Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
The whole reason why Leland Page got into the culinary field to begin with was because he loved the fast-paced, high-pressure environment of a professional kitchen. He loved racing against the clock to create beautiful things that tasted amazing. It appealed to his sense of adventure and risk-taking, but also to his innate need to take care of people and nourish them.
The pinnacle of his career as a chef had come at an early age, when he’d worked as a sous chef at Waltz , a London restaurant owned by his friend, Walt Severance. Those had been the days. Expectations were lofty, the quality of the menus Walt put together was of the highest caliber, and the clientele was made up of some seriously big names.
And then it had all fallen apart when Walt buckled under the pressure. Leland couldn’t blame him for taking a mental break out in the country. He’d met his now husband, Kit Courrier, while on that break. And he’d sold Waltz for a huge sum to the restaurant’s manager, Wesley, and his head chef, Pietro, and used the money to start a whole new farm-to-table venture with Kit.
Again, Leland didn’t blame his friend for doing what was best for him back then, but he’d never gotten along with Pietro, and when Waltz was recalibrated and rebranded, Leland was politely let go.
Two years and four jobs later, Leland was only just finding his feet again. He’d cycled through a few of London’s finest kitchens, never quite fitting in but learning so much in the process.
That learning was part of the reason why after a random conversation with a fellow member of The Brotherhood at The Chameleon Club, Leland had agreed not only to cater a benefit supper for the Hawthorne Community Arts Center back in the fall, and then their Christmas party in December, he’d taken up the offer to teach culinary classes at the arts center.
Which was where he found himself in the middle of a Tuesday in early February.
“No, no, not quite,” he told the pair of teenage girls who had managed to get flour all over their school uniforms as they giggled over a stand mixer. “Wait until the egg whites have stiff peaks. Stiff peaks,” he emphasized, taking the whisk beater from the mixer he’d used to demonstrate the techniques for making a genoise sponge. “And then fold the flour in carefully so that you don’t beat the air out of the egg whites.”
The girls giggled as if he’d said something naughty and continued to do whatever the pleased with their mixture.
“Sir! Sir! I think I’ve flattened my eggs,” another boy in the class called out from the far end of the counter.
Sure enough, when Leland went to look, the enthusiastic young man had done more than just fold his flour into the eggs, he’d stirred the mixture into a paste.
“Never mind,” Leland said, taking the boy’s mixing bowl and setting it on the island in the middle of the kitchen. “There’s still time for you to start over.”
That was one of his mottos in life. Everyone had to start over at least once or twice in their lives. He was starting over now, not as a Michelin-starred chef, like he’d always dreamed of being, but as a culinary teacher at an eclectic arts center in the middle of Kent, working for a family that he liked quite a bit. If it meant he had to teach the occasional school group along with more advanced classes for adults in the community, then so be it. He admired the Hawthorne family’s commitment to community outreach and involvement.
More than that, he was willing to do whatever the Hawthorne family needed him to do, since they were allowing him to live in one of the family flats in the east wing of the centuries-old manor house while his housing situation was up in the air.
Hawthorne House had once been a grand, aristocratic estate, but it had been converted into a convalescent hospital during the First World War, then a boys’ school after the Second World War, and once the family had taken possession of it again in the nineteen-nineties and turned it into the arts center, they’d converted what had once been dormitories into about a dozen small flats for members of the large and sprawling Hawthorne family to live in as needed.
“Mr. Page, sir!” Lucy, one of the girls who actually took the class seriously and who had expressed an interest in a culinary career called out from the other side of the kitchen. “Lottie and Alice are making a mess!”
Leland turned away from where he’d been supervising the boy whipping his egg whites again to see that not only had the two giggling girls made a mess, they’d somehow managed to spill an entire bag of confectioner’s sugar on the floor.
“Sorry, sir,” Lottie told him with a pinched expression. “It just fell.”
Leland didn’t believe that for a second, but he wasn’t angry. These were just kids. He knew full well that not every kid got the support and encouragement they needed at home, so as he walked over to help clean up the mess, he smiled reassuringly.
“It’s just sugar,” he said, walking past where the girls were to the broom closet. “It sweeps up the same as everything else.”
He handed the two girls brooms and dustpans, then stood back and trusted them to clean up. Trust was important in a kitchen. The chef de cuisine couldn’t micromanage everyone under them, not if they wanted to get the job done in a timely manner.
The mess presented a problem, though. Along with teaching cooking classes, Leland was in charge of food for the new dinner and special occasion initiative that the staff of the Hawthorne Community Arts Center had undertaken. That meant planning the menus for those events and, when and where he could, coaching some of his students through creating those meals.
Valentine’s Day was coming up that weekend, and already, the event was sold out. Leland’s mind had been spinning for days as he ran through different menu ideas. He’d settled on the menu now, but he’d been counting on his teen class to bake the cakes and make all sorts of sugared treats for dessert.
