Chapter Four
T his was the team’s second run in the new kitchen, and though it was intense, they already had a good rhythm, and the sample menu was coming together as if opening night were weeks in the rearview mirror instead of weeks ahead.
Rustin looked at his main kitchen team—Clara Pond, Raul Rodrigo, twins Flannery and Hannah Marks, and his younger brother Lucas, who had aspirations of being a bartender and DJ.
Mostly to snag women, I bet.
Lucas hadn’t wanted to leave Charlotte, but even though his brother was twenty-two, Rustin had laid down the law. He wasn’t leaving Lucas alone in the city full of temptations. His assistant and restaurant manager Rebekah James also surveyed the team through eyes dramatically accented by thick black eyeliner.
“The team will still take you seriously, Chef, if you crack a smile before Christmas.”
“We got six weeks to prepare for our soft open.”
“You don’t do soft, Chef.” Rebekah raised her eyebrows suggestively, probably trying to get him to relax.
As if.
“I won’t smile until our first-quarter earnings hit.”
He had a grant and a no-interest loan from a foundation in Charlotte, along with an unusual mortgage with Millie Maye, and a more traditional investment from a Charlotte foodie and budding venture capitalist who’d followed his career for the past six years. But margins in the restaurant world were small, and the fan base could be fickle.
The Wild Side was his first solo restaurant and opening it in Belmont was not only him making a statement. It was a risk. Would young, trendy diners with a lot of jingle drive from Charlotte to Belmont for a dining experience?
“Easier to hit earning margins if we’d actually open,” Rebekah said drolly, tapping her new manicure—an eye-popping red with snowflakes on the tips. “We need to open for the holidays. We’re burning through cash with the remodel, and this town is like something out of a Christmas card. They need us.”
Rustin winced. He’d hated how Belmont went all out on Christmas. It had severely stressed his single mom who struggled to support four kids while two of his uncles cycled in and out of their former small mill house, supposedly looking after his family. From what he’d seen, they crashed on the couch, ate everything they could lay their hands on, and stole from his mom so they could buy booze and cigarettes. He’d always been happy when the cops would arrive and haul them off to jail for one infraction or another.
“There’s something called a Movable Feast .” Rebekah dragged him away from his memories, and he winced remembering his rough treatment of Chloe last night. “There’s also a holiday market, and Belmont’s near to some town called McAdenville that has so many lights it’s called Christmas Town USA . People drive or walk around for the whole frickin’ month of December, Chef. I’m not all about Christmas, but people drive from all over, and we gotta get several slices of that.”
He’d hated Christmas because it reminded him of everything his family didn’t have, and he’d deliberately slated to open after the holiday rush to stave off the memories.
Right in the dead period.
“No need,” he said mildly when what he wanted to do was yell. The memories crowded close, and he knew his past was driving him to make a poor business decision.
“We’d kickstart our earnings. Get some buzz,” Rebekah pushed.
“Gotta get the menu perfected.”
“Yeah, like the menu is the problem.” Rebekah continued to call him out in front of his crew. “January’s the worst time to open. The industry screams to a halt.”
Like I don’t know that.
“We want a soft opening,” he reiterated. “Time to tweak.” He held on to his temper. He’d hired Rebekah because she was smart and pushed back.
“We need people at tables eating to have something to adjust,” Rebekah practically growled. “We’re ready for action.” She looked at the sample dishes his crew had prepared while he’d supervised and timed. “And beyond ready for cash. Our permits and licenses are ready. I checked with the chamber of commerce. We can have a food truck at the Christmas Market. We can have a food truck at the McAdenville lights, which you can probably see from the space station. Let’s get this party started. I even got two special-event liquor licenses. Used my own money.” She winked at Clara. “Don’t make me waste it.”
“We don’t have a food truck,” he reminded, struggling to keep his voice soft, though he couldn’t disguise its coldness, a warning for anyone but Rebekah.
“What about that funky bubble trailer you bought two years ago and kept playing with?”
“The vintage Airstream we tricked out!” Lucas fist-bumped Clara, and Rustin narrowed his eyes at his brother. “It would be rockin’ for parties. A few signature plates served out of one window and specialty holiday cocktails out of the other.”
“Yes,” Clara clapped her hands. “I’m all in. Tips are killer at events and parties.”
“The trailer’s not ready.”
Lucas opened his mouth likely to protest, and Rustin stared him down. “The Wild Side’s not ready. We can’t lose focus.”
