CHAPTER 21
This was a bad idea. It’d been a bad idea when he asked her out, but now it was a really bad idea. It was way more expensive than he’d thought, for one thing. Not that he couldn’t afford it. Again, that was the blessing of living with his family and combining his income, the farm-stand proceeds, and his father’s wages to cover costs—what little was left on the mortgage and their relatively simple bills. But still. The ambiance was good, he’d give it that, but the food had better be outstanding for those kinds of prices.
Who the hell can afford this on the island?
That was the thing, though. It wasn’t for the local islanders, at least not the ones here now. It was for the tourists and the soon-to-come gentrifiers.
Hudson gritted his teeth. He was in his best pair of jeans and a pair of midnight blue suede sneakers, and a navy button-up shirt that Kimber insisted he wear. Both Kimber and his parents had given him the thumbs-up.
As much as he liked Willa, he didn’t want to change, for her or anyone. But he did want to show that he could fit into her fancy food world, if he needed to. He wanted to show her that he listened. He wanted to show her, in her language, just how special she was.
Now, he was on this very tentative date with the skittish Willa, who looked ...
Unimpressed?
Fuck.
But it only got worse.
“Hey. Handyman Hudson, right?” Patrick, the asshole from the Victorian, said, walking up to the hostess’s stand with a broad grin before turning to Willa. “Good to see you, man! Sorry I couldn’t go with you on the bid, but you know how it goes.”
Hudson grimaced and shook his hand, avoiding the guy’s attempt at a bro hug by simply making the shake harder. Patrick winced a little and let go, but his smile didn’t waver. “Who’s this?” Patrick asked, staring at Willa.
Why are you here? Why do you care who she is? What, did the guy work here or something?
“This is Willa,” Hudson said, wanting to add my date but not sure how she’d react to that. He didn’t want her to think he had expectations. Or, you know, that he was pissing a circle around her.
“Willa,” Patrick repeated, looking back and forth between the two of them, like they were an equation that didn’t make sense. Then he narrowed his eyes, zeroing in on her. “Don’t you live across the street from me? You seem familiar. I live in the Victorian off Maple Lane.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Her voice was demure, her smile polite and friendly. “I’m your neighbor.”
Patrick’s smile widened a little. “Been on the island long?”
Seriously, dude? Right in front of me? Hudson’s jaw clenched.
“Just a few weeks.” The smile stayed, though her brown eyes warmed. “It’s nice. I like it here.”
“We were just going to have dinner ...,” Hudson said, hoping the guy would finally get the message.
Patrick’s smile seemed both amused and, when he looked at Willa, predatory. It occurred to Hudson that her simple sundress was probably on the expensive side, not that he knew much about that kind of thing. She was wearing jewelry, and her hair was pulled back somehow with little wisps framing her face. She looked impeccable. Untouchable.
Patrick just looked like an asshole, but an asshole who was wearing a suit that probably cost more than every article of clothing Hudson owned put together. He refused to back down, though. Not out of some caveman this-is-my-woman bullshit (even though, okay, he really wanted to be with Willa, and the thought of this douchebag waltzing in and trying to impress her with some superficial crap made him want to howl). He wasn’t embarrassed about who he was, what he did for a living, or how much money he had.
He was pretty sure that Willa didn’t care, either, and wouldn’t be embarrassed. But he realized they’d been existing in a bubble since they’d met. Sure, she might find him hot. Would she be like some of the women at the bar, though? The kind that thought he was fine to fuck but not to keep?
“Welcome to my restaurant, then,” Patrick said, shaking him out of his thoughts. “I can’t wait to hear what you think of it.”
“ Your restaurant?” Hudson repeated, aghast.
He smirked at Hudson in surprise. “What did you think I did?”
“I thought you said you were one of those tech bros who retired here,” Hudson replied, unable to keep the sourness out of his voice. He seemed to remember something like that from their first contact, anyway. He knew that if he’d ever had a chance at remodeling the Victorian, as a backup at this point, he was probably fucking it up—but let’s face it, it would’ve been a long shot anyway. And working with Patrick as a client would’ve sucked.
“Retired?” Patrick laughed. “I’m not old enough for that. I was in a start-up, we sold for a killing, and after that, I just wanted a change of pace.” That was said for Willa’s benefit, Hudson could tell. Patrick accepted two menus from the silent hostess. “Here—I’ve got a special table. I’d be happy for you two to use it.”
