Chapter 9
9
“Thanks for meeting with us again. We want to be as considerate of your time as possible, but given the tight schedule, we have a lot to cover.”
I’ve managed to avoid Graham for the past two weeks, but our first catering meeting with our clients has thrust us back into each other’s company.
Asha glances up at Claire, Graham, and Trudy, who are sitting across from us at a table in the Black-Eyed Susan’s restaurant. Then she looks back down at her iPad.
“We’ve already decided to go with an open bar, attendant-passed drinks and hors d’oeuvres, and a three-course dinner,” she says, as she drags her pen down a checklist. “All we need to do is choose what you’ll be serving for each.” She turns to me and smiles encouragingly.
“Food is Ali’s area of specialty. She’s a formally trained chef and has experience working in hotel restaurants, which is why we’re thrilled that she could work so closely with the head of your kitchen to prepare today’s sample menus. Ali, the floor is yours.”
I clear my throat and plaster on my most confident smile. Food is where I shine, and this is my opportunity to show off my skills. Plus, working on these menus over the past two weeks with José, the Black-Eyed Susan’s chef, has been one of the most enjoyable highlights of my job so far, as well as a major confidence boost. Budget cuts meant that Trudy had to let some of the kitchen staff go, so I got the sense that José was more than happy to have an extra set of hands. And given the hit that Graham has taken on my normally unflappable self-esteem over the past few days, I’m glad to take it.
“Right,” I say. “After some planning with your executive chef, I’m proposing two sample menus. You’re going to be tasting from each, and then you can decide what you like best.”
I’m very excited about the food we’ve prepared for this morning’s meeting. A pair of servers begin setting out plates with small bites from our first, Asian-inspired menu: seared ahi tuna with wasabi and crispy wontons, Peking duck potstickers with plum sauce, sticky glazed chicken, and miso-glazed sea bass.
I watch with a familiar tinge of pride as everyone tucks in and murmurs their appreciation. Even though I didn’t cook this food, there’s still a secondhand sense of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve contributed to a meal that brings pleasure to others. But as much as I enjoy José’s cooking, I’ve saved the best for last.
“While I’m confident that your guests would enjoy this menu, we can also go in a different direction, with cuisine that is more locally inspired. Comfort food but elevated, with an emphasis on the flavors that define Baltimore. It’s a bit of an unexpected choice for a formal affair, but at the same time, it’s classic. Most importantly, it will remind people what makes the Black-Eyed Susan special.” My eyes flick to Graham after the last sentence. He might be a jerk, but he was right about one thing. If there’s any hope of saving the hotel, people need to be reminded that it’s a historic institution, deeply ingrained in the fabric of the city.
I nod to José, who wheels out a cart containing tiny portions from the sample menu that he and I planned together. Tiny spanakopitas are a nod to Greektown and gnocchi cacio e pepe is reminiscent of Little Italy. There are fried chicken wings and wedge fries evocative of Baltimore’s legendary chicken boxes, and for the main course, jumbo lump crab cakes with spicy remoulade sauce.
Trudy purses her lips as she considers the spread in front of her.
“I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “It all feels a bit… heavy for a wedding.”
But then to my surprise, Graham shakes his head.
“No, I think it’s exactly right,” he says. “It’s a perfect representation of the city, and I think it will do wonders for reminding people what makes our hotel special.” Graham turns to me, his mouth curving into a gracious smile, and I know he’s understood my intentions. His gaze lingers on mine for a beat too long and my cheeks heat.
Trudy turns to beam at Graham. “We are so lucky to have you back home and helping us. In fact”—she pauses to flick an invisible piece of lint off her pant leg—“I think the two of you are more than equipped to handle the planning from here on out.”
Graham and Claire open their mouths to protest, but Trudy holds up a hand to silence them. “I never intended to micromanage. This is your day after all. And it seems like you two have found your footing. To be honest, this is the perfect time for me to step back. I have a few trips coming up anyway.”
