Chapter 6
Savannah
“Your cat’s not going to attack me, is he?” Logan doesn’t bother saying hello as he leans his head through my partially open door, taking a long look around my apartment.
Hello to you too. Swallowing my snarky response, I gesture for him to come inside so I can close the door. “Not unless you give him a reason to.” At the moment, I don’t know where Beef is hiding, but given it’s the middle of the day, he’s likely sound asleep.
I stand in awkward silence as Logan—the large, Australian, professional rugby player—takes in my little space with that condescending look he never seems to lose.
Whether he disapproves of my living choices, he’s not allowed to judge, because he refused to give me his address when I asked where I could deliver his sample meals, so I can’t return the favor.
“I’ll come to you,” he told me over the phone yesterday and left no room for argument. Literally. He said that and hung up the phone, so I couldn’t argue that I don’t tell my clients where I live.
It’s only because I desperately need Logan’s business that I caved, double checking with Moxie that his teammate isn’t some serial killer on the loose, and sent him my address.
Moxie trusts this guy, and my cat trusts Moxie, and I trust my cat. Most of the time. What could go wrong?
“Okay,” I say with all the awkwardness my mother was never fully able to train out of me, “well, usually I like to heat the first meal in a prospective client’s oven. Get a sense of its quirks so I can adjust the instructions.”
“My oven’s normal,” he says without looking at me.
“No such thing, but I guess we can skip that part, and I’ll just walk you through how to—”
“I asked you to cook for me.” He finally looks at me, lifting one thick eyebrow, and I go weak in the knees from being so close to him.
The same thing happened yesterday once my panic subsided outside the Shafers’ house. He should not be allowed to be this beautiful. There must be something in the water in Australia to produce this man of a man alongside the Hemsworth brothers and Keith Urban. What do they feed people down there?
He gestures to the stove behind me. “So cook.”
I roll my lips inward and count to three before I respond.
“That’s not how this works. Besides, you also asked me to convince your mom to talk to you when she made it pretty clear she doesn’t want that conversation.
You’re asking a lot of me, buddy.” And I haven’t technically agreed to help him with Mrs. Shafer, even if he said he would only hire me if I did. I’m hoping there’s a workaround.
He rolls his eyes, as if I’m the most inconvenient person he’s ever met.
Too bad for him, I can make things so much worse if he keeps up like this.
I’ll have to rein myself in so I don’t lose him as a client—contracting with someone like him could be magical for my business—but that doesn’t mean I have to make this easy for him.
I was raised by a formidable Southern Belle who never lets anyone get in her way. I know how to stand my ground.
With a deep sigh, Logan steps toward me. “Savannah.”
At the long-suffering tone in his voice, I have to bite the inside of my lips again to keep from laughing. “Yes?”
“I have less than six months before I head back to Sydney and lose my chance to have a simple conversation with the woman who gave me up as a baby. Meanwhile, I’m playing for a team that can’t make it through a practice session without falling into chaos, and if I have to choke down another protein shake, I’m liable to go on a rampage.
I’m prepared to pay you a staggering amount of money to keep me fed, so could you just…
” His big hands curl into fists at his sides.
“…do what I’m paying you to do? Please?”
Something about him is begging me to push his buttons, which is truly an unfortunate situation for me to be in.
I like to think I’m a professional, and if I can get my business more deeply rooted in the sports scene like I want to, I’m going to deal with difficult athletes like him all the time.
I need to get used to this. But boy, is he serious!
I don’t understand how someone as kind and compassionate as Moxie can be friends with a cold wall of marble like Logan, which makes me think they’re just teammates rather than actual friends.
It’s hard to imagine anyone wanting to be around Mr. Ego here.
Folding my arms, I resist the urge to rise up on my toes to give myself some extra height.
I’m average at five and a half feet, and Logan has at least six inches on me.
There’s no way I’m physically intimidating this guy.
But as my dad would say, my stubbornness is my defining feature (often to my detriment), so I won’t be bossed around.
“I agreed to prep your meals, Logan Callahan. The rest is on you. As for your mom…” I grimace, since I haven’t figured out how to follow through with the condition he set. “If I’m going to help you have a conversation with her, you have to give me something in return.”