“That’d be lovely,” Willa said smoothly.
Hudson felt anger burning in him like coals. This wasn’t the guy trying to do them a solid. This was a guy trying to show Willa who the better bet was.
Motherfucker.
“I’ve always wanted to open my own restaurant,” Patrick humblebragged, glancing over his shoulder at Willa as Hudson brought up the rear, feeling like a third wheel. “And honestly, Marre Island is perfect. It could be another Whidbey, with the right direction and growth.”
“Fantastic,” Hudson muttered. Just what they needed. He didn’t mind tourists: they were a necessary evil, and the islanders relied on them. But he did mind investors coming in, making everything a goddamned Airbnb, raising property taxes and rents until the locals had to move out.
Surely Willa saw that? She’d hated what her uncle had done to the house. She wouldn’t buy this guy’s line, would she?
He hated feeling this unsure.
“Have you experienced a true farm-to-table restaurant?” Patrick continued, again acting like Hudson wasn’t even there.
His molars were going to crack if Patrick kept this shit up.
Her smile was small. Secretive. Almost catlike. He remembered her talking about her restaurant experiences. “A while ago.”
“You haven’t had anything like this ,” Patrick promised, with a car-selling smile.
Hudson regretted everything. He should’ve just worn a clean T-shirt and his work boots and had his mother make some of her killer veggie sandwiches, and said the hell with it. Taken her on a picnic on the beach or something, mosquitos be damned.
The table was by the window and had a view of the sound and a fancy, newly built dock. Patrick was definitely showing off: that he had money, that Hudson was just some handyman jackoff, trying to punch above his weight class. Hudson’s chest burned like acid as he took the menu Patrick offered with a smile.
Before Hudson could read a word of it, a waiter brought two small plates to the table and set them in front of the two of them with a flourish.
“Are either of you vegetarian?” Patrick asked. “Lactose intolerant? Any allergies?”
Hudson almost lied, just to screw the guy’s attempt to impress. But a quick glance showed a pretty good menu, and he didn’t want to get stuck eating fancy cardboard just because Patrick was being a dick. They both shook their heads.
“Fantastic.” Patrick really did sound enthused—Hudson would give him that. “Then these appetizers should appeal to you.”
Hudson glanced at the small plate.
What am I looking at?
It was like he’d fed Noodle a bunch of small Rice Krispies, and the dog had eaten some grass and then shit these two rolls out on a stylish black plate.
That said, he’d eat the plate itself before asking.
“This is a Dungeness-crab-and-goat-cheese salad with grapefruit and shallot, in a savory cannoli shell.” Patrick did a little gesture, muted jazz hands. “Enjoy. And I want to let you know: the meal is on me tonight.”
“No,” Hudson growled, truly pissed now.
“I must insist,” Patrick said smoothly, his eyes lighting with triumph. “Please. Consider yourself my guests for the evening.”
Hudson could see he was trapped: couldn’t make a stink about it without looking like an asshole. Patrick had, essentially, boxed him in.
Willa studied Patrick for a second, then smiled—that small smile again. Was she impressed by this dickbag? With Hudson, she’d been almost panicked by accepting any sort of favor and pushed back against anything she thought was uneven. This was not going to be a cheap meal.
Why the hell wasn’t she putting up a fight?
Was it that she just didn’t want to feel in debt to him ? Connected to him ?
Hudson’s stomach knotted at the thought. No matter how it tasted, this meal was going to suck .
She took a bite of the roll thing in front of her. “Delicious,” she assured Patrick.
Patrick beamed back. At this rate, Hudson wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled up a seat. “Thanks. You know, it was inspired by Chef Marceline Dumonde, over at the Cloisters in San Francisco. It’s a famous restaurant,” he added.
“Oh?” she murmured, finishing the appetizer.
“The play of acid, sweetness, creaminess ... Chef Dumonde calls it the trifecta. Said it was the perfect play of flavors. And if anyone understands the pursuit and creation of perfection in cuisine, it’d be her. She—”
“She believes in natural perfection,” Willa corrected.
