Chapter 3
2 YEARS AGO
“Hey, Chef, you have an admirer.”
Laura, my hostess, barges into the kitchen with a twinkle in her eye. She better not be propositioning me again. There are only so many ways to tell her that I do not date .
“I’m busy,” I grunt before grabbing the tweezers to garnish a few saffron soufflés.
“A diner asked to meet the chef. Table seven.” She breezes through the double doors and back into the restaurant.
I don’t like meeting diners. They always say they want to compliment the chef, but then once I meet them they’ll have some critique or suggestion for me. What do they think I’m going to do, go back and make it for them again?
I do a quick check in the mirror to make sure my appearance is acceptable. One time I went into the dining room covered in tomato jam and almost gave a diner a heart attack. The viscous consistency really made it look like blood. Half the kitchen called me Chef Dexter the rest of the night.
Mostly clean minus a smudge of demi-glace, I step into the dining room and try to remember table assignments. I head over to the window and find table seven, a two-top, covered in a large array of dishes but with only one patron, a stunningly beautiful woman.
“Chef Harley?” she asks, standing.
“Liam,” I offer, extending a hand. She grins as we shake and I swear the lights around me dim. She glows. I’ve never seen a smile like that.
I do my best not to gape while I privately admire the woman in front of me. She has on a long black dress, silk maybe from the shine of it, tiny straps resting over her shoulders. Her dark hair is a mess of curls bundled at the top of her head. She looks incredibly chic, but also as though she just tumbled out of bed.
“I’m Maya Bloom. I’m doing a feature on your restaurant for my blog, My Way . It’s actually a whole series on New York city restaurants, but this is definitely going to be the star of the series. Your food is so much better than anything else I’ve had in ages, and I promise I try a lot of restaurants. Like, all around the world. Sorry, I’m rambling. You’re very attractive. Am I allowed to say that? Well, whatever, it’s out there. I’d love to get a picture for the post if you don’t mind, maybe a short interview as well?”
It takes a minute for my brain to catch up with her words. And to realize we’re still shaking hands. I let go of hers and shove mine in my pockets.
“An interview?” I reply, not wanting to acknowledge the rest. “I don’t really do those.”
“Would you consider just this once? I know you’re already booked solid but it’s good to keep the momentum going. I have over five million followers. It’s free publicity.”
Five million ? Who is this girl?
“Actually, let me start over,” she says, hands gesturing wildly. “I’m obsessed with your food. I ordered half the menu because there were so many things I wanted to try. See?” She points to the table, overflowing with plates.
“What was your favorite?” I ask. Normally I wouldn’t want to know, because as soon as there’s a favorite, I will wonder what was her least favorite. But for some reason, I really want to hear what she enjoyed.
“Everything? The Irish gnocchi, incredible . And so creative. Those little crispy bits of cabbage…I didn’t even think I liked cabbage. And the short ribs, wow. They were like butter. Actually, you know what? I do have a favorite. The corn cakes. I think they had a little magic in them. I want to eat those every single day for the rest of my life. I’m pretty sure I’ll be having dirty dreams about them later tonight.”
I choke on a cough. Jesus. Now I can’t get the image of her in bed out of my brain.
“Sorry,” she says, wincing. “I’m an over-sharer.”
“Well,” I clear my throat. “I’m glad you enjoyed everything. Have a nice?—”
Both of her hands grab onto my arm. “Please. I can see you’re not one for the spotlight, but your food needs to be talked about more. And people are much more interested in the food when they can also learn about the chef.” I start to shake my head. “I’m not a journalist. It can be completely casual. How about you meet me for a drink after you’re done here?”
For a second, I wonder if she’s hitting on me. I get asked to do interviews constantly. No one’s ever asked to do said interview this late on a Friday night.
“Why are you dining alone?” The question slips out before I realize what I want to say. But a part of me needs to know why this gorgeous, effervescent woman is eating at my restaurant, alone , on a Friday night.
“Umm, honestly?”
“Yeah.” She was right to mention that she isn’t a journalist. I wouldn’t consider trusting them. I know exactly how much they love to tear people apart in the name of clickbait. But Maya, she seems honest. She feels honest. The twinkle in her eye promises nothing but the truth.
“Well,” she starts, looking bashful. “I booked this reservation months ago. My ex and I were planning a trip to New York for our anniversary. But then I found out he’d been cheating on me. For over a year. So…I left him, moved to New York, and didn’t want to pass up a chance to eat your food again.”
“Wow.” Not my most eloquent response, but I don’t think I ever expected her to be that honest. “Wait, again? You’ve been here before?”
