachel, my sister, Dina.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Rachel shook the girl’s hand, looking her over surreptitiously. She upgraded her initial impression from pretty to beautiful, no surprise considering her older brother, with pale skin and dyed-dark hair tied up into a bun on top of her head. Bright swaths of purple showed through the brown, several industrial piercings marked her ears, and the edge of a tattoo peeked around the side of her neck. Pretty much on par for every server Rachel had worked with. Unlike many of those, however, she was dressed professionally in conservative black slacks and a crisply pressed white shirt.

  “Can I help with anything? I’m sitting on my hands until everyone gets here.”

  It wasn’t an idle offer; she seemed to be really eager to help. Rachel nodded toward the crates. “You can help me unpack if you wouldn’t mind. I need to get the fish from the cooler to the refrigerator.”

  “I’d love to.” Dina hefted the cooler onto the countertop and began taking out the seafood, which had been cleaned and nestled in individual plastic bags of ice, while Rachel unpacked metal ninth pans filled with prepped ingredients.

  “I appreciate the help tonight, Dina. Alex tells me you came all the way from LA for this. I hope it didn’t ruin your weekend plans.”

  “No, I jumped at the chance. I wanted to see my brother. And this woman that he’s going all out for.” Dina stole a look at her. “No offense.”

  “None taken.” She sent a wry look toward Alex where he was straightening the sofa cushions. “Your brother has an overdeveloped sense of honor, I think.”

  “He does. He’s a good guy. Which is why I wondered why you two aren’t dating yet. You are into guys, aren’t you?”

  Rachel gave her a bemused look. “Yes. I’m into guys. I just have a rule about dating people I work with. It never ends well, and this is kind of like working together.”

  “That makes you the smart one, then,” Dina muttered. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

  “Sometimes we have to learn the hard way.” Dina didn’t seem to have a filter, but Rachel liked her all the same. She had a good-natured, if direct, way about her. No doubt she made good tips as a server. She wondered if this “hard way” was the reason Dina had come a thousand miles to help with a dinner party.

  “Rachel, do you want to take a look at the roof deck before you get started?” Alex came over to the island, giving her a significant look.

  “Good idea. Dina, can you finish unpacking these? I’ll sort through them when I get back.” Dina nodded, and Rachel followed Alex to the staircase and up to the roof.

  “Sorry about that,” he murmured over his shoulder. “She’s been trying to drag details out of me since she flew in last night. Doesn’t believe me that there are no details to tell.”

  “No problem.” Rachel didn’t want to acknowledge her disappointment that Alex was dismissing the possibility so thoroughly when she’d done the exact same thing a moment ago. They emerged into the bright afternoon sunlight and a delighted smile broke onto her face.

  “This looks amazing.” While the setting had been casual for the Fourth of July party, today he’d arranged the outdoor seating into groupings, creating little pockets of privacy with the potted plants. The Edison lights still crisscrossed overhead, waiting for dark to fall so they could light up like tethered fireflies. Combined with the breathtaking views, it would be the perfect way to end an evening.

  “I can’t take all the credit. Bryan and Dina helped. Well, Bryan mostly mocked me. Come to think of it, so did Dina.”

  “It’s your place, so of course you get to take the credit. I won’t tell anyone.” Rachel glanced at her watch. Already a quarter past six. She needed to get going with her mise en place if she was to stay on time.

  “I’m throwing you off schedule.”

  “No. Well, yes, but that’s okay. Have I thanked you yet? I really appreciate this.”

  “Don’t thank me until you wow them. Which you will.” He nudged her arm, his smile giving her a warm glow inside and beginning the next round of butterflies.

  “I hate this part. And I love it. Even in the restaurant, it was like waiting for the curtain to go up on opening night.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. They will be as impressed by you as I am.”

  If she could see her reflection, she’d find her cheeks had turned pink; she was sure of it. “I always avoided publicity because I tend to stick my foot in my mouth.”

  “Relax. You don’t have to sell yourself. Your food will do that. Just have fun. Be yourself. They’ll love you.” He cocked his head. “Although . . .”

  “Although what? You’re making me nervous.”

  “You should lose the jacket.”

  She looked down at the crisp white garment. “Why? People are used to seeing chefs in jackets at events.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want them to think you’re the help. You’re the cohost who happens to be cooking as well.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure. Now take it off.” He gave her a wicked grin, to which she just narrowed her eyes. But she did as he asked, handing over her apron first and then unbuttoning the long placket.

  “Much better.” He shook out the apron and stepped forward to wrap it around her waist again. She dared not breathe while he had his arms around her, forced herself not to react at the barest brush of his hand against her skin while he wrapped and tied the strings in front of her. It was a thoughtless gesture that had suddenly become one of the most intimate things she’d ever experienced.

  She couldn’t hold her breath any longer and it came out in a shaky exhalation that gave away far more than she’d intended. His gaze moved to hers, and she saw the exact moment he caught her thoughts, his eyes darkening. So he felt it too. Maybe that shouldn’t please her quite so much.

  “I think you’re right,” she said finally. “Much better. However, I wait too much longer and we’re not having dinner. Shall we?”

  “After you.”

  She clambered down the stairs back to the main floor, taking the opportunity for a mental reset. Mind on the food, not on her cohost. Not on the fact she swore his gaze had dipped to her mouth for a split second when only inches had separated them. Not on the fact her heart was beating so hard that he could probably see it through the thin fabric of her shirt. Focus on the first task, and then the one after that. It wasn’t Alex she needed to impress tonight.

  By six thirty on the dot, everything was ready, glass bowls of prepped ingredients arranged neatly on the counter next to her cutting board, freshly sharpened knives laid out on a side towel. At
six forty, the first knock came at the door.

  Alex strode by the kitchen island on his way to the door and gave her a wink. “Showtime.”

  So it began. After the first knock, it didn’t stop for the next twenty minutes. Alex brought each group of guests to the kitchen to meet Rachel, introducing each with a summary of how he knew them and an interesting fact about them. Alex was a good host, skilled in striking up a conversation, though he quickly moved them away to mix drinks at the bar cart on the opposite side of the room. Soon, the room was pleasantly full, eleven guests plus Rachel, Alex, and Dina, the latter circulating through the room offering drink refills to the guests. Inevitably, a few guests wandered to the barstools at the kitchen island, where Rachel was working on the first course.

  “You’re the chef who got destroyed on Twitter,” said one woman about her age—Margot, the art director, Rachel recalled—then clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Rachel grimaced. “No, that’s me. Note to self: verify press credentials before speaking to anyone with a camera.”

  Assured that she hadn’t offended her, Margot leaned across the island with her drink. “What are the apples for?”

  Rachel had had some experience doing demonstrations at food and wine festivals, so she’d purposely left herself some prep work that was both nonessential and allowed her some quick use of very sharp knives. “These are part of the second course. Fameuse variety. Have a taste.” She pushed a piece of apple to the edge of her cutting board with the spine of her knife and waited as the woman nabbed it.

  “Ooh, that’s sweet. I can’t wait.”

  “Local Colorado produce,” Rachel said with a conspiratorial smile, then turned to Margot’s companion. “So, Roger, Alex said you are a news producer? Sounds interesting.”