Hudson blinked. So did Patrick. Willa didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to. It was like when she’d stopped Bruno in his tracks when he was irate at the barbecue, only this time she wasn’t high. Her quiet voice was just effective, probably because it was unexpected, and it had that cool, precise edge to it that, for whatever reason, turned Hudson on.
Patrick, on the other hand, just looked confused. “Like I said,” he tried to continue, getting back on track, “Chef Dumonde believes in pursuing, ah, natural perfection ...”
“No, she believes that nature holds perfection. Not chefs.” Willa shook her head. “Man-made attempts at perfection weren’t just pale facsimiles to her, they were downright frauds. So you either abandoned perfection or you pushed as close to nature as you could. And got used to failing.”
Now Patrick looked amused, almost indulgent. “Trust me. I’ve studied her menus for years. I even had one of my chefs stage in her kitchen. I’ve seen every documentary. I’d have read her cookbooks, if she had any, but all we have are her occasional recipes in magazines and some notes from people who worked under her ... and I’ve read every single one I could get my hands on.” He acted like he’d just made the winning argument in a court case. “Her nuage des pétoncles is hailed as perfection, just as she’d designed it.”
“She’s said publicly that she’ll never do that dish again, though,” Willa pointed out. “Ultimately, she thought it was unworkable and pretentious.”
Now Patrick was starting to look irritated. Hudson, on the other hand, had no idea what the hell was going on ... although, he had to say, it was starting to get entertaining.
“She never said that.” Patrick sounded scandalized, almost insulted. “Because it was perfect! She just doesn’t like repetition.”
Willa sighed. “It certainly sounds like you’re certain.”
Patrick’s smile was back, smugger than ever. Hudson didn’t even know how he could pull that off. “I am. I’ve known restaurateurs for ages. I’m friends with plenty of top chefs. I know this world.”
She looked torn ... then strangely determined. Then, to Hudson’s surprise, she pulled out her phone. “Forgive me,” she said. He wasn’t sure if she was apologizing to him or to Patrick. “One second.”
It was a video call, and sound erupted from it: clangs, someone yelling numbers and food names and weird commands: “fire two,” “two corn,” “three crab,” “three duck.”
“Willa?” A woman’s face filled the screen. She had short steel-gray hair pulled back in a yellow bandanna and wore chef’s whites. Her voice had the silky tone of a native French speaker. “Non, is it really you?”
“Bonjour, Marceline,” Willa said, and damn, her saying the word in that fluid accent made her about a million times sexier somehow. Hudson shifted in his chair. “I’m sorry to be calling you during service, especially for such a trivial thing, but I promise it’s brief.”
Patrick’s jaw dropped. The guy literally gaped like a fish on the bottom of a boat.
It was fucking awesome .
“Amie, you can call me any time. What do you need?”
“A quick question: How did you feel about your scallop cloud? The nuage des pétoncles?”
The woman let out a sharp crack of laughter. “That was such merde,” she said. “Overconstructed pretentious critic whore bullshit. You know that was a disaster.”
“I thought so, but it’d been a while,” Willa said, with a small, bittersweet smile.
“What in the world brought that on?”
“Bit of a bar bet,” Willa said, and Marceline let out that boisterous laugh again.
“I can imagine. Restaurateur, eh?”
Patrick’s cheeks went flame red, like he’d been standing in front of a pizza oven. Hudson rubbed his stubble to cover his smile at the guy’s discomfort.
“Something like that.” Willa shot a quick glance at Patrick. “I appreciate you taking the call, and I’m sorry if I bothered you. I know how busy you are ...”
“Non, I don’t think so.” Now Marceline’s voice was stern. “I can’t talk now, but now that I know you’re actually talking to people, don’t think you can escape a call from me. We will catch up.”
Willa nodded, looking both rueful and embarrassed. “Of course.”
“A bient?t, Willa.” With that, they hung up.
“You know Marceline Dumonde .” Patrick looked like embarrassment and anger were warring with envy and desire—not necessarily for her but for her contacts, what she could do for him. Although yeah, Hudson was sure just wanting to bone her was in the mix.
Willa nodded back, then smiled at the busboy who filled their waters, thanking him in a soft voice.
“You have her on speed dial ,” Patrick added.
Willa tilted her head. “I have several old friends in the industry,” she said with a small shrug. Not humblebragging like Patrick had. Just ... being humble.