Under normal circumstances, I’m thrilled when extended family decline to involve themselves in wedding planning. The phrase “too many chefs in the kitchen” isn’t exclusive to restaurant work; overly involved families often means tears, drama, and general chaos. The worst is when different sides of the family battle for control, making calls without consulting one another and leaving vendors with dizzying, conflicting directives. But something about the idea of losing Trudy fills me with panic. Maybe it’s because I’ve come to think of her as a shield. Her departure feels like stripping away the tough peel of an orange, exposing the tender, vulnerable flesh inside.
Claire shakes me out of my quiet panic.
“You deserve to relax,” she says to Trudy. “We’ve got it under control here.”
Trudy gives her a grateful smile. “Thank you, dear. You’ve always taken wonderful care of my grandson.”
Claire gives Graham’s forearm a squeeze and my eyes bore into the place where their skin touches. Heat rushes up my neck. I need some air.
I stand up too quickly, shoving my chair back with more force than I intended.
“You know what?” I say, as a thought mercifully dawns on me. “José mentioned that your pastry chef prepared a tray of gelato samplers as an alternate dessert option. Let me grab it so you can choose your flavors.”
I’m aware of Graham’s eyes on me as I head toward the kitchen, but don’t dare to look back until I reach the metal doors.
Relief washes over me the minute I step into the gleaming, chrome kitchen. It may seem counterintuitive, but I always feel my calmest within the chaos of a bustling kitchen. The more energy that buzzes around me, the more energized I feel. Lexi used to call me an emotional vampire, but the truth is I’m just an extroverted extrovert. An ESFP personality, specifically, according to an online quiz I once took during a particularly long subway delay. A noisy kitchen will be especially helpful for drowning out my thoughts, which have been consumed of late by a certain British voice.
Alas, the kitchen is relatively quiet. The restaurant isn’t open for dinner yet, so the reduced staff are at their individual stations, preparing their mise. José, who’s standing by the staff exit dressed in his winter coat, looks up at me.
“Miss Rubin,” he says, smiling warmly. “Is everything okay? Your face is all flushed.” Even though we only met this month, we clicked instantly. Maybe it’s because I become the best version of myself when I’m in the kitchen.
I return his smile. “Chef, please. Call me Ali,” I remind him. “And everything is great. I was just wondering if I could grab the gelato samples?”
“Of course.” He raises the pack of cigarettes in his hand and inclines his head toward the door. “I was just about to step out. Are you okay to grab them from the downstairs walk-in?”
“Definitely!” I reply. Honestly, I’m down for anything that will delay going back into the dining room and facing Graham.
The staircase leading to the kitchen’s basement is ancient and narrow, the wooden stairs groaning beneath my weight. The walk-in freezer fills up most of the dimly lit space, and I take a deep breath when I step inside of it. A blast of cold air is exactly what I need to clear my head and shake off the prickly heat that seems to seep into my skin whenever I’m in the same room as Graham. A circumstance that fills me with self-loathing. I’m supposed to be a professional, for God’s sake, not a tween girl with a crush. Then again, it would be a lot easier if he’d quit looking at me in that penetrating way, like he can see right into my soul.
After a quick scan, I locate the aluminum tray of gelato samples on the bottom right shelf. Lifting the lid, I inspect the neatly labeled samples before zeroing in on my favorite, the perfect love-match that is chocolate and hazelnut: gianduia. My favorite.
Carefully, I secure the lid and head back to the freezer door. But when I pull on the handle, it doesn’t budge.
“What the…,” I mutter to myself. Setting the tray down, I grab the handle with both hands and pull harder. Nothing.
A cold trickle of sweat forms on my lower back. Shit. This can’t be happening. My gaze drifts to the floor, where it locks on a small wooden wedge propped against the wall. A doorstop. The staff must realize the door sticks and use this to keep it from closing behind them. Information that would have been significantly more helpful before I got myself locked in here.
Darkness creeps into the edges of my vision as my heartbeat hammers in my ears. Deep breaths, Ali. This isn’t the time to panic. There are half a dozen people upstairs, all of whom will notice I’m missing imminently. I’m not going to be stuck here forever.
