Chapter Three
The warmth of early morning baking lingered in the old brothel turned B&B’s kitchen. Humming, Eloise arranged her pastries with precision—croissants golden-brown and flaky, bear claws dusted with powdered sugar, cinnamon rolls with just the right swirl. She’d risen before dawn, grateful Sister and Sissy had welcomed her use of their commercial kitchen. It had been a very long time since she’d woken up and felt like singing. Despite the surprise of finding herself in a B&B and not her own furnished apartment, life was looking good. Very good. After all, she had weeks before Danny’s arrival to fix the housing error.
The Sisters had been a whirlwind of hospitality since her arrival. Having grown up in the foster care system, Eloise had always envisioned what it would be like to have a family, and these two ladies with their perkiness and eagerness to indulge her, certainly fit the image she’d created of sweet grandmothers. Not that either of the women were old enough to be her grandmother, but they still fit the bill.
“Oh, my.” Sister took a slow moanful bite. “Don’t tell Toni I said this, but I think she’s got some stiff competition.”
“Toni?”
“Yes,” Sissy nodded in agreement, her tall frame leaning against the kitchen counter, “Toni’s Brook Farraday’s wife. The town gained ten pounds a person when she moved to Tuckers Bluff, married Brooks, and began supplying the Silver Spoon Café with fresh baked goods.”
“And don’t forget Meg’s B&B. Her guests get early morning treats too,” Sister mumbled over another bite.
“I swear,” Sissy smiled, “watching you work with the precision of a military strategist has been very interesting. I think this is the most use this new kitchen has seen all year.”
Carefully, Eloise arranged everything on a professional catering tray. According to the bag Sister had pressed into her hands that morning, the coffee came from a local roaster. The rich, robust aroma of Colombian beans combined with her secret ingredient would hopefully give folks a hint at the culinary expertise she was bringing to Sadieville. The final approval from the city council had given her carte blanche with the restaurant. So many ideas had ricocheted in her mind. She could hardly wait to begin. Even though she would not be the proprietor of this new venture, the body and soul of the restaurant would be all her. The coffee was just a smidge of a prelude.
Although the apartment mix-up still niggled at the back of her mind, making her wonder what else might not be as expected, Sissy’s words echoed with reassuring certainty. “Not to worry, dear. Things have a way of working out in our neck of the woods.”
Danny would laugh if he could see her now. Her big-city chef persona transplanted into this reviving ghost town, carrying pastries like a white flag. She’d faced tough crowds in Chicago’s cutthroat restaurant scene. A bunch of contractors and their television crew would be a piece of cake—so to speak—to win over.
The crisp morning air brightened her already good mood. A delightful change from the icy mornings in Chicago. West Texas dust danced around her feet as she walked toward the restaurant site. Some day, when she had to clean her home, the dusty air might be a problem, but for now she felt like a time traveler walking into the Wild West. Any minute now, she almost expected to see Miss Kitty emerge from the still neglected saloon. How silly was that, but it did confirm one thing, the folks who planned the revival of this old town knew what they were doing.
Construction vehicles lined the street, workers moving about with purpose. The TV crew was already setting up, cameras positioned to catch every moment of the renovation. This wasn’t just a restaurant—it was a performance, and already she could feel the energy crackling in the air around her. This was going to be so much more fun than she’d expected. To think, she and her new restaurant would be a part of the rebirth of a town’s history.
Adjusting her grip on the tray, she resisted the urge to brush at her chef whites—crisp, professional, a statement of her capabilities. The fabric was a second skin, a uniform that spoke of years of hard work, of kitchens where only the strongest survived. She was ready to make a good first impression.
A man stood with his back to her, directing workers. Broad shoulders, work boots, the kind of stance that suggested he was used to being in charge. Must be one of the Farraday brothers—the Construction Cousins themselves. She’d watched enough of their show to recognize that particular brand of Texas confidence.
“Excuse me,” she called out.
The man turned, and Eloise found herself looking up—way up—at a wall of muscle and stern expression. This was definitely not the welcome she’d imagined. Up close, he was even more imposing. Carved from granite, with deep steel blue eyes that seemed to look right through her.
“Delivery’s around back,” he muttered, not bothering to look fully her way.
For a moment, her good mood wavered. She’d left behind everything for this moment and this was her welcome? Straightening her spine, lifting her chin, widening her smile, she cleared her throat. “I’m Eloise Carey.”
The man barely glanced her way, already turning back to the workers. “Yes. Delivery’s still around back.”
Not letting her smile slip or her good mood wither, gripping the tray more tightly, she followed him. Her steps quick, her stride determined. “I don’t think you understand.”