“The trailer’s ready.” Rebekah rolled her eyes. “You tricked out its kitchen. All you got to do is cut a hole in the side to be a serving window, add a hinge. Voilà! Food truck, trailer, whatever. I got the licenses handled.”
“I’ll do it,” Lucas volunteered. He even raised his hand like he was still in school. “Rustin, I can do it on my own.”
“String some party lights, add an awning.” Clara caught the spirit.
“Bam! We’re in business,” Rebekah nodded. “I got our socials ready during the remodel to build buzz. We hit these holiday events with themed nibbles and cocktails with strong socials. I’ve got the QR codes, TikToks ready to go. That’s a soft opening, and it would bring in revenue without the overhead of the serving staff I’m hiring.”
Rebekah made sense—he hated that!—and that’s why he’d hired her as a sous chef years ago and kept her on, moved her up, and offered her a stake in The Wild Side. She was the manager and had wanted to take on the marketing.
“What’s up, Rustin?” her voice softened. “You’re dithering, and it’s freaking me out.”
“ Dithering ? What kind of a word is that? “I don’t dither .”
“You are. This is our shot. Your fears are going to screw this up for all of us. The Wild Side is not just about you.” She swore, tugged angrily at her blonde ponytail, and stomped out of the kitchen. He heard the rip of paper. Rebekah must have opened one of the back doors to the deck.
It’s not like they hadn’t argued before. She gave as good as she got and had no trouble getting in his face when she thought he was wrong, but she didn’t do it in front of the crew, and she’d never walked away.
The silence was louder than Rebekah’s accusation. He wasn’t afraid. He was just being cautious.
Yeah. And acting out of character.
His mouth felt sour. He turned his attention back to the kitchen crew. Lucas had turned the heat down on the stove, likely to better take in the kitchen drama.
“Plate the food like the diagram.” He ran his fingers through his hair, pulled out his elastic and let it roll over his wrist. “We’ll sample at the community table.”
“Want me to talk to Rebekah, Chef?” Hannah asked.
“You got a cocktail specialty sample?” he asked Clara, ignoring Hannah. He’d deal with Rebekah. He just wasn’t sure what to say because she was right.
He was playing it too safe. Would he blow his opportunity?
Once he’d found his calling in the kitchen, that accusation had never once been hurled. Since he was seventeen, he’d been hot-shotting it in kitchens in major cities and interning under chefs at the top of their games. No one once said he was cautious…until today.
“Yes, Chef,” Clara said. “I’ve been working on some holiday cocktails and mocktails.”
Holiday. Of course the team would think that. Rebekah had probably been pushing behind his back before she went public today.
“Make it,” he said. “We’ll meet at the community table in five. You ready?” he asked Clara. “Samples only. I don’t want anyone staggering around when we’re on the clock.”
“Yes, Chef.” She smiled and looked at Lucas. “You want to learn something?”
Lucas shot a pleading look at his brother. He was twenty-two, no longer the kid Rustin remembered protecting, feeding, helping with his homework. And if he wanted to learn more about bartending, Rustin should let him, but alcohol and his family tree had a long-twisted history. But if you could control it, it was a moneymaker and a reputation-builder.
“The devil you know.” He slapped Lucas on the back.
Now to Rebekah.
But when Rustin walked out to the deck, Chloe, her short, dark curls dancing in the weak morning sun, faced off with Rebekah. The scene was almost humorous if the tension hadn’t shimmered between them. Chloe held some sort of covered platter in her hands.
“What about private don’t you get, little girl?” Rebekah sneered.
“Rustin and I know each other.” Chloe tilted up her pointed chin, but still stood nearly a foot shorter than the tall, slim Rebekah in her platform Docs. “We grew up together. He worked at Millie’s, and I…” Chloe flushed a pretty pink. “My Grandma Millie was…you know…”
“Queen Bee around here. Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’ve heard.” Rebekah looked Chloe up and down. “Suppose you think that makes you Mini Queen Bee Millie. What you got, a casserole to welcome us to the neighborhood?”
He could practically taste Rebekah’s sarcasm, and an unexpected and unwelcome urge to come between the two women rose up. But why? Chloe was a Maye. He owed her nothing. And why the hell was she bringing him food? She wasn’t still looking for advice, was she? He’d shut her down hard last night.
“No. I have a question,” she said, proving she had steel in her spine. “I’m coordinating the Movable Feast this year, and I…”
Damn. Rustin closed his eyes, but he could feel Rebekah’s searing stare across the deck.