As if my thoughts were audible, I hear the low echo of footsteps descending the stairs. Salvation!
I bang on the door with both fists. “Help! I’m stuck in here!”
A second later, the door cracks open and the cerulean eyes of my rescuer settle on me. Of fucking course.
“Nope,” I say. “I’ve changed my mind. Leave me to perish.”
Graham opens the door wider and takes a step toward me. I take one step back, maintaining the distance between us. He winces.
“You didn’t come back. When I went into the kitchen to see what was going on, one of the chefs said you were down here.”
“Yep. I was just testing out your freezer’s potential for cryopreservation. Happy to report that conditions are optimal. Kindly resurrect me when we have a female president.”
Graham bites down on his stupid, pillowy lip. Fuck. Me.
“Sorry to disappoint, but we’re fresh out of liquid-nitrogen tanks. Sort of essential for preserving the body.”
I groan. “Why is every man I meet so knowledgeable about corpses?”
Graham lifts his chin, his eyes pinning me in place. “What were you really doing down here?”
My palms turn damp under the intensity of his gaze. Definitely not hiding from you, my brain answers.
“I came to grab the desserts and the door locked behind me. But now that you’ve staged your heroic rescue, I’ll just be on my way—”
“What do you mean? These freezers don’t lock from the inside. Watch.” He releases the door handle.
“No!” I shriek, lunging forward to grab it before it shuts. Too late. The door slams shut behind him, its taunting echo ringing in my ears.
I grab onto the handle and shove my body against it, twisting with my last ounce of strength. In a shocking turn of events, it doesn’t budge. Dread pools in my belly.
“Huh? That’s impossible.” Graham’s brows knit together. “There is no locking mechanism on the inner door actuator. I remember that from tagging along with the kitchen staff during their safety training when I was a kid.”
“Oh, well, thank goodness. Did you hear that, Door? A man just said it isn’t possible that you’re locked! You may now release us.” I give the handle another useless jiggle. “Wow, I’m stunned that didn’t work. Maybe it only responds to masculine voices? Try commanding it in your soothing British baritone.”
Graham squats, running a fingertip across the edges of the door before letting out a low growl. “Damn it. There’s a bloody ice buildup around the frame.” Rising back to standing, he drags a hand through his hair and lets out a weary sigh.
“This is exactly the kind of thing I was worried about,” he mutters.
“What kind of thing was that, exactly? Getting the full Jack Dawson experience in your family’s walk-in?”
Graham shakes his head glumly. “Things like this slipping through the cracks. These freezers require annual maintenance checks. My grandfather used to stay on top of all that stuff. But now that he’s gone…” He trails off without finishing, looking so much like a forlorn little boy that I almost feel a pang of sympathy for him. Almost.
“Do you have your phone?” I ask. “I left mine in my purse.”
Graham reaches into the back pocket of his jeans and extracts his cell phone with a look of triumph. But when he clicks on the screen, the corners of his mouth drop.
“No signal,” he says.
“No service in our aluminum tomb? Classic.” I can hear the hysteria starting to rise in my voice, and I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself. “So, now what?”
Graham shrugs. “We wait. Someone will come find us eventually. I found you.”
It’s the word “eventually” that finally ignites the kindle of panic. The bottom of my stomach hollows out and a hot ripple snakes through my rib cage. Sucking in a cold breath, I begin pacing back and forth in the tiny space. Graham eyes me warily.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Peachy keen,” I say a little too loudly. I swipe away the beads of sweat that are already starting to form on my upper lip. “Never been better.”
Graham frowns. “You’ve worked in restaurants. Haven’t you spent time in one of these freezers before?”
“It’s not that,” I grumble. “I just… don’t like small spaces.” There’s more to the story, obviously, but it’s not something I’m interested in unpacking with him of all people. But then Graham narrows his eyes and studies me with that penetrating gaze of his, and I know I’m not getting off that easily.
“Tell me,” he says softly.