“Of course I do.” He glared down at her, handed her a five-dollar bill, and turned away. “Delivery is still around back.”
He walked faster.
She walked faster.
The TV cameras were definitely catching this now. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Never in his life had Quinn met such a determined delivery person. Not even a healthy tip slowed her down.
“Mister. I. Am. Not. Making. A. Delivery.” The sternness in her tone had him stopping mid step. “I’m the new executive chef for the restaurant.”
“Oh, good.” His sister-in-law, Valerie, the producer of the show, the one with the bright idea that had roped all of them into this crazy reality TV show business, stood grinning at them like the Cheshire Cat. “I see you’ve met Eloise Carey, our new executive chef.”
Quinn stared at the petite woman who didn’t look strong enough to carry anything heavier than a cup of coffee, never mind a heavy sauce pan. His mind scrambling to process what the two women had just told him. The new chef was this tiny woman who barely reached his shoulder? This slip of a thing who’d been chasing him around the construction site with pastries? “Chef?”
The woman let out a deep sigh, raised her gaze heavenward, all while continuing to balance the tray of coffee and pastries. “I’ve been trying to tell you that.”
His face heated. He’d dismissed her, handed her a tip, and walked away. Multiple times. And the cameras had caught every second of it. He’d love to think it would make the cutting room floor, but this was exactly the sort of faux pas the production crew loved to capture—and air on television.
“Cut!” the director called out, practically bouncing on her toes. “That was perfect! The viewers are going to love this. The gruff contractor and the determined chef. Pure gold.”
His gaze darting to where Valerie stood still grinning like a fool, Quinn shot his sister-in-law a glare that would have wilted a cactus. Somehow she just grinned wider.
“Now,” the director continued, “let’s get some shots of you showing Chef Carey the kitchen layout. Quinn, you can explain the modifications we made to accommodate the equipment she specified.”
Chef Carey’s expression brightened. “All of it?”
“Everything exactly as you requested,” he managed, still thrown by this turn of events. He’d expected… well, he wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but not this woman with her determined stride and professional demeanor who somehow made him feel like he was the one who needed to catch up.
“Perfect.” Glancing around, she hesitated, then spinning about, faced Valerie. “I brought this for the crew. Where can I set them down?”
Overhearing her, Ryan came strolling over, his nose sniffing the air like a hound dog on a trail. “Are those still warm?”
Her chest puffed with pride, the new chef nodded. “Fresh out of the oven.”
Like moths to a flame, the petite woman was surrounded by most of the crew reaching around, chewing, muttering, and raving about the surprise treat.
With the tray being passed around, and everybody loving the fresh baked goods, the chef rocked on the balls of her feet, and smiled as if she’d been given an Academy Award for cooking. Looking extremely content with herself, and awfully cute to boot, she turned and took a step inside. “If it’s okay, I’d love to check the spacing.”
At his and Valerie’s nod, she strode into the building and quickly pulled a measuring tape from her pocket. Moving through the space with purpose, she checked corners, examined surfaces, nodding to herself at every turn.
“The ventilation system?” she called out.
Quinn took a step closer. “Commercial grade. Top of the line. Meets both yours and the architect’s specifications.”
Her sunny grin made her caramel colored eyes sparkle. “Good. The gas lines?”
“Tested yesterday.”
Ryan wandered over, chomping away on a massive pastry. “These are amazing.”
“Thank you,” she called out, not looking up from her measurements. “I’m not really a baker, but I did a brief stint in Paris and learned a few tricks.”
Swallowing another bite, Ryan turned to his brother. “Aren’t you going to try one?”
Glancing at the last two pastries in the tray someone had set down on a pair of saw horses, he debated between shaking his head on principle and pouncing on the sweet treat before they were all gone.
Still nodding and smiling at the layout of her new kitchen, Eloise called over her shoulder at no one in particular, “Coffee’s probably getting cold too.”
Gleefully rubbing her hands together, Valerie leaned into both Ryan and Quinn. “I love surprises like this. The human touch. The viewers will eat this up—a woman who knows what she wants and within minutes of her arrival has the whole crew, literally, eating out of her hands. This is going to be our best episode yet.”
Quinn watched as Chef Carey paced out the dining room space, muttering calculations under her breath. She moved like someone who knew exactly what she wanted and how to get it. Each step precise, each measurement careful. Somehow, despite the thoughtful glare, she still managed to sport the slightest of smiles.
She spun to face him, those same caramel eyes with specks of gold were bright with intelligence and something that looked suspiciously like amusement.
Morgan appeared at his shoulder, biting into a second—or was it his third—croissant. “If you spoil us like this every day, we’re all going to be rolled out of here in a wheel barrow.”
Reