Chapter 8
CHAPTER
Elora flipped open her laptop, eager to do the one thing she’d wanted to do since learning Cruz Wardlow was the stranger she’d almost had sex with last night: research him online.
To do her job well, she liked to be fully informed, and if Cruz would be the face of Kinstead Avocados for the next twelve months, she had to know more.
Surprisingly, there’d been no mention of him when she’d looked up Kinstead Avocados. Then again, considering the farm’s woeful website and lack of social media presence, his absence shouldn’t have been a surprise.
After typing ‘Cruz Wardlow’ into the search engine, she scanned the page that popped up then clicked on the first link, an article from a low-key culinary magazine that had been published a year ago.
Born and raised in northern Victoria, Cruz Wardlow swapped working on an avocado farm for an apron at the age of twenty.
The self-taught chef started his culinary career in Melbourne’s renowned gourmet pubs, including Nott in Smith St, Collingwood, The Bro in Brunswick St, Fitzroy, and Chantal’s in North Melbourne.
Lauded for his use of fresh ingredients to create innovative Australian fusion cuisine, Wardlow completed several courses, including advanced pastry skills, before dabbling in phenomenal desserts.
When offered the sous chef position at Tiles, Melbourne’s trendiest restaurant, three years ago, Wardlow didn’t hesitate.
His refreshing takes on classics like slow-cooked lamb shanks and chicken parmigiana quickly built him a reputation as a rising star.
Not surprisingly, he was appointed head chef at Tiles a scant fifteen months later and he hasn’t looked back.
On the night I visited, I had the pleasure of tasting Wardlow’s handmade ravioli stuffed with scallops and golden beetroot, a melt-in-the-mouth wagyu brisket served with a vibrant persimmon salad, and a decadent chocolate pudding, followed by a cleansing fig and rhubarb granita.
Wardlow’s attention to detail lends itself to superb food presentation, and his talent for combining unlikely ingredients ensures that whatever he cooks will have you salivating.
I highly recommend you sample his exquisite fare at Tiles, on Lonsdale Street, Melbourne.
Elora’s stomach rumbled, as it had not that long ago in Cruz’s presence—totally embarrassing—but after reading that mouth-watering description of his food, her hunger increased.
For a moment, she contemplated ditching the rest of her research and knocking on his door in the hope he’d whipped up dinner, but she wanted to be prepared when they crossed paths next.
From the article, he’d started his cooking journey later, when most budding chefs began after they finished school. She wondered what he’d done in those two years. Had he travelled or stayed on the farm? Had he always loved cooking?
She clicked on a few more links, but they didn’t tell her much: photos of Cruz’s creative dishes with accompanying rave reviews, but not many pics of the man himself.
Not unusual, as many chefs eschewed the limelight, but combined with Cruz’s general grouchiness, she pegged him for a recluse who buried himself in his work with time for little else.
None of the articles mentioned a significant other and a small part of her couldn’t help but be relieved.
Not that she intended to have a repeat of their hot and heavy session, but it would’ve made her think less of him if he’d kissed her when he had a girlfriend.
Then again, a partner wouldn’t be mentioned in culinary reviews.
She moved on to researching social media sites. Cruz had a private Facebook page, with a photo that looked years out of date, and an Instagram profile that featured photos of food and nothing else. Limited use of hashtags, no captions, no updates for the last three months.
And no partner.
Annoyed that her curiosity about his personal life had distracted her from the task at hand, she read a few more articles before realising she’d get more information direct from the source than scouring his limited profiles online.
She closed the laptop, linked her hands and stretched her arms overhead, surprised half an hour had passed.
Dusk had fallen while she’d been distracted, and gorgeous tones of mauve and sienna streaked the sky as she peeked outside.
Another hunger pang made her stomach gripe, so she opened the door, intent on hassling her resident chef to ask if dinner was ready, only to find him standing in front of her, his expression shocked.
‘I brought you dinner,’ he said, pointing to two glass containers at their feet. ‘I should’ve asked if you were allergic to anything, but it’s rice and a lemon asparagus chicken with nothing but stock and spices.’
‘No allergies,’ she said, stunned he’d intended on dropping off the meal rather than sharing it with her as she’d assumed from their earlier conversation.
‘Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘We’re not eating together?’ she blurted, unable to curtail her disappointment.
‘No.’ The frown lines between his brows deepened. ‘I have a lot to catch up on before a meeting with the farm manager tomorrow.’
‘Dinner won’t take long. I’d like to ask you a few questions—’
‘It’s not you, it’s me,’ Cruz muttered. ‘It’s my first night back here and it’s harder than I anticipated, so I’d rather be alone.’
She bit back her first response—Why didn’t you say that?—and nodded. ‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
His eyebrows arched a little, as if surprised she’d let him off the hook.
She should leave him alone, considering he’d just admitted to having trouble being back on the farm.
But the photos she’d taken on their quad tour had sparked a few ideas regarding a profile piece on Kinstead Avocados’ owner and she wanted to capitalise on her creativity.
Considering her online research had raised more questions, she hoped he’d elaborate on the twenty-four-month gap between finishing school and becoming a chef with a little coaxing.
She’d ease into some light conversation, a little flattery, and go from there.
‘I’ve been doing some research about you online,’ she said, drawing him into conversation despite his overt reluctance.
‘I’m sure that made for riveting reading.’
She chuckled at his drollness. ‘You keep a low profile for a celebrated chef.’
‘I believe in letting my food do the talking.’
‘From what I’ve sampled at Tiles, it doesn’t just talk, it yells. You’re exceptionally talented.’
Some of the tension grooving his brow eased. ‘If you’re trying to sweet talk me into sharing dinner with you, you’re wasting your time.’
‘You’re not very comfortable with compliments, are you?’
‘I’m not very comfortable, period.’ His lips clamped shut, like he’d said too much, before he sighed.
‘Cooking is my passion, running Kinstead Avocados isn’t, yet here I am, hence my foul mood.
So trust me when I say I don’t want to inflict my crankiness on you tonight, and it’s best you eat alone. ’
Touched by his honesty, she said, ‘Your crabbiness doesn’t scare me, but I respect your need to chill. My advice is to stream the corniest nineties comedy you can find, stuff your face with a tub of salted caramel ice-cream, and if all else fails, soak in a lavender-infused bath.’
‘Are those recommendations from personal experience?’
‘Yeah.’ Though no amount of comedies, ice-cream or baths had soothed her tetchiness after Jason’s betrayal. Not that she intended on telling Cruz that. Besides, he sounded like he really needed some quiet time tonight, so she’d shelve her subtle grilling for tomorrow.
‘Thanks for dinner.’ She crouched and picked up the containers. ‘Have a good night.’
As she closed the door, she could’ve sworn his disappointment matched hers.