I quit my pacing and let out a resigned sigh. “Okay, fine. When I was a kid, I went to sleepaway camp every summer. There was a bus that took a group of us from Baltimore to the Poconos. One summer, I bet a few of my friends that I could fit inside the overhead compartment.”
Graham shakes his head. “What is it with you and bets?”
I roll my eyes. “It seemed like no big deal at the time. An easy win. I was always the smallest kid in the grade, and my friend Olivia said I could keep her iPod Touch for the entire first week if I did it.”
I pause for a beat before continuing. “Anyway, I fit in there easily. But then when I tried to get out, the sliding door got stuck. I was probably only in there for ten minutes before a counselor helped me out, but it felt like hours. Ever since then, I get claustrophobic in small, locked spaces.”
I can still remember that moment so clearly. The way my chest tightened as I tugged fruitlessly at the handle before pounding my fists against the door. I could hear my friends laughing outside and realized they thought I was faking it as a joke. I was shaking and breathless by the time my counselor got the door unstuck, even though I forced out a laugh, pretending to have found the whole thing amusing. But the fear has stuck with me ever since.
I’ve been avoiding eye contact with Graham while recounting the story, but I finally allow myself a peek at his face. I almost expect him to be laughing, but his features have melted into an expression of sympathy. Which is worse, somehow.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “This must be really scary for you.” But when I take a second to check in with myself, I realize the opposite is true. Talking about this with Graham seems to have melted all the tension from my body, and I no longer feel afraid. For some unfathomable reason, being with him makes me feel safe. And that might be the scariest thing of all.
“I’m okay,” I say. But the last word comes out in a stutter, as my teeth begin to chatter. I rub my hands up and down my arms. “Emotionally, at least. Turns out freezers are pretty cold.”
Graham’s jaw ticks. Gaze still locked on mine, he grabs the hem of his sweater, pulling it over his head. The T-shirt he’s wearing underneath rises, revealing a sliver of toned abdomen. My mouth goes dry as I catch a glimpse of the top of our mutual tattoo. He catches me staring and his cheeks go pink before he tugs the tee back over his exposed skin.
“Here. Take my jumper,” he says gruffly, handing me the balled-up fabric.
I raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “Won’t you be cold?”
Graham shakes his head. “I’ll be fine.”
I mutter a thanks and slip the fabric over my head. Graham’s musky citrus scent fills my nostrils, and it takes a level of restraint I didn’t know I possessed not to press my nostrils into the cotton. Why does he have to smell this good?
My pulse is racing and I’m no longer certain if it’s solely due to panic. Suddenly desperate to put space between us, I begin pacing from one edge of the freezer to the other. I do my best to avoid eye contact with Graham, but I can feel his eyes tracing my movement.
“It’s good that you’re moving,” he says, as he bounces up and down on his heels. “Maintaining your internal body temperature is crucial. And the best way to do that is keeping your heart rate up.”
I shoot him my patented 360-degree eye roll. I don’t need him to explain first aid; I was a certified lifeguard for two years of summer camp, thank you very much. Still, the way he’s tightening his arms around himself highlights the lean muscles of his arms, and I find myself unable to tear my eyes away from the newly exposed skin.
I bite the inside of my cheek. I can think of plenty of ways I’d enjoy keeping my heart rate up with Graham right now, none of which are remotely appropriate.
My gaze slides up to Graham’s face. Judging by how his own cheeks are flushed with color, it’s clear he’s thinking the same thing I am. Terrific. We’re going to die in this walk-in and our final thoughts will be sinful fantasies involving each other’s naked bodies while his unsuspecting fiancée waits upstairs. We are monsters.
I shiver again and Graham takes a step toward me.
“Is it okay if I put my arms around you?” he asks softly. “There isn’t anything in here we can use for blankets, and you’re obviously freezing.”
I glare at him. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
Graham raises a brow. “You’d literally rather freeze to death than let me touch you.”
“Correct.”
He shakes his head. “It’s going to be rather awkward when they discover our frozen corpses and realize we elected to freeze to death in solitude rather than seize our last chance for survival by preserving body heat.”