His conflicted expression finally settled into greed. “I had no idea,” he admitted. “You must’ve thought I was such an ass!”
Now Hudson’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t going to ...
“I’m definitely glad that you’re here,” he said, and Hudson could’ve sworn that he really was going to pull up a chair. “I’d love to—”
“It’s been years,” Willa said, with a soft, sad finality. “That’s not really my life anymore. I’ve been out of the scene. I think you’re doing something lovely here, though, and I’m sure we’ll enjoy it.” She took a shaky breath. “It’s going to be the perfect date. Thank you so much for your generosity.”
She emphasized the word. “Date . ” Even self-absorbed Patrick couldn’t miss it.
Hudson grinned. He couldn’t help himself. He could see the moment that Patrick realized he’d been put in his place, despite all his efforts. Not only had he been shown up as a blowhard, he was stuck picking up the tab.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said in a low voice, after Patrick walked away, as she looked over the menu.
“About what?” Hudson looked at the menu, too, wondering if he should just pick the most expensive thing on it. Petty? Sure. Did he feel guilty? Nope.
“About saying this was a date,” she said, and he stiffened, and not in the good way. “He just seemed like he was hitting on me—”
“He was,” Hudson agreed, and she blushed, biting her lip. Which was cute as fuck and made his brain pause for a second, wondering what that felt like.
“I could’ve handled it a different way. Told him I wasn’t interested, but I know guys like him especially, and that takes forever . He wanted a pissing contest, he wanted to prove something, and he’d be over for every course, bragging or trying to ‘persuade’ me, and it would’ve really ruined the meal.”
“Yeah, he would’ve.” He looked at her. “And it is a date. Right?”
Her smile was just this side of shy, but also happy. “I didn’t know if you wanted other people to know, though.”
At this point, he’d have gotten a billboard, an ad in the Marre Weekly , and maybe even a skywriter. “I don’t mind at all,” he said, his voice going husky.
He slid his hand over the tabletop. She looked unsure ... then, slowly, she scooted her hand over and took it. She had a few cooking calluses, and he saw the remnants of old cuts and burns, no doubt from her times cooking. But comparatively, her hand was impossibly soft and fit perfectly in his.
He liked the look of them together.
“I probably shouldn’t have bothered Marceline either,” she said with a sheepish grin. “But I remember so many restaurateurs like that. Steven used to make fun of them, and I’d make fun of him when he started acting like an ass. He said I was his conscience.”
There it was again: that bittersweet smile.
“I guess this Marceline’s kind of a big deal?”
Willa bit the corner of her lip. Not like she was laughing at him or amused at his expense ... at least he didn’t feel that way. “Her tasting menu is booked at least a year out and, last I checked, costs five hundred dollars. Per person.”
He choked. “Holy shit.”
“Not including alcohol.” She sipped her water.
He liked food as much as the next guy. But ... what the fuck? “Is it gold plated or something?” he muttered.
“It’s strange if you’re not from that world,” she admitted, then grimaced. “Actually, it’s weird even when you are. But then, it’s your weird. You just ... fit in, I guess?”
The sinking feeling returned. “Guess that’s your world, then?”
Where people could drop five hundred bucks on a single dinner with no booze. Where they made clouds out of shellfish and had fancy words for what was essentially a taquito.
Now a look of incredible sadness crossed her face. “Not exactly,” she said. “Not anymore, anyway. Not for a long time.”
Unsure of what to do, he broke into the cannoli-thing with his fork. “The cookbook,” he said. “That’s going to get you back in there.”
“The cookbook’s a paycheck,” she said with a shrug. “Once I figure out how to write a seductive cookbook for Mr. Sexy Chef, I’ll figure out my next step.”
“Well, I’m here to help.”
She smiled, and it was real this time, a little warmer, even as her cheeks blushed. He loved that blush.
“You are,” she said, almost under her breath.
Grinning, he took a bite, then grimaced, letting out a small groan.
“You okay?” she said, immediately concerned.
“It’s just ...” He scowled at the plate. “It’s really good. Goddammit.”
She let out a surprised laugh, and he smiled back at her. He hoped whatever she wanted worked for her.
But selfishly, he also wanted her to stay on the island.
He really wasn’t sure what to do with that knowledge.