Now, not only was he uncertain whether this particular class was up to the challenge of baking for a crowd, the way they were going through supplies, Hawthorne House would go bankrupt purchasing sugar, eggs, and flour before it was all done.
Those thoughts scrambled around in his brain searching for solutions as the class continued. He could probably count on some of these students, like Lucy, for help with desserts, but certainly not all of them.
“The best part of making cakes is eating them,” the boy who struggled with his batter said with a wide grin at the end of the class, when everyone sat down to eat their treats. “Although mine’s so flat compared to Lucy’s.”
“That’s because I’m a natural chef,” Lucy said, her nose in the air, as she lifted a fork full of cake to her mouth.
Leland smirked. With that attitude, Lucy would fit right into most of the kitchens he’d worked in.
“Mr. Page, do you need help cleaning up the rest of the kitchen?” Lottie asked on behalf of her and Alice.
Leland shook his head. “Not necessary. Your bus should be here any second to take you back to school, and I have some errands to run, so I wouldn’t be able to supervise you.”
He definitely had errands now. The class had decimated his store of sugar, and he needed at least three dozen more eggs for the class he had to teach that afternoon. And those were only things for Hawthorne House’s teaching kitchen. He needed a few things for his own fridge upstairs in his flat.
He directed the students to clean up as much as possible while they could, and when their bus arrived, he grabbed his keys and headed out to his car. The other nice thing about teaching for a living instead of working in a busy kitchen was that he had more free time to get things like errands done.
And who knew? Maybe one day soon, he’d actually have time to date again, too. It had been ages since he’d gone out with anyone and even longer since he’d stayed in with them. He felt ready to start the next, romantic chapter of his life. He couldn’t say what it was, but he’d been feeling a sort of buzz in the air, like the man for him was just waiting to stumble into his life. Maybe he needed to start attending some of The Brotherhood’s theme nights at The Chameleon Club to help the process along a little.
He pulled into the parking lot of his favorite local grocery store, cut his car’s engine, then entered the tiny shop with a smile on his face. He didn’t need to shop at the huge, overcrowded grocery chains when all he needed were basics, and he loved the idea of supporting local entrepreneurs. Javed was one of the new friends he’d made in the last few months because of it.
He found a basket and quickly gathered what he needed before approaching the front counter. Javed was busy with a young man in shabby clothing who appeared to have a lottery ticket of some sort in his slender-fingered hand.
“It’s a winner,” the young man insisted. “I know it’s a winner. I saw the numbers in the paper. I know it’s from a couple weeks ago, but there’s still time to claim the prize, right?”
“Sorry,” Javed said, looking far more anxious than Leland had ever seen him. “I’ve checked, and the numbers on that ticket don’t match any of the winning numbers for the last three months.”
“But he swore it was a winning number,” the young man said, growing more agitated by the second. “These have to be the winning numbers.”
“I’m sorry,” Javed said, spreading his hands hopelessly. He glanced to Leland as if there was something he could do.
“Please,” the young man begged him, sobbing. “You don’t understand. This has to be a winning ticket. These have to be the right numbers. I…I can’t keep living like this. I don’t have anything, no home, no job, nothing. I don’t even have another change of clothes. Someone stole my bag.”
Leland’s heart sank for the young man. His rough look suddenly made sense, although to be honest, he looked a lot better than some of the unhoused people who used to come begging at the back doors of the places he’d worked in London sometimes.
“I wish I could help you,” Javed said, taking the ticket from the man and looking at it again. “Whoever gave this to you was dishonest about what it is.”
“No,” the young man said, lowering his head and weeping. Actually weeping.
Leland’s gut hurt for him. He set his basket on the ground and reached for his wallet. He always paid for things with plastic, but he was pretty sure he had a few quid to give the young man at least.
Javed seemed to be thinking the same thing. “Would a twenty help?” he asked kindly. “Consider it my Valentine’s Day gift.”
The young man dropped his head even more, like the charity he was being offered was humiliating. Leland could only imagine how hard it must have been to be forced to accept charity from strangers just to get by.
“I’ve got more than I need,” he said, pulling a twenty from his wallet. “You’re welcome to it.”
The young man turned to face him, tears streaming down his smudged face.
Two things hit Leland at once. First, the young man was gorgeous. Even with his brown eyes red-rimmed and full of tears, he was a sight to behold. His high cheekbones, curly brown hair, and shapely lips belonged on a model. Despite what he’d said that implied he was living rough, his skin was clear. He was skinny and had a desperate edge to his appearance, but he was still one of the most beautiful men Leland had ever seen.
The second thing that smacked Leland hard was that he knew the young man, though he hadn’t seen him for years. He was Ean Jones, the little brother of his old school chum, Davie. Little Ean Jones, who had followed him and Davie around with his big, round eyes and eager-to-please smile, who had been the sweetest, kindest, loveliest young man Leland had ever known.
Whatever had happened to land Ean on the streets and whoever had let it happen, Leland definitely had something to say about it.