Chapter 5
The moment I opened my eyes the next morning, Zach Jeffries was the first thing on my mind. I was a traitor to my own self. Last night, as I’d peeled off my cotton tank top because it was so hot and the stupid fan was useless, I lay in my bed, staring outside at the sliver of moon and the twinkling stars, imagining Zach lying right next to me. On top of me. Under me.
I did not have such thoughts about the cute vegan chef, whose name I kept forgetting.
“Earth to Clementine,” my sister was saying, a forkful of pad thai on the way to her mouth.
Once a month, Elizabeth and I took turns having a “your world/my world” lunch to keep in touch, since those two worlds didn’t often collide except for family functions. Last month was her world, which meant having an uninspired fruit salad in her stodgy law firm’s cafeteria while listening to her and a colleague talk shop. This month was my world, so Elizabeth, in her severe suit and dull pumps, sat beside me on a bench in Palisades Park, having vegan pad thai from my favorite Asian-Fusion truck.
“God, this is good,” she said, fork in mouth.
Elizabeth might be uptight, but she appreciated good food, even if it was vegan, which she gave up a zillion years ago. When she was thirteen, Elizabeth had her first hamburger with an incredulous “I can’t believe you’ve never had a hamburger” friend at ln-N-Out Burger. She came home and informed our parents she was now a carnivore. She took it for granted that they’d respect her choice to be who she was (which, of course, they did), and that was that. At the time, I was annoyingly militant about being a vegan and tried my best to make her feel as gross as I thought she was for going to the dark side. She’d ignored me and often brought home burgers and lobster rolls to eat in front of me while smacking her lips. When I went off the rails that one summer, she’d said “Ha, told you!” ten times a day. I Ha’d right back at her, pointing out zits on my once-clear forehead and how I’d had to drop out of training for a 10K because I was such a slug, but she’d claimed she felt perfectly fine and always had. Elizabeth did have amazing skin. And worked twelve-hour days and then hit the gym for an hour every other night. She got lucky, that’s all.
From the looks of us, you’d never know we were sisters, unless you noticed we had the same color green-hazel eyes. I looked like our dad, blond and tall. Elizabeth was a dead ringer for our mother, except my sister’s chestnut-brown hair was cut in a very clean bob, whereas our mom’s hair was down to her waist and graying. And I don’t think our mother ever wore a suit. Our differences aside, Elizabeth and I had always been close, even though she was four years older and lived to be conventional. In our house, that made her a rebel.
As we’d waited in line at the truck, I hit her up for information about ordinances and regulations about huge signs on commercial buildings, and she knew all about websites to check for size regulations and other arcane details about petitions and offending neighbors and potentially hurting small businesses. Of course, the minute she heard I was talking about The Silver Steer, she said she and Doug, her fiancé, were already on a waiting list for opening night.
“You’re a million miles away, Clem,” she said, taking a sip of her iced tea. “Are you worried about your new initiatives? I can help you with a business plan. Did you—”
“Business is great, actually,” I said as a guy on a skateboard almost ran over my foot. “The cooking class is going better than I expected, and I’m sure the students will be word-of-mouth spreaders. And I got two calls this morning about the personal chef and private lessons side, so right now, it’s all good.”
“Right now,” she repeated. “You probably have, what, a thousand bucks left in the bank?”
Ha. Mucho more, actually, thanks to my ex-boyfriend and my new frugality, ever since I no longer had a steady paycheck. Between that and the money that would come in here and there from the personal chef stuff and the next session of cooking classes, I could make a real go of being my own boss.
“Elizabeth, I’m fine. Trust me. Okay?”
She raised one eyebrow and peered at me. “Okay, fine. But if you need money, ask. Got it?”
“Got it.” We stood up, took last sips of our iced tea, and threw our boxes and bags away. “And thanks.” She might be bossy, but she rocked as a sister.
We headed over to the farmers’ market, where Elizabeth oohed and ahhed at the rosemary artisan breads while I bought ingredients for tomorrow’s personal chef clients—two college students who were thinking of going vegan and hired me to teach them how to make some easy, freezable meals, like pizzas and burritos.
With three loafs of bread sticking out of her tote bag, Elizabeth joined me at a big basket of gorgeous red bell peppers. I took six and moved on to the green and yellow.
“Bringing a date to Mom and Dad’s party this weekend?” she asked, her two-carat diamond ring glinting in the brilliant July sunshine. Elizabeth was engaged to a fellow lawyer who didn’t believe she really came from organic hippie farmers until he met our parents last summer. No matter what any of us said, his response was a half-good-natured, half-appalled, “That’s so interesting.”
