The Saturday Night Supper Club Page 22

  “That’s what I ruined for you,” Alex said softly.

  Rachel started. Somewhere along the line, she’d stopped blaming him. He wasn’t the vindictive, careless person she’d thought he was. “The thing is, when you work enough places, you start to realize that all industry folk are like family. You’ve got a shared history, a shared language. We understand the crazy that most people don’t see. You hang around in one city long enough, and eventually everyone has worked for and with everyone else.”

  “The stories of crazy chefs become like stories of Crazy Aunt Irma?”

  Rachel laughed. “Exactly. You become like veterans sitting around and telling war stories. They might get embellished over the years, but everyone recognizes the parts that ring true.”

  “And you miss that. The camaraderie.”

  She looked him directly in the eye. “I do. And I miss the routine. The sense of purpose. The adrenaline rush. The way that, when you’re under the gun, everything else goes away. When you have a good team, when it’s all flowing, it’s magic.”

  Alex set down his knife. “Then that’s what we’re getting back for you.”

  “We?”

  “We. Wasn’t that the whole idea of doing the supper club in the first place?”

  She smiled, but it was a knowing sort of smile. “I thought you said it was an excuse to spend time with me. And to rid yourself of writer’s block.”

  “Oh, it was. At least on my end.”

  “Did it work?”

  He smiled back. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “I mean, did it fix your writer’s block?”

  Alex didn’t look at her while he cranked up the burner beneath his pan. It was going to be too hot for the butter, which he would find out in a minute, but she didn’t say anything. She wasn’t here as a chef, and she certainly wasn’t going to give him cooking pointers. Sure enough, the butter was already starting to brown when he dumped in the mushrooms. He hissed out his displeasure and turned the heat back down.

  “In a manner of speaking.” He added sour cream to the mushroom sauce, making something similar to Stroganoff. Despite the overbrowned butter, it smelled delicious. He wasn’t a bad cook at all. “I’m writing, but I don’t know if anything’s going to come of it. I don’t know if I can make a book out of it.”

  “Can I read it?”

  He barked out a laugh. “Right now? No.”

  “Why not? I could tell you if it’s any good.”

  He gave her a look. She chose to call it fond and not condescending. “I’m going to let my agent make that call. You’re not unbiased.”

  “Why not?”

  He winked at her. “Because you’re into me. You’d be so overcome by my ability as a wordsmith that you’d say, ‘Is there anything Alex can’t do? He writes and cooks and climbs and looks good in an apron too?’”

  Now it was Rachel’s turn to laugh. “Don’t forget to add your awesome humility and self-awareness.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t.” He set aside the pan on the stove and then retrieved a covered casserole dish from the oven. “Braised pork loin.”

  “Smells great. One of my favorite ways to cook that cut.”

  He lifted the lid and transferred the meat to a cutting board, then looked dismayed. “I should have rested it while I was making the sauce.”

  Rachel smiled at his discomfiture. The timing was the hardest part of cooking, and right now he looked like a crestfallen little boy. “You’re good. Just put the sauce over the simmer burner as low as it will go and stir it every once in a while. There’s enough fat in the sour cream that it shouldn’t curdle.”

  “In the meantime, I can plate up the borscht and the dumplings.” He went back for a stack of plates and two soup bowls. Rachel resisted the urge to help. This was his show, and all things considered, he was running it pretty smoothly. He ladled the borscht into bowls and topped each with a dollop of sour cream and a sprig of fresh dill—very attractive, Rachel thought, both the presentation and the look of concentration on his ridiculously handsome face.

  That thought made her struggle to hold back her smile as he brought the bowls to the table. The meat had been arranged on the platter in an elegant swoop of mushroom sauce with more drizzled over the top. He’d gone to some trouble to think it through and make it restaurant-worthy. The fact he’d given it so much effort only put more weight behind her smile.

  He swept his hand toward the table and pulled her chair out for her. “Shall we eat then?”

  “This looks amazing.” She was rewarded with a pleased smile from him.

  It was amazing, actually, especially considering he claimed he didn’t cook. The borscht held just the right amount of sweetness, the beets tender but still fresh and bright, finely diced pork giving it further flavor. The dumplings, colored green from the spinach in the dough, were tender with a delicious cheese filling. When she complimented him on the texture, he made a face.

  “I can’t take credit for that. I bought them from the Russian deli. I ran out of time to make the dumplings.”

  “My compliments to the deli, then.” Rachel moved on to the pork, which was tasty despite the ever-so-slightly separated mushroom sauce. “This is all good. You know, it really captures that traditional feeling. I can almost imagine your parents eating this back home.”

  “Almost?” Alex looked at her quizzically. “Of course they did. These are family recipes.”

  Rachel grimaced. She should have been more careful with her wording. “I’m sure they are. They must be very old or very new family recipes, though.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because these are definitely not Soviet-era dishes. Some of these ingredients wouldn’t have been available. The borscht is probably the same, though I doubt there would have been meat in it. But fresh sour cream and mushrooms . . . it was probably more like mayonnaise and whatever she grew in her kitchen garden.”