“The Movable Feast, huh?” Rebekah challenged.
“I’m in charge of an entrée and—”
“Let’s take this inside,” Rustin interrupted, knowing he had to push himself off the fence he’d been straddling.
Distaste and shame were a potent brew. He was in charge of his destiny, but he was letting his childhood doubt take a bite out of his ass. Time to squash the past underfoot for good.
“We’re doing a tasting,” he said, eyes on Chloe. “You can join us.”
“And tell us about this Moveable Feast.” Rebekah’s voice was dark with intent. Using her lanky body, she steered Chloe toward the open door.
*
“You,” Rustin said in a sexy growl, “in here.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” She followed him into the kitchen. Her heart still pounded from running into the Goth, supermodel, Amazon warrior outside. Since Rustin had taken her key, she’d no way into Millie’s, so she thought she’d try the back door. She didn’t recognize the hard but gorgeous blonde from Millie’s kitchen staff, so Rustin must be making a lot of changes. Many of Millie’s employees were well into their retirement years.
She should have changed her clothes before coming. Sweet potato stained her white shirt; flour dusted her black skinny jeans; and it felt like there was still browned cumin in her hair. She’d thrown on a large purple cardigan she’d found at a thrift shop in college and rushed off to beg Rustin to try her sweet potato empanadas.
He picked some cilantro from her hair and threw it in the sink.
“Have you been cooking or in a food fight?”
“I know, right?” She smiled, relaxing a little since he’d let her inside his new domain.
“I’m working, Clo Beau.”
She gulped in a breath for courage and patience and let the nickname go. “I know. And I’m sorry for interrupting, Rustin, I am. But I took your advice.”
His thick, dark brows rose, and Chloe thought he looked like a hero on the cover of a romance novel: an Italian tycoon or a pissed-off marquis cornered at a ball and forced to behave with a boring debutante.
Focus.
“I did what you said. I found a cookbook.” She wasn’t sure if that was exactly what it was. “It’s really quite unusual. Some of it is handwritten with sketches and the most unusual side notes, and—”
“Point, Chloe.”
“Right, yes.” She licked her lower lip nervously trying to corral her racing mind. “I chose a recipe that seemed pretty simple, something I could handle. And I tried it and…and…I’m not sure. I need an expert opinion. Too much salt? Too little? Too bland? I want it to wow. I love sweet potatoes, so I started there. I’ll need to practice with the pastry, obviously, but it tastes…not like I thought. Sort of like the beginning of a melody that should intrigue the listener and make them think of castle walls and open windows, mist creeping in, but it just stays flat, doesn’t build, doesn’t beckon. And I love sweet potatoes,” she practically wailed. “Oh, I said that already.”
“Sweet potatoes have appeal, but they don’t really pop,” Rustin said, thinking he’d finally caught the point of her rant. “They add more texture than flavor. They are subtle but complement other flavors, provide a base from which to build.”
“Great,” Chloe said, doing a happy hop. “I can work with that. A base. What do I need to add?”
She reached into her pocket and grabbed her phone as if she’d record his answer. “I need help, Rustin. I’ll get down on my knees. I’ll pay you.”
“This will be interesting.” The woman who’d blocked her on the deck strode back into the kitchen. “Clearly you have a fan, Rustin.”
She was long and lean and coiled her ponytail into a perfect low braid as she leaned against a counter. She smiled wickedly at Rustin, and then her pale blue gaze, sparkling with contempt, shifted to her, and Chloe gulped on her dismay. Were the supermodel and Rustin a couple? She seemed like the type of woman Rustin would go for. Beautiful. Edgy. Maybe that was why she was so hostile; she was marking her territory.
As if Rustin would look at her twice.
But you’re hoping he will.
Chloe corralled her racing thoughts. Rustin had always been a fantasy, and he needed to stay there. She needed an entrée recipe and appetizers to serve at the meeting this afternoon, not drool to add to her stained clothes collection.
“Don’t let me interrupt.” The beauty moved to cock her hip against a massive stove. “You were about to get on your knees and beg. Not sure the health inspectors will approve that outcome, and you won’t be the first unwelcome woman Rustin’s had to hold off with a cast iron skillet.”
“Rebekah. Chill.” His voice was cold. “We’re not done talking about what happened in the kitchen earlier, but we’re done for now.”
“What happened in the kitchen?” Chloe couldn’t help asking.
Rustin’s eyes glittered, but Rebekah didn’t seem intimidated.