“Nope. I went to your pop-up in Charleston like…six years ago I think? It was right after I finished college. Best shrimp and grits I have ever had. I’ve been dying to come here since I heard you opened your own place.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever met a fan like this before. It’s…gratifying. I know I’ve reached a certain level of success that can’t be denied. But a small part of me will always be that kid, listening to his mom and step-dad yell about me throwing my life away, how cooking is not a real career and no one will ever take me seriously. All they ever saw in me was a giant fuck-up. But I never cared about money. I didn’t even care about stability. I just enjoyed making people happy through food.
No one is more surprised than me when I say, “Fine. We can meet for a drink. I won’t be done until at least eleven though.” I look at my watch, noting the time of nine forty-two.
“Really?” She beams. “That’s no problem at all. Here’s my number.” She quickly jots it down on a cocktail napkin and hands it to me. “Just call whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready,” I announce, fifteen minutes later when I bring dessert to her table. “May I?” I ask, before taking the empty chair.
“I thought you couldn’t leave for another hour…at least.”
But I didn’t like the idea of making her wait. “It’s a slower night for us. My kitchen can handle it.”
She gives me a look, like I’m full of shit. Which, looking around the completely full dining room, I am. “They’re used to closing without me. I have to give my nanny a night off every once in a while.”
She can’t argue with that because it’s the truth. Vanessa always offers, but I make sure she takes at least one night off each week. It’s for selfish reasons. I would hate for her to get burnt out and leave us. Not sure what I’d do without her, to be honest.
I send her a quick text now to let her know I’ll be home late. She’s used to it. I’ve always been a night owl. That’s what happens when your work day starts after noon. Most nights I grab drinks with the staff. It’s hard to wind down when I go straight home from the kitchen.
“You have kids?” Maya asks, taking a bite of dessert. She didn’t order any, so I just brought a dish of gelato. Today we made a mocha hazelnut concoction that’s particularly delicious thanks to the added coconut cream. “Fuck me, this is good.”
I smirk but don’t respond to that request. “I do. This is Poppy.” I pull up a recent photo on my phone to show her, not quite sure why I’m doing so. I never tell women about Poppy. But this is different. Something about it feels safer. And I like Maya’s honesty. It makes me want to follow suit.
“She’s gorgeous. And I love that name. Poppies are my favorite flower.”
Mine too , I don’t say.
“I can’t believe I just finished that whole thing,” she says, scraping the last bit of gelato from the dish. “I didn’t even order dessert because I was so stuffed from everything else. You might have to wheel me out of here.”
I laugh. “I’m glad you liked it. I wasn’t sure what to bring. Do you have a favorite dessert?” Why am I asking her that? It’s not like I’m going to cook for her again.
“I love fancy food, I really do. But when it comes to dessert, nothing can top a good brownie. Sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize. I’m not exactly a pastry chef.” Yet I have the sudden urge to make the best batch of brownies on the planet. The kind that would make her moan with the first bite. “Why brownies?”
“Well,” she starts, resting her chin in her hand. Her whole face is thoughtful, like I asked something philosophical, a meaning of life question. “I grew up eating at fancy restaurants. All over the world, really. We were sort of a traveling family, spent a lot of time in hotels. My mom never cooked, definitely never baked. If you’d asked me the question when I was younger I’d have said something pretentious like a chocolate mousse bomb or anything with a feuilletine crunch.” She pauses and rolls her eyes at her own comment. It’s incredibly endearing. “But in college, my roommate loved cooking. Nothing fancy, but she made the best brownies. And we’d eat them in pajamas in bed watching movies together. Sometimes she’d even underbake them on purpose and we’d just eat them right out of the pan with spoons. I don’t know. To me, brownies are like the chocolate version of family time. And…I’m rambling again. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, still soaking up each of her words. This is what I’ve always loved about food. The memories it creates, the feelings it can evoke. The warmth. But I don’t tell Maya any of that. Instead, I ask, “How about that drink?”
We make our way out of the restaurant and are met with that perfect September chill in the air. Not cold yet, just the barest hint of autumn making itself known. A few leaves have started to fall, their crunch adding to the sounds of the city as we cross Houston Street. There’s a cocktail bar right across from Gairdín so I direct us there, opting to keep this quick.
“What are you drinking?” I ask as we take seats at the bar.
“Oh, no, this is my treat. I did have to beg you here.” She orders herself a Hendricks martini while handing her card to the bartender. “And whatever he’s having.”
“Whiskey. Neat.”
“Hmm, I figured you for an old fashioned.”
“Too sweet for me.” Just like you , I want to say. This woman never stops smiling. It’s fucking distracting because I can’t stop looking at her mouth. Those lips. The way her teeth dig into the bottom one when she giggles, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. I haven’t laughed like that in years.
“So can I ask you a few questions about how you got into cooking?” The drinks come and she takes a sip of her martini. I try not to watch but I fail.
“Sure. You’re not gonna write any of this down?”
“Steel trap,” she says, pointing to her temple. “I never forget a thing.” She laughs again and re-crosses her legs. “Don’t worry about being formal. I’ll send you everything before I post so you can approve. I would never write anything you didn’t want out there. Promise.”