  Alex stared at her.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. There was this deli in Brighton Beach I liked and the owner used to tell me stories.” She was babbling now, desperate to cover her faux pas when he had gone to such lengths to give her a nice meal, to impress her.

  Alex started to laugh.

  “What? I don’t . . . What?”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. “That is exactly like my mother. Isn’t that what we were talking about? How she felt the need to invent a rosier past for herself? Of course she would be cooking her grandmother’s recipes in America. Or taking things from new cookbooks and passing them off as family tradition.”

  “So I didn’t offend you?”

  “Offend me? No. Inadvertently made me understand my mother for the first time in my life, maybe.”

  “I take it you aren’t close?”

  Alex set down his fork. “My relationship with my parents is complicated.”

  “Is that why you studied psychology?”

  “You’re the one who should have been the psychologist. You have an uncanny way of reading people.”

  Rachel flushed. “Sorry. I guess I tend to study people too. Usually they only show you the side they want you to see. I don’t like being fooled.” She snapped her mouth shut, feeling like she’d already said too much.

  But Alex simply considered her like he could see straight through her eyes into her thoughts. Then he looked down at the empty plates. “Are you ready for dessert yet?”

  “I’m stuffed,” Rachel said. “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Then how about I make some tea and we go up on the roof deck?”

  “Tea would be nice.” She helped him gather the plates and brought them back to the kitchen, where he quickly rinsed them and put them in the dishwasher. Then he went to the corner of the countertop and plugged in a cord coming from what looked like a metal urn.

  Rachel followed and peered around him. “You have a samovar?”

  “Christmas present from my mom. Which is funny, because even
she uses an electric kettle.” He found a glass jar of tea leaves and put some in the samovar’s strainer pot, then filled both vessels with water and turned it on.

  “How long will it take?”

  “A while,” he said. “The water has to heat in the bottom and then the steam heats the tea at the top.”

  “Then let’s go up. It would be a shame to miss the sunset.”

  Alex held out his hand. She placed her own in it without hesitation and let him lead her to the spiral staircase. Up they climbed, and then they stepped out onto the roof deck.

  “It’s beautiful tonight.” The sky looked like a rainbow, deep reds and oranges near the horizon, coloring wisps of clouds with watercolor hues against a fading blue sky. The sunsets were one thing that had struck her when she first came to Colorado, and they still hadn’t lost their impact.

  “I call these Broncos sunsets,” he said. “God is clearly a football fan.”

  “Maybe He is, but He roots for the Patriots.”

  Alex’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t believe you would say something so hurtful and untrue.”

  Rachel laughed. “Honestly, unless you’re a college team playing UConn, I don’t really care.”

  “That’s almost as bad.” Alex gestured to the cushioned outdoor sofa, now piled with pillows and draped with a blanket. Rachel lowered herself to the edge of the bench and tucked one leg up beneath her.

  He sat beside her and gave an exaggerated yawn before stretching one arm around her shoulders.

  She arched an eyebrow at him. “Smooth move, Romeo.”

  Alex laughed. “That move killed with the high school girls by senior year.”

  “I bet you didn’t need those moves to kill with the girls.” That dimple alone probably got him anything he wanted.

  “Contrary to what you may think, I was a bit of a nerd. Fortunately, there were enough nerdy girls in my high school that I managed to get dates for all the big events.”

  “So while you were going to prom in a powder-blue tux, I was cooking for prom-goers like you.”

  His expression turned serious. He combed his fingers through the ends of her hair and laid a thick wave across her shoulder. “Do you have any regrets about how you went about everything? Starting work so early?”

  It might have been the first time anyone besides Ana and Melody had asked her that question. “I don’t believe in regrets. I did what I had to do at the time. I missed out on a lot, but I also accomplished more than I would have had I taken a conventional route.”

  “How do you do that?” Alex asked softly, searching her eyes. “Accept everything? No second-guessing. No regrets.”

  She sensed there was more to the question than curiosity. “Practice. At not wanting any more than I can have.”

  The moment stretched, broken only by the soft sound of their breathing. His gaze lowered to her mouth, and her breath hitched in her chest with sudden yearning for all those things she said she had rejected. When his fingertips slid through the hair at the nape of her neck and his lips lowered to brush hers, she rose to meet him. She let herself sink into the kiss, let it swallow her up, envelop her senses. No other sensations but his taste, his smell, the warmth of his skin against hers. When he pulled her a little closer, she went willingly, stretching her arms around his neck, tunneling her fingers into his hair.

  She’d avoided men because she’d been afraid of this, what happened after the instant flash fire of attraction, the desire that went deeper than the physical, the kind of madness that turned strong women into compliant, fragile shells of their former selves. And yet when she was with Alex, she didn’t feel weak or bullied or afraid. This yearning felt natural. Uncomplicated.

  When they parted and she laid her palm flat against his chest to feel the steady, hard beat of his heart, she knew. From the look in his eyes, he did too.