Our parents were celebrating thirty years of marriage and having a huge party at the farm. A weekend among my kind and I’d be better armed against the face and charisma of Zach Jeffries.
“Nope,” I said, paper-bagging some mushrooms and moving to the garlic bushels. “Not seeing anyone.” Shit. Shouldn’t have said that. Elizabeth was constantly trying to set me up on blind dates with any lawyer at her firm who had remotely cool hair or carried a messenger bag instead of a briefcase. Once she tricked me into being anecdotal data for a case involving an employee demanding vegan options at her workplace cafeteria. The guy and I got into a huge fight, and I ended up dipping the end of his tie into his coffee. But the fix-up offers kept coming.
“Glad to hear that,” said someone with a British accent.
I turned around to find the cute vegan chef—Alexander, I now remembered, with his nice-chap smile and dimples—standing with two reusable shopping bags full of produce and wrapped goods. He looked so fresh-scrubbed, like he’d just washed his face a second ago. Two days had passed since we’d re-met in my apartment during the cooking class, and he hadn’t called. There’d been something so puppy-dog about him, I had almost expected a call that night.
He lifted the bags. “One of today’s three specials at Fresh. Cherry Barbeque Seitan Napoleon. Eight layers.”
“Barbeque week was my idea,” I said. And ha. Emil probably hated that he’d been unable to resist trying it.
“And a good one. Crazy reservations for the weekend.”
“Sounds like dinner at our house growing up,” Elizabeth said. “Not just vegan, but weird vegan.”
Alexander smiled and stuck out his hand, which Elizabeth shook. As I introduced them, I could tell Elizabeth approved.
We made the usual small talk and I could also tell that Elizabeth was aware of how Alexander was looking at me, as though he couldn’t bear to drag his eyes away from my face (which I appreciated, even if he didn’t quite inspire the same can’t-take-my-eyes-off-you lust in me), so she moved on to the gingerbread table three booths away to give him a chance to ask me out.
Except he didn’t. He told me a funny story about one of the new waiters at Fresh. Asked how the cooking class had gone. Told me I had to try the baba ghanoush from Mediterranean, a former favorite restaurant that had scorned me on my job hunt, so no. And said he liked my shirt. But he didn’t ask me out. Which, of course, made me slightly more interested in him. He wasn’t even looking for an in, like asking if I’d seen a certain movie, if I’d been to a certain restaurant.
He glanced at his watch, said he had to go, called “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth” at my sister, flashed us a wide smile, and took off.
Huh.
“He’s so cute,” Elizabeth said, biting into a gingerbread man’s head as we watched him disappear into the crowd.
“Yeah, he’s cute, but not my type.”
“Too nice?”
“Ben was nice,” I reminded her as she stopped at a table full of chocolates.
“Yeah, I guess he was.”
“Alexander’s just lacking … something.” Like not being Zach Jeffries. What the hell was wrong with me?
She bought a pound of almond bark. “Well, I guess you can’t help who does it for you. Though, I’ll tell you, the first time I saw Doug—even the second time? I was a little meh on him. Third date? He made my knees weak.”
Doug looked a little bit like Elmer Fudd. So maybe there was hope for Alexander.
“See, I told you that vegans don’t look like shriveled-up vampire ghosts,” said a short redhead to an even shorter blonde when she opened the door to her apartment the next morning.
My newest clients—sisters, roommates, and Santa Monica College students Morgan and Dana. Their apartment—right around the corner—was even smaller than mine.
“You’re, like, skinny, but healthy-looking,” the blonde said, eyeing me up and down. “We want to be skinny bitches,” she added, holding up one of my flyers, which Morgan, the redhead, said they’d seen on the community billboard at the hot yoga place I lived above.
“I’m not really that bitchy, though,” Morgan said.
“Being a skinny bitch is about cutting the crap out of your life,” I said, putting down my bag of ingredients on the little round kitchen table. “Eating good stuff. Speaking up. Out. Treating yourself right.”
“Sign us up,” Dana said.
We got to cooking, sautéing veggies and shredding vegan cheese and creating six different pizzas, including my barbeque seitan, which I had no doubt would be the most ordered item at Fresh. I showed them how to fill fajitas, roll enchiladas, and make an insane chile.
Their fridge and freezer full, I started packing up. I liked this personal chef thing a lot more than I thought I would. Especially when it didn’t involve former boyfriends and their fiancées.