“Yeah, sure, okay.” I take a long pull of my whiskey, wondering why I can’t seem to say no to this woman.
“Let’s start with the easy ones. When did you first start cooking? Who taught you?”
“My mom. Well, sort of. I really taught myself to be honest.”
“So you spent a lot of time with your mom in the kitchen?” she asks with a warm smile. She thinks this is a sweet story of a boy bonding with his mother. I hate to break it to her.
“No. My mom spent a lot of time in the kitchen with my sister. My step-sister. When we all moved in together, after my dad died, I think Mom was trying her best to bond with Kennedy, so they were always baking and whatnot. Kenna was only six when we joined families. I was ten, so…” What the hell am I doing? “Anyway?—”
“So, you wanted to be a part of that? Family cooking time?”
No, I wanted Mom to pay attention to me. I wanted my step-dad to acknowledge my existence and somehow thought copying recipes from Bobby Flay would make it happen. I was an idiot and a fuck-up, but somehow, cooking was my coping mechanism. It was like therapy to me, a way to keep my brain busy and myself out of too much trouble.
“Next question?”
“You’re very secretive, Liam.” She says it jokingly but she’s not wrong.
“And you’re very nosy.”
“This is an interview. That’s kind of the point.”
“Fine. You want the truth? There was no family time. My family wanted nothing to do with me. I was…not a good kid. But I had a lot of food memories from my dad, and that sort of motivated me, I guess.” She places a hand on mine, but never interrupts. I hate the way I’m telling her shit I’ve never told anyone. She must be some kind of witch. “Also, I was shit at school. I’m, uh, dyslexic, so I would usually fuck around in the kitchen to avoid doing homework.”
“Oh, interesting. Do you find it hard to follow recipes?” Her wide eyes shine back with genuine interest. I’ve always been forthcoming about my dyslexia, but I’m usually met with the typical reaction of awkward sympathy and the hope to move on to another topic.
“Yeah, I don’t use a lot of recipes. That’s why I’m not big on pastries. Can’t always make shit up as I go. But don’t worry, I can make delicious brownies.”
“Oh.” She pauses, tilts her head. “Are you flirting with me?”
Shit. Was I? I’ve been with a handful of women since Poppy’s mom disappeared two years ago, but I never really seek them out. It’s usually just a drunken hook-up. I don’t date. I can’t, not with my kid. Her nanny is the most stable relationship in my life.
But something about Maya makes me want to get to know her. And yeah, I’d like to get my mouth on her, all over her. But I also want to make her brownies. Maybe another batch of those corn cakes she plans on dreaming about.
“Is it okay if I am? Or do you not still find me very attractive ?”
“Ahh,” she squeals, slamming her face into her open palms. “I was kind of hoping you missed that with how much I was talking.”
“I don’t miss a thing.”
She takes a deep breath, followed by another swig of her martini. I signal the bartender for another round.
“All I meant was that you surprised me. I mean, obviously you’re attractive, but you were just not at all what I was expecting.”
“How so?” I ask.
“I mean, you look more like the kind of guy who chops wood as a hobby than someone who pulls out a pair of tweezers to plate watercress.”
Laughter threatens my senses, but I keep it at bay. I’m not the kind of guy who laughs anymore.
“I despise watercress.”
She howls . I reach out my hand to steady hers before she spills her brand new martini all over us.
Looking up at me through dark lashes, she grins. “I see you, Liam Harley. You might have a grumpy exterior, but I bet I can get a smile out of you.”
“Dare you to try.” I lean in a bit, reminding her that I am definitely flirting.
She bites her lip. It’s so fucking sexy I have to swallow a groan. She’s not even trying. If anything, she looks wary.
“Are you a nice guy, Liam?” Her hand finds my knee. “Because you seem like one. But I have a bad track record of flirting with men who turn out to be not very nice. Not to me, at least.”
Her expression is so vulnerable, bearing everything to me. It feels like I’m holding her heart in my hands. And after what she said about her ex, I don’t blame her. She’s been through shit, just like I have.
“Honestly, I don’t know if I’m a nice guy. But I’ve been betrayed, just like you have. Poppy’s mom left us almost two years ago. Nothing but a note saying she wasn’t cut out for domestic life, that she was moving to LA. Haven’t heard a word from her since.” Maya gasps, her hands shooting up to cover her mouth. But her eyes say everything. “I’m definitely not good enough for you, but if you want to flirt with me, Maya, I promise I won’t hurt you.”
A long moment passes, the sounds of hushed conversations, clinking glassware and a pool game behind us filling the silence.
“I’ll think about it,” she finally says, grinning wide. Even in the dim light I can see a constellation of freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. The urge to count them hits me in the chest. “Let me ask you a few more questions first.”