  She’d fallen. And there was no coming back.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ALEX HAD NEVER THOUGHT a single kiss could shift the world on its axis, but he was fairly certain the ground had moved beneath him when he finally returned to the kitchen to get their tea. He’d wanted to do something special for Rachel, something she couldn’t associate with work, and instead he’d been the one to have his breath taken away.

  He found two ceramic mugs and filled them halfway with strong tea, which he diluted with water. Then he added sugar and transferred the cups to a wooden tray. Thanks to Victoria, he had all the proper entertaining accoutrements, even if he rarely needed to use them. He sliced the muravejnik—an odd little cake from the Russian deli that had been one of his childhood favorites—added the dessert dishes to the tray, and then climbed back to the roof deck.

  Just in those few minutes, the sunset colors had slid over the mountains, bathing the city in blue twilight and overtaking the sky in a soft blue-gray glow. The city lights winked on around them, cars sliding by on the streets below in the dilute glow of their headlights. Rachel had her feet propped up on the glass outdoor coffee table, the blanket draped over her legs against the chilly night breeze. Her eyes flicked to him, and a smile lifted the corners of her mouth.

  “Miss me?” He set the tray on the table at her feet and then handed her the mug, followed by the cake.

  She patted the cushion beside her and sampled the tea and cake while he settled back onto the sofa. “So I’ve been sitting here wondering. What happened with your girlfriend?”

  That was the last thing he expected her to ask. “What do you want to know?”

  “You must have been pretty serious if she decorated your place. Seems like she assumed it would be hers someday. What went wrong?”

  “I don’t know. I think she had the wrong idea about what life with me would be like. When we met, I had just signed a book contract for an absurd amount of money and I was getting a lot of attention. I think she was sure I was going to be famous someday.”

  “But that didn’t pan out?”

  Alex shrugged. “Like I said before, the book bombed. My publisher suddenly stopped taking my calls. Interest dried up. I was still writing for major outlets, but there wasn’t the same level of . . .”

  “Glamour?”

  “Something like that. Victoria wanted me to jump back in and write another book. You see, she was a high-end real estate agent. She was all about the hustle. If you lose one deal, you go out and close two more. She hated the fact I was only taking on a handful of assignments, living off my rental income, climbing with Bryan while she was working. To her, that meant I lacked drive and vision, which was apparently a deal-breaker to her.”

  “Why didn’t you? Jump in and write another book, I mean. Isn’t that what you’re doing now?”

  The question stopped him short. Why hadn’t he?

  “I don’t know,” he said finally. “I guess I didn’t want to do it on demand. I wouldn’t have been writing because I had something to say or the book filled a need; it would have been only to keep me from looking like a washed-up has-been in other people’s eyes.” In fact, it would have been easier to keep the books coming, prove to his parents and Victoria that he hadn’t made the wrong decision in leaving psychology behind. He’d striven beneath the weight of those expectations for far too long: go to church, finish his degree, keep up appearances. Get a steady job, win the respect of his peers.

  “I guess I look at this career change, my quick success, as something of a miracle. All I can do is trust that God put me on this path for a reason. All the hustle in the world won’t get me anywhere if it’s not His will.”

  Rachel put aside her dessert plate and picked up her mug. “You wouldn’t like me very much when I’m running a restaurant. I’m all about the hustle.”

  “But you had other people’s money riding on your success. Employees to take care of. Running a business can be all-consuming. You were doing what you needed to do to fulfill your obligations. Not to mention it’s something you love.”

  “I think you might be giving me too much credit,”
Rachel said. “It’s true that most of us—professional cooks—are in it because we love it. It’s a mental and physical challenge, and most of us do embrace the service aspect of the job. But after a while, we cook because we’re cooks. We’ve done it for so long that we don’t know what else to do. Some of us get addicted to the adrenaline rush, and some just like knowing where we’ll be every night. It’s easier to be at work where you can simply do as you’re told and not make your own life decisions. Eventually it does become your real life.” Rachel shot him a wry grin. “My best line cooks were always the ones who had done time in prison or the military. They knew how to take orders.”

  Alex slid his arm around her shoulders and tugged her to him. After a moment, she relaxed and nestled into his side as if she belonged there.

  “So what’s your story, then?” he asked. “Which one are you?”

  “All of them. When I left home, I didn’t really know how to take care of myself. At work, there was always someone to tell me what to do, teach me what I needed to know, give me advice.”

  Her voice held a mixture of pain and fondness. Maybe that was the very definition of nostalgia, the same feeling he got every time he went home.

  Rachel laughed suddenly. “This big Samoan line cook named Tito took me to get my driver’s license on my sixteenth birthday. I ran over a cone, but they passed me anyway. You don’t say no to Tito.”

  Alex smiled and pressed his lips to Rachel’s temple. The more he learned about her, the more fascinated he felt. There was still so much she wasn’t telling him, but he could picture her as a fifteen-year-old girl, all but run away from home to find a surrogate family in some small kitchen in Hartford.

  “I wish I could have seen you back then, before you became this big, intimidating chef.”

  “I’m not intimidating!”