“Chef,” she said and walked out of the kitchen and joined a group of people at a long table. Chloe only recognized Rustin’s younger brother, Lucas, who was doing something at a cool-looking bar at the end of the room.
“Wow. A bar?”
“Give me five,” he said to Rebekah’s back, still a clear ‘back the F off’ edge to his voice.
“Remember the cameras, Chef.”
“Cameras?” Chloe parroted, looking around.
“Marketing. Rebekah’s idea.”
“Huh?”
“Seriously, Clo Beau, how could you sit at the counter your whole childhood and grow up with at Millie’s diner and learn nothing?”
Shame washed through her. How could she explain her imagination to him? How she could stare out a window and lose herself for an hour or more? Or start reading and lose half a day?
“Will you help me, please, Rustin? Chef?” She tasted the word and liked it. “Please. I won’t even object to you calling me Clo Beau .”
He frowned. “I remember you serving with Miss Millie at the soup kitchen twice a week.” His face twisted with distaste. “Did you really pick up nothing ?”
She stared at her toes. “I tried.” She worked the word out of her tight throat. “I always muddled things, made a mess…got distracted. Everyone just got mad and took over and stopped asking me for help cooking.”
Rustin had thrived with Grandma Millie’s tutelage. He’d learned a skill, built a career.
He rocked back on his heels. “I guess I owe you.”
“What? Why? ”
Man, hope is painful.
“Sophomore year. American Lit. Not my thing. Was nearly failing, and the poetry unit would have put me over the edge. Millie made me skip time at work to sit at the counter to write my ten poems, but all I could think about was that I needed the money, the dinner to take home. When I opened my notebook, they were finished. Printed out. Lyrical but incomprehensible to me.”
Chloe flushed. She remembered. Writing the poems had been a joy to her, a gift to him. She’d been more than two years younger but had skipped a grade.
“I didn’t think you knew it was me,” she said, suddenly shy remembering how she’d allowed her heart to crack open, her spirit to soar in those poems.
“Who else?” He shrugged, his expression dark. “I passed. Never thanked you.”
“But you still quit school at the end of sophomore year.”
That had hurt and upset Grandma Millie.
“Why?” She didn’t think he’d answer. He’d ignored her earlier questions.
“This is your thank you, Chloe.” He took the dish from her and put it off to the side of the counter. “Everything you see, hear, and taste today at The Wild Side stays in the vault.
And as he spoke, he walked a circle around her and mimed zipping her lips.
“I mean it. Don’t bring the three Ms here for a peek. Don’t tell them what you saw, what you heard, what you tasted.”
“And you’ll help me with a recipe?”
“Thought you were zipping.”
“But if we’re making a deal, if you’re thanking me, I should know what I’m getting.”
“A few lessons. That’s it.”
She nodded. That was more than generous, but she had a million questions. “Should I bring my dish for tasting?” She picked it up again off the counter.
“No. That’s for later.”
Probably to save her feelings from the critique of his team , she thought, humbled further.
“Lesson one,” he said. “Focus. Listen. Don’t talk.”
*
His crew’s shock when Chloe followed him into the main dining room was palpable. Hannah had swung out the long arm of the bar that separated the kitchen so they could eat and see the trees along the river. The mid-morning sky was clear, cold, beautiful, and light flooded the space. Finally. Maybe his need for secrecy had been a bit obsessive. He felt like a mole, and the mood of his crew was definitely brighter, more cheerful.
Clara instructed Lucas on how to make a cherry bounce in the bar area, and Rebekah, still pissed, her slim body radiating aggression, peeled the brown paper off the accordion doors in long strips.
“You’re just going to have to put it up again,” he stated, barely keeping his temper as tension hummed through him.
“Done with working in the dark and secret.”
“Becca…”
Chloe reached out, rested her delicate hand on the small of his back, and he felt her touch sizzle all the way to his spine.
“She’s right,” Chloe said quietly behind him. “Rustin.” She walked around him so she could face him. Her slightly mismatched eyes were wide and earnest, and the light streaming through one of the windows caught her creamy skin and high cheekbones, highlighting her in a dewy glow that looked otherworldly.
“You’re back in Belmont. You’re home. It’s time to flex. Show everyone who you are.” She smiled, sweetly. “You’ve worked hard. Taken risks. Won. Savor your victory and make your stand.”
His lips twitched in a smile he barely shut down as Rebekah ripped off the last strip of paper. Same message. Different delivery.
“I’m not hiding.” He hated that he sounded defensive. “I just want everything to be right. To be prepared.”
