Chapter 4
Chapter Four
M ichael was still in a foul mood when he woke up the next morning at his father’s house, where he often spent the night to keep the old man company.
To burn off steam, he threw on some sweats, laced up his sneakers and went for a run through the idyllic Stone Mountain neighborhood.
He couldn’t get the woman from last night out of his mind. Every time he replayed the encounter in his mind, he grew more angry and disgusted with himself. He couldn’t believe he’d let things get out of control like that. He was supposed to be teaching her a lesson for lying to him. But the moment he’d taken her in his arms and kissed her, he knew he was in deep trouble. She was built for a man’s sinful pleasure, softness and curves in all the right places. He’d wanted to devour her, to feast on all the tastes and textures of her warm, luscious body. He’d been seconds away from lifting up her dress and burying his mouth between her thighs when she’d pulled away, nearly killing him in the process.
Even now his groin tightened painfully at the memory. He’d been half out of his mind with lust, damn near ready to sell his soul for just one more taste of her.
But what bothered him more than anything was that he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that he’d been wrong about her. Maybe she’d been telling the truth after all. Maybe her last name really was St. James, and somehow Griffin had gotten her confused with the Houston food critic.
Michael scowled to himself. He had to stop thinking about her. He hadn’t misjudged her, damn it. But even if he had, what could he do about it now? After the way things ended between them last night, it was highly unlikely she’d ever step foot in his restaurant again.
He was still scowling when he returned to the silent house and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast for his father.
In no time he had buttermilk biscuits baking in the oven. As he went to work chopping fresh chives, ham and mushrooms for an omelet, his mind wasn’t on the razor-sharp knife in his hand—though it probably should’ve been.
“Nothing like the smell of hot coffee and biscuits in the morning.”
Michael jumped, and narrowly missed slicing off the tip of his finger. Smothering a curse, he glanced up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man in a checkered robe walking toward him. He’d been so caught up in his thoughts he hadn’t even heard Sterling Wolf enter the large kitchen.
“Hey, Dad,” he mumbled as his father joined him at the center island, a copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution tucked beneath one arm.
“Mornin’, son. Didn’t mean to startle you—especially while you’re holding a big knife,” Sterling said with a gritty chuckle. He clasped Michael on the back of the neck and pressed a quick, affectionate kiss to his temple. As he pulled away, he surveyed the contents of the cutting board and raised a thick salt-and-pepper brow. “What did those poor mushrooms ever do to you?”
Michael followed the direction of his father’s gaze, frowning when he saw the eviscerated remains of the mushrooms he’d been chopping for the omelet. Damn. As if it weren’t bad enough that the mystery woman was wreaking havoc on his libido. Now she was messing up his knife-work, too.
“I chopped ’em extra fine on purpose,” he said, straight-faced.
His father looked skeptical. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. Wanted you to have an easier time chewing your food, being a senior citizen and all.” He laughed and ducked as Sterling playfully swatted at his head with the newspaper.
“I may be a senior citizen, boy, but I can still take you across my knee—arthritis or not. And don’t you forget it.”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said with mock sobriety .
His teasing words to the contrary, no one could dispute that Sterling Wolf was the epitome of robust health, though that hadn’t always been the case. Several years ago, he’d suffered a heart attack that prompted the need for a drastic lifestyle change. Michael and his younger brother, Marcus, had stepped in and taken charge. Overriding their father’s objections, they’d sold the family home—which had become a money pit—and relocated Sterling to the tranquil suburbs of Stone Mountain. Within a year his health had done a dramatic one-eighty, thanks to the new environment as well as the personal nutritionist and housekeeper who’d been hired to look after him.
Michael poured his father a cup of coffee, a decaf blend he’d discovered during a visit to Italy a few years ago. The coffee was so rich and flavorful that Sterling never suspected it was basically caffeine-free. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t complain about.
Taking an appreciative sip from his mug, Sterling claimed a bar stool at the large island while Michael set about chopping a new batch of mushrooms before sautéing them in a pan.