I huff out a laugh. “Not as awkward as it’s going to be when the coroner examines our corpses and realizes we have matching tattoos. Can you imagine the conspiracy videos that will flood the internet? It’ll probably be the most popular episode of 60 Minutes ever and I won’t even get to see it. Now that is a tragedy.”
A muffled sound escapes Graham’s lips, and I notice he’s trying to suppress a smile.
“Sorry, are you laughing right now?”
My words shake the rest of his grin loose.
“I can’t help it. You’re funny,” he admits.
I shrug. “My lot in life. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
Graham takes a step toward me. “Please, Ali. Accept my platonic, exclusively-for-the-means-of-survival hug. For my grandmother’s sake. Imagine how terrible the press coverage will be if I let you freeze to death on her property.”
I purse my lips, considering. “Trudy is innocent in all of this.”
Graham nods as he advances another step. “I’m sure it will only be a few more minutes until someone finds us, anyway. Just let me get you warm and then you can go back to your regularly scheduled loathing.” He takes one more step forward and now he’s standing directly in front of me.
My eyes trace a path up his neck, pausing to admire the sharp line of his jaw and his full, moody lips, before finally settling on those incredible blue eyes. He’s scrutinizing me behind his glasses, and from this close up, I notice the little flecks of green encircling his pupils.
Graham takes a fortifying breath before wrapping one arm around me and then the other, pulling me tight against him until our chests are touching. Heat radiates from his body, warming me instantly, and I note the juxtaposition of the hard planes of his abdomen through the soft fabric of his sweater.
I swallow when he hooks his index finger under my chin and lifts my face upward. His breath skates over my lips.
“You’re going to be okay,” he says softly. “We’re going to get out of here, and you’re going to be okay.”
I stare up at him, willing myself to summon hatred for this man. But the feeling never surfaces. Instead, my heart tugs against my sternum as a sense of comfort envelops me, warm and reassuring. Then again, one of the earliest signs of hypothermia is confusion and a lessened ability to think rationally. Check and check.
I know I should step back, put some much-needed space between us. But my body refuses to cooperate with my brain. Instead, it feels like we’re being drawn closer to each other by some sort of magnetic force. His arms tighten around my waist, pulling me flush against him.
Without thinking, I slide my hands underneath the fabric of his shirt. Graham’s breath hitches when I skate my fingertips against his back. Goosebumps rise on his skin at every point of contact.
He lowers his head and I feel myself rise onto my tiptoes, my body now moving of its own accord. The next stage of hypothermia must be starting to kick in, because my breath is coming out in sharp, labored bursts. Yet despite the many symptoms of impending death, I no longer feel cold at all. This is absolutely the end.
His lips are a fraction of an inch from my own now, our noses brushing against each other. My heart is slamming wildly against my rib cage.
“Ali,” he says on an exhale. His eyes flutter shut for a moment. When he opens them again, there’s a heat behind them that thaws every bit of lingering chill in my body and melts away every rational thought that tells me kissing him right now would be a terrible idea.
Just then, the freezer door flies open. Graham and I whip our heads around to see José standing in the doorway. His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline at the sight of us.
“Am I interrupting something?” he asks tentatively. His gaze drops to the place where my hands are still buried beneath Graham’s shirt, and I yank them out as we simultaneously jump apart. I bite down on my lip as Graham surreptitiously adjusts his pants.
“Your freezer door sticks,” I say at the exact same moment that Graham announces, “I need to call the freezer maintenance company.” José’s face falls.
“Shoot. We’re all so used to it that I forgot to warn you.”
“Don’t worry about it, José,” Graham says, his voice strained. “I’ll take care of this immediately.” Then he slips past him, hurrying up the cellar stairs.
José turns back to me, and I give him a small smile before stepping out of the freezer and into the blissfully warm basement. On the way back to the dining room, I slip the gianduia sample out of the tray and onto the prep counter for later. After the morning I’ve had, I deserve a treat.
It isn’t until I step into the kitchen that I realize I’m still wearing Graham’s sweater.