Rebekah snorted and watched him and Chloe like they were facing off in a match.
“You only get one shot for a first impression,” Chloe murmured softly. “Don’t I know it. Still.” She raised one shoulder and dropped it. “Take your shot.”
She was right. Rebekah was right. I’m stalling. When did I become such a coward?
Chloe’s unusual gaze flicked to the plated food on the table.
“Let’s see if you’re ready, Chef,” she invited, smiling up at him with that big cheeky grin he remembered from when she was a kid trying to get away with something or wheedle another biscuit out of Millie’s kitchen staff. “Wow me.”
*
Tasting food with Chloe was unlike anything he’d experienced, and after the initial few giggles of surprise from the twins, the crew seemed to warm up to her effusive praise. It opened a spigot of happy Millie’s Diner memories for him.
Except Rebekah. Her glare drilled Chloe as if she were a venomous insect needing to be crushed with a shoe.
“I got this, Rebekah,” he reminded quietly.
Rebekah sat to his left; Chloe at the far end of the table.
“This is beyond cool,” Chloe sang out, waving her skewer with the tilapia that had been rubbed with curry leaves and soaked in sambar. She popped the food in her mouth and bounced in her chair like a little kid.
“I loved Millie’s. It felt like home. But this feels like a private club. A secret. An international hot spot where I’d get a decadent cocktail, a savory dish I couldn’t pronounce, listen to some ethnic, vibey music with sick beats, and hear some gossip that would place me in a deep moral quandary.”
Rebekah’s machine-gun laugh was raw. “She gets it, Chef.”
“Rustin, I mean, Chef.” Chloe blushed charmingly, and he stared at her, feeling a little off-balance by the adult Clo Beau. “Tell me about the dishes and if you have anything I could buy to serve at a meeting today.”
“I’m not a caterer,” Rustin objected.
“What kind of meeting, Junior League? Church group?” Rebekah sneered.
“You’ll do takeout, though, when you open, right?” Chloe clarified and then turned to Rebekah. “I have the Movable Feast committee coming over today to finalize the plans, menu, and preparations for the event. I asked Jessica to help me make some sandwiches and scones or something, and this is her answer.” Chloe held up her phone as if he could read a text from across the table, and never would he voluntarily read a text or communicate with Jessica Maye.
Taking his silence for an answer, she turned her phone around and read. ‘ Chloe, since you jumped in to take over, handle your own food. ’ “So this is me, attempting to handle my own food by asking for some clever appetizers from an expert in order to wow the committee, give them a preview of your awesome power,” Chloe said, tucking away her phone.
He opened his mouth to refuse, even as her enthusiastic praise and overt trust in him did something funny in his chest, but Rebekah, who never missed an opportunity, leaned forward.
“The Movable Feast?” Rebekah opened a screen on her phone. “The one on the town’s holiday events homepage?”
“Yes.”
“If we made some nibbles for your afternoon event… How many people?”
“Minimum, fifteen.”
“Would you post signage with our website, QR code, socials?” Rebekah raised one pierced brow.
“I haven’t agreed to cook anything for you today, Chloe,” Rustin said coolly. Rebekah had the vibe of a thoroughbred racehorse geared to bolt from the starting line, while Chloe was an excited pony kicking and whinnying, wanting to follow.
“Lucas can prepare it if you’re feeling too grand to ignore a business opportunity,” Rebekah snarked.
“Huh? For reals?” Lucas looked up from his cherry bounce.
Like hell he’d have his brother take charge of a menu before they were open to provide food for Belmont’s most exclusive and wealthy citizens. And wouldn’t it burn their tight, surgically trimmed and lifted asses to learn who’d made the food they’d enjoyed?
And Jessica would be there. Eating his food. Enjoying it. And learning how wrong and shortsighted she and all of the Mayes, except Miss Millie and likely Chloe, had been.
“I’ll do it,” he said quietly earning a shocked look from Rebekah that morphed into a slick “gotcha.” Chloe wasn’t so subtle.
“Woo-hoo!” she jumped up and cheered, holding her shot glass of the cherry bounce sample aloft. “Rustin, you won’t regret this, Chef!”
I already do.
“Cheers to you and your crew and all your culinary endeavors and the Movable Feast that’s going to slay this year. With your help, I’ll cook the best entrée ever and prove I don’t F everything up, and your name and mad culinary skills and innovative recipes will have every seat filled and a line out the door for your grand opening and beyond!”