He lifts a thick eyebrow. “The thousands of dollars a month isn’t enough for you?”
This man is going to single-handedly pay my rent every month based on what he requested through my questionnaire. That’s not the problem. “I need you to help me get more clients. Guys on your team.”
I don’t know what I expected as a response, but it wasn’t a snort of laughter. “Are you joking?” he asks, wrinkling his nose. “They can’t afford that.”
“But they’re professional athletes!”
“They play rugby in the States. It’s not exactly the NFL, love.”
My confidence wanes in the wake of his sober expression. I think he’s telling the truth; he has no reason to lie to me. “Then how can you afford me?” Did I count my chickens before they hatched? I thought for sure bringing Logan on would be a boon to True Fuel Kitchen, but…
He leans closer, forcing me to lift my chin to keep my eyes on his. “Because I play real rugby. The Thunder is only temporary.”
I need to know what I’m dealing with here. Though he’s still looming over me, I grab my phone and do a quick search to see how much players make here in the US. “Max salary of forty-five grand?” I squeak out when the results come up.
“If they’re lucky,” Logan confirms.
“Well crap.” No wonder Moxie doubles as a vet.
Logan’s right. No one making that much—that little—would have the extra funds to pay for my services.
Why couldn’t Logan have been a football player and given me a connection to the Chargers or something?
Granted, the NFL team probably already has a nutritionist on staff, and it’s not like their players need a meal at home all that often when they spend most of their time at the practice facilities.
I swear under my breath as reality hits me. Looks like Logan won’t be able to break me into the sports scene after all, and I’m back to my plan of finding more people like Lola. Seven meals a week isn’t much, but if I get enough clients…
Groaning, I head into my kitchen and flip on the oven, bumping the temperature a few degrees lower than I would at Lola’s house because my oven runs hot.
It took me almost two years to get hired by the Shafers.
I only found three more consistent clients to add to my schedule last year with a smattering of pop-up orders.
This is in no way a sustainable way to build a business, and I’m going to have to find work in a restaurant or something despite being more interested in the nutrition side of my business than the cooking part.
That, or I admit defeat and go back home.
But I’ve come so far! I don’t want to have to hear my mother tell me that I should have listened to her from the start and followed in her footsteps, marrying rich and playing social housewife.
There’s nothing wrong with motherhood, and I’d love to have kids someday.
But I’ve always wanted more in my life. I’m not the type to settle.
Stalking to my fridge, I grab one of the meals I prepared for Logan and practically toss it onto the counter in my frustration. It slides, careening toward the other end, and I scramble forward to grab it.
Logan beats me to it, long fingers catching the container before it splats on the ground. “You…” His other hand wraps around the back of his neck as he stares at me warily. Like I’m a landmine he just stepped on. “You look tense.”
I huff out an anxious laugh and start to pace as words slide off my tongue in fragments like they always do when I’m nervous or stressed.
“Because I am tense. I hoped you could…but they can’t afford…
not enough clients…business is dead…” I stop when he appears in front of me, a genuine look of concern in his eyes.
His eyes are almost gray in color, like the Pacific on a cloudy day.
A lot like his personality, I suppose, with the barest hint of a warm green at the edges of the cool color.
They’re a lot like his mom’s eyes.
“You want to work with athletes?” he asks.
I’m pretty sure he’s actively trying to gentle his voice because it’s missing its usual growl, and that sexy Australian accent of his isn’t as thick.
I appreciate the fact that he has a softer side that isn’t all arrogance, but my appreciation doesn’t put money in my bank account.
Heaving a sigh, I nod. “I mean, I’ll work with anyone willing to pay me, but there’s something fascinating about the way athletes eat, you know?”
“Six thousand k-cals a day.”
I gape at him, though that number shouldn’t surprise me. “That’s how many calories you consume?” I can’t imagine eating that much food in a day, especially when keeping to a healthy diet. “What, do you eat three whole chickens every day?”
He chuckles, a bit of a smile creeping onto his lips. “Currently, I’m surviving on protein shakes and takeout, which is why I’m hiring you.” His eyes drop to the shepherd’s pie on the counter. “Assuming you know what you’re doing.”