Dana handed me a check. “Our mom said to tell her if you were good. She has this whole group of friends who do book clubs and Zumba and whatever, and they want to do cleanses and learn about veganism. I’ll give her your flyer.”
“Do that,” I said. Middle-aged moms had money. This was good.
Much richer, I headed out into brilliant California sunshine. My phone rang, killing the Zen of the moment. Unfamiliar number, too.
Maybe another potential client. Or the cute vegan chef.
“Clementine Cooper,” I said.
“Clementine, it’s Zach. Jeffries. I have a business proposition for you,” he said, his deep voice sending the tiniest jolts up my spine.
“I think you’re forgetting I don’t do animal innards,” I reminded him.
I could see him smiling. This was bad.
“Well aware,” he said. “I want you to come up with two vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. The menu should have something for everyone. I’d like to arrange for you to do a cooking demonstration and tasting for me.”
I rolled my eyes, which I was sure he could see. “I charge two hundred per hour, two-hour minimum,” I told him, making up numbers. “And the cost of ingredients is extra, of course.”
“Email me a shopping list and I’ll have my assistant pick everything up,” he said, as if that was perfectly normal. “How’s Monday night at my placer Seven o’clock.”
Monday night. Not Monday morning. Not Monday afternoon. Not the ole nine to five regular business hours. Night. Interesting. Maybe Baby wasn’t his girlfriend, after all.
And his place . No doubt something amazing right on the beach. “Let me check my calendar,” I said, silently counting to ten. “I have a cancellation, so sure. I have you booked for Monday night at seven.”
He gave me an address on Ocean Avenue, as expected.
Zach Jeffries. And me. Alone in his house.
Sara and I spent the weekend coming up with the two vegan entrees. Something that would complement the regular menu and specials, which were all dead-cow related, unfortunately. If I came up with something too out there, like the cherry barbeque napoleon that was presently being served to many a table at Fresh, Sara would bring me back to reality. We were talking about a menu of meat. Steak fries. Twelve dollars for a side of steak fries, but fries.
By Sunday afternoon, I’d narrowed a long list of possibilities down to two. I sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and my laptop while Sara made us lunch—hummus and homemade whole wheat garlic pita chips. From the delicious smell wafting over to the table, I had taught her well. “Sar, what do you think: a portobello mushroom burger and some kind of tofu stir-fry.”
She handed me a plate. “Yes and yes. The wannabe models who come in with their steak-eating dates will all order your stuff even if they’re not vegan.”
Good point.
Sara turned on a Downton Abbey rerun, and I worked up some original recipes. An hour later, I had an incredible-sounding portobello burger with avocado slices and roasted red peppers and a basic but kick-ass tofu stir-fry. For added inspiration, I checked over different recipes from the school I attended, the restaurants I’d worked in, and I called my dad to get his three cents. The man never disappointed. He suggested blackened Cajun tofu for the stir-fry—brilliant as always.
“So is it just gonna be the two of you?” Sara called from her bedroom. Or will his chef be there?”
“I don’t know. I’m kind of hoping we aren’t alone. Zach is too … something.”
“Yeah, too unbelievably gorgeous,” she shouted back. “So what are you gonna wear? I say make him crawl.”
“What does that even mean, you goof?” I couldn’t imagine Zach Jeffries crawling for anyone, really. “Anyway, I’ve already decided to dress like a chef. I want him to take me seriously. I’m wearing my white skinny jeans and chef’s jacket.”
“Sorry, Clem, but you actually look hot in that.”
I smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t want him to think so.”
“Smart girl,” she said. “Holy crap, I just stepped on the scale and I lost two and a half more pounds!”
“Awesome!” I called back.
She walked over with the scale, put it down by my feet, and stepped on it. “Two and a half pounds! Gone! And a pound and a half last week. And I’m not even starving.”
I looked down at the digital readout. “I’m really proud of you, Sara.”
She smiled. “You know what? I’m going for the Attractive Friend spot in the yogurt commercial—the go-see is Monday. I didn’t think I had a chance—and I know I’ve only lost seven and a half pounds, but whatever, I’m going.”
“Yogurt. Blech. But that’s so great, Sara. You absolutely should go for it. And you’re gonna get it, too.”
She grabbed me into a hug, then swiped a hummus-laden chip and skipped into her bedroom with the scale.
Zach’s place was on the beach. On. The. Beach. A narrow three-story white and windows mini palace with balconies on the second and third floors. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler opened the door.
I was a few minutes early, and there was no way I was ringing that bell before exactly seven. I turned to look at the beach, the Santa Monica Pier just a block away, stretching out under the still blue sky.
At exactly seven o’clock, I rang the bell. My palms were sweating.
No butler. Just him. He stood in the doorway in a dark blue T-shirt, jeans—low-slung, slightly worn—and bare feet. A beagle that was standing behind him eyed me, then waddled back to a red floor pillow by the fireplace and curled up.
“Hey, Chef,” Zach said, holding open the door for me to enter.
I dragged my eyes from him to the incredible house. There was lots of glass and leather and serious pieces of art. One wall was entirely windows.
“This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment,” I marveled as I followed him in. Stainless steel and soapstone counters. And no one else. Like a girlfriend. Or the chef from The Silver Steer. We were alone.
He leaned against the counter. He had to be six foot two. Maybe three. I hadn’t noticed last week how incredibly broad his shoulders were. “I liked your place,” he said. “What I saw of it, anyway.”
Yeah, right. “I’ll bet you never lived in a place like mine.”
He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer. I shook my head, and he put one back. “Okay, that’s true. I made a lot of money while still in college. I started a company at my dorm room desk and got lucky.”
“Lucky? You believe in luck?”
“Actually, no. I believe in smart. And action.”
“Me, too.”
“I can tell, Clementine. That’s why I specifically wanted you to design the vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five? And you’ve already worked at some major restaurants and have your own business.”
“I’m twenty-six. But thank you.”
He smiled. “I admire people with strong convictions, and passions. I always have. I liked that you barged into the restaurant that day and stood up to—what did you call her? Lady Clipboard.”
I laughed. “So the admiration still holds even if it’s against everything you’re about.”
He opened the beer and took a swig. “I’m more than what I eat, Clementine.”
“But you live very differently than I do.”
“How do you know? I wasn’t aware we’d spent that much time together.”
“Ha. But still. You own a steakhouse. You spew fuel emissions into the air with your motorcycle. You use that crappy dishwashing liquid with tons of chemicals,” I added, jerking a thumb to the sink.
“Huh. Definitely never thought about the dish soap.” He opened the refrigerator and pointed to two shelves. “Those are the perishables.” He opened a cabinet. “And the rest of the ingredients. My chef approved your entrees. Get past me and I’ll hand him your recipes and pay you well for them.”
“You talk money a lot,” I said, taking out ingredients for the stir-fry.
“I own a restaurant. It’s all about money.”
“My place is going to be about the food , ” I said.
He laughed and lifted his beer in salute. “I have no doubt that place will be a hit. So talk to me about tofu,” he said as I placed the block of firm tofu on a cutting board. “What the hell is it?”
I told him all about tofu, that it was made from soybeans and water, was high in protein and beautifully absorbed the flavors of spices and marinades. How it had less than a hundred calories, ten grams of protein, and five grams of fat per half cup serving. Good stuff.
And he listened to every word. His eyes on my face. On my lips, I noticed. Then back up at my eyes. Then surreptitiously glancing lower, checking me out.
As I stood next to him by the sink, draining the tofu, he was so close that I could smell his soap.
He seemed to notice he was staring at me and took a slug of his beer. “Did you start cooking after culinary school or did you always cook?”
Man. I had to actually force myself to look away from him, too. “I learned the basics from my father. My earliest memory is being in the kitchen with him, learning how to snap peas and tear the husks off corn.” I thought of my dad, in his wheelchair, so weak now, and I got that awful clenching feeling in my chest. “So, your dad took you out hunting the minute you could walk?”
There. Good, Clem. You have to remind yourself that this guy is a total carnivore. He’s the anti-you. Do not get suckered by that face. Or body.
He smiled. The kind of smile that said he liked being challenged. “I’m not a hunter. Ours is a breeding ranch. But I did grow up with cattle and chickens and rabbits walking in my path all the time. There was a time—I was thirteen—when I was really awkward and skinny and my hair stuck up in all directions, and I transferred to a new school and had no friends. A goose and a rooster were the only creatures I talked to for months. I told them everything.”
Huh. Unexpected. “They say anything back?” I asked as I sliced the tofu, added the spices to the food processor, and then got busy slicing scallions and then shallots. I found myself moving a bit closer to him. My right arm brushed against his left one, and a freak tingle shot up my spine. From his arm .
“They were good listeners.”
He looked right at me, and we just oogled each other for a very long moment. Dammit.
I nodded, trying to break whatever this crazy thing was that was happening between us. “Yeah, animals are amazing listeners. I grew up telling our chickens and dogs and cats my life story and my sob stories.”
“I can’t imagine you had an awkward period,” he said, peering into the pan, where the spice-dredged tofu sizzled on low heat.
“Actually, I did. Before braces and filling out some I looked like a bucktoothed pole.” He didn’t need to know that until I discovered Frizz-Ease as a fourteen-year-old, I also had Bellatrix Lestrange’s hair, only blond.
“Well, it seems to have worked out okay,” he said, looking right into my eyes again. “You can’t tell me you’re not seeing anyone.”
A little jolt spiked up the back of my neck. “Nope.”
“Well, that must mean you’re getting over someone, then.”
I turned to face him. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’re beautiful. And passionate about what you do. Like I said, you’re doing your own thing, Clementine. It’s very attractive. So if you were interested in a relationship, I’m sure you’d have one.”
I turned back to the pan and added the veggies. “Something ended six months ago. Badly—for me, anyway. So I put blinders on and focused on getting promoted to sous chef and chef, and I thought it worked. But then—”
I stopped talking. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life.
“But then what?” he asked, stepping closer until he was right next to me, his back to the counter, our shoulders touching.
He didn’t move. And neither did I.
“Someone blindsided me again and I got fired from a top restaurant. That’s why I’m trying to get the Skinny Bitch biz off the ground—being a personal chef, offering cooking classes so that one day I can open Clementine’s No Crap Café.”
“So do you think The Silver Steer and your Skinny Bitch world can coexist on Montana and 14th?”
I smiled. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but maybe.”
He lifted up my chin with his hand and leaned down and kissed me.
“You just kissed me,” I said like an idiot. Duh.
“Yeah, I did. Couldn’t help myself. I guess that means we’re not enemies anymore.”
“I never said that . ”
He laughed. “I’ve always liked a challenge.”
Yeah, no kidding. And remember that, Clem. A zillionaire who gets everything he wants? Of course, he’s interested in the vegan who doesn’t worship at his feet like every other woman probably does. Remember that. Live it. Don’t be lured. “You know what I find challenging? Making sure blackened tofu doesn’t get so black that it’s burned to a crisp,” I said, turning off the burner and plating the stir-fry. The tofu was fine, but I wasn’t.
“I’ll let you focus on your work,” he said, staring at me for a moment. “I’ll get out the stuff for the portobello burger. I admit I like the sound of that better than the tofu stir-fry, but my chef—Walker—says both will definitely move.”
As he opened the refrigerator, I could still feel the imprint of his lips on mine.
And then he was standing in front of me, kissing me again. Instead of taking my own advice, instead of not being lured, I kissed him back. Hard.
The doorbell rang, and Zach went on kissing me as though someone wasn’t obsessively pressing the bell over and over.
Like a girlfriend.
“It’s like someone knows you’re here and isn’t giving up,” I said, heart unexpectedly plummeting. I shouldn’t care.
The bell would not stop ringing.
“Excuse me,” he said, looking pissed.
He stepped outside and closed the door behind him, so, of course, I went right to the peephole to get a look.
She was stunning, of course. Very tall. Long blond hair and huge boobs.
And in seconds, she was in his arms. I couldn’t tell if they were kissing, but he was holding her. Very close.
Dick. He was just all over me!
You’re here to cook for a job , I reminded myself. Do not walk out. Do not tell him he sucks. Just do what you’re here for. Make your four hundred bucks. More money will come for the recipes themselves.
Just grab the portobello mushrooms and pull off the fucking stems.
The door opened, and in walked Zach and this woman who I still thought of as Baby .
“See,” he said to her, his arm extended toward me. “Chef jacket. The smell of an amazing meal cooking. This is Clementine, and she is here making some vegan options for The Silver Steer.”
Baby glanced at me, her big blue eyes on my jacket. “I’ll wait for you upstairs,” she said to Zach. “In your bedroom,” she added, eyes, suddenly cold, back on me.
Before he could say anything, she was marching up the stairs.
“Sorry about the interruption,” he said. He looked as though he was going to say something else, then slightly shook his head. “I’ll leave you to the burger. Call up when it’s ready for the tasting.”
He started for the stairs.
My blood started to boil. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You just kissed me,” I whispered—unnecessarily generous. “And now you’re dismissing me to go fuck your girlfriend while I audition my cooking for you?” I threw the knife I’d been using to slice avocado in the sink. “Have a nice life.”
I grabbed my bag and stalked toward the door.
“Clementine, wait.”
“For what?” I pulled open the door.
“At least let me pay you,” he called.
Bastard.