“So how was your trip?” Sterling asked, though he and Michael had spoken frequently during his monthlong publicity tour. “Sell a lot of books?”
Michael shrugged, deftly cracking eggs into a bowl. “I sold enough.”
Which, of course, was an understatement. He’d sold out at every signing and had lines wrapped around the block. Before he returned home, his editor called to tell him that the cookbook had just gone into a third printing.
He relayed the good news to his father as he seasoned and whisked the eggs.
“That’s my boy,” Sterling said, beaming with pride. “Life’s good, ain’t it?”
Michael had to agree. His cookbooks were bestsellers, his restaurants were thriving and his TV show still boasted top ratings. Life was definitely good.
So why did he suddenly feel so damn restless and unsatisfied?
As he melted butter in a preheated skillet, his father gave him a sly, knowing smile. “Meet any pretty ladies while you were on the road?”
“Of course.” But none had appealed to him even half as much as the woman from the restaurant .
Shit , he thought with a fresh stab of irritation. He wished he’d stuck around long enough to at least get her real name. Not having that piece of information was bugging the hell out of him.
Giving himself a hard mental shake, he poured the egg batter into the skillet and let it cook for a minute, then added chives, ham and mushrooms. The appetizing aroma saturated the air, bringing a pleased grin to his father’s face.
“I sure have missed your cooking, son. Don’t get me wrong. Frizell’s a good chef, and I appreciate the healthy stuff she makes for me. But she’s no substitute for you. When I woke up this morning and smelled your biscuits baking, I thought I was dreaming. And then I remembered you were back in town.” Sterling’s grin widened. “I couldn’t get downstairs fast enough.”
“Gee, pops, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Michael teased.
Sterling chuckled. “The days you cook for me are the highlight of my week. It’s the only time I get to eat whatever I want without having to worry about my cholesterol or fiber intake. Your cooking is a special treat for me, son. So tell your publisher not to send you on any more book tours.” He winked. “At least not for another ten years or so.”
Michael laughed. “I’m sure that’ll go over real well.” He grabbed the skillet handle and flipped the omelet into the air with an elaborate flourish.
His dad grinned with boyish delight. “No matter how many times I’ve seen you do that, it always amazes me. You’re gonna have to teach me that trick one of these days.”
“It’s all in the wrist.”
“So you always say.” Sterling chuckled, perusing the front page of his paper. He’d sooner walk over hot coals than read his daily news online. “Mama Wolf told me you’ve been on her heart lately. Did she get ahold of you?”
“Yeah, we talked yesterday,” Michael said, smiling fondly. His great-grandmother was off doing relief work somewhere in Ghana. The family matriarch was a tireless humanitarian, a renowned genealogist and one of the oldest living residents in Savannah. Nothing slowed her down. She was a phenom, and universally revered.
“She’s really sorry she won’t be here for your season premiere,” his father said, echoing what Mama Wolf had repeatedly told him over the phone, despite his assurances that he understood. “You know she wouldn’t miss the taping without a good reason. You were her first great-grandbaby, and though she’d never admit it, you’ve always been her favorite.”
“I know,” Michael acknowledged with a wink, “but don’t tell anyone.”
“Never in a million years,” his father laughed, flapping open his newspaper. “Anyway, the others will be back from their cruise next week, so they’ll definitely be at the taping.”
By “others” he meant his brother and his wife, along with their eldest son and his family. Four years after tying the knot, Manning and Taylor already had two kids and a third one on the way. They’d been busy, to say the least.
“So what’s on your agenda today? Got a full plate?”
“Yeah,” Michael replied. “Got a meeting with my producers and a couple TV interviews lined up. When I’m done with those, I’m heading straight to the restaurant.”
“You’ve missed being in the kitchen,” his dad said knowingly.
Michael nodded. One of the drawbacks to being a celebrity chef was that he sometimes felt like he did more performing than cooking. Although he understood that touring and promoting his brand were vital to his success, he often wished he could leave that stuff to someone else so he could focus on what he enjoyed most: cooking. He loved being a chef. He loved rising to the challenge of creating unique, delicious meals that would satisfy even the most finicky eaters. He loved the pressure-cooker intensity of the kitchen. He loved taking a new cook under his wing, and he thrived on the camaraderie he shared with his staff. Hell, he didn’t even mind the long hours. Being a chef was physically, mentally and emotionally demanding.
And he wouldn’t trade it for the world.
Turning off the stove, he slid the omelet off the skillet and onto a plate. He garnished it with fresh basil and removed the biscuits from the oven, adding two to the plate and drizzling gravy over them.
As he served his father, Sterling gleefully rubbed his hands together. “Have I told you how grateful I am that you’ve found your calling?”
Michael chuckled. “You may have mentioned it once or twice.”
Sterling ate a forkful of omelet, closed his eyes and let out a hearty groan that made Michael grin.
When his phone rang, he dug it out of his pocket and checked the screen. It was Drew Corbett, the executive producer of his cooking show .
“Hey, Mike,” Drew greeted him, brisk and annoyingly upbeat even at such an early hour. “How was the whirlwind book tour?”
“Great. I’m already looking forward to the next trip.” Michael winked at his dad, who shot him a look that said, You better be joking!
Drew laughed. “Sure. We all know how much you love being on the road.” He paused. “Not!”
Michael grinned lazily, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “What’s up, Drew? You calling to tell me the meeting’s been rescheduled?”
“Not at all. Actually, I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t forgotten about it. Figured you’d be sleeping off jet lag this morning, so I decided not to call you too early.”
Michael grunted and took a sip of coffee.
“Everyone at the studio is really excited about the new season of Howlin’ Good ,” Drew said. “I think our viewers are gonna get a real kick out of the apprentice series. As you might imagine, we were inundated with contest entries from all over the country. We’ve finally gone through all of them and selected our five finalists.”
“That’s good.”
“Our test kitchen favorite was a curry chicken soufflé submitted by a woman from Houston,” Drew continued. “I think even you’d be impressed with the recipe, that’s how good it was.”
“Yeah? And you say she’s from Houston?”
“Born and raised.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hang on a sec.” The noise of rustling papers could be heard in the background. After another moment Drew came back on the line. “Here’s the file. Her name’s Reese St. James.”
Michael blinked. “Come again?”
“It’s Reese St. James.” Drew sounded puzzled. “Is there a problem?”
“No.” A grim smile curved Michael’s mouth. “It’s just…ironic.”
“What’s ironic?”
“I met a woman last night who claimed her last name was St. James.”
“Claimed?”
“Long story. Anyway, tell me more about this finalist.”
“According to her entry form, she’s an ob-gyn at Houston Methodist. She enjoys cooking as a stress reliever. She wrote that if she weren’t a doctor, she’d probably be a food critic. ”
Michael went still. Could Reese St. James be the same woman he’d met last night? What were the odds?
“I already called to notify her that she finaled in the contest,” Drew said.
“You spoke to her?”
“No, I left a message on her voicemail yesterday. I was going to try her again this morning. She’s the only finalist I haven’t spoken to, and I want to make sure she’s available to fly here for the auditions on Friday.”
Michael frowned as a new thought occurred to him. If Reese St. James was the woman he’d met last night, had she known that she was a finalist in his contest when she showed up at the restaurant last night? If so, why hadn’t she mentioned it to him? Had she planned to seduce him in the hopes that he’d choose her to be his apprentice?
Only one way to find out.
“Why don’t you let me call her back?” he suggested.
“ You ?” Drew asked in surprise.
“Sure. Why not? After the way you raved about the recipe she submitted, I have to admit I’m a little curious about her. She could be the one.”
“Maybe,” Drew hedged. “But none of the other finalists received a personal phone call from you. It might look suspicious, like we’re playing favorites.”
“Why don’t you let me worry about that?” Michael said smoothly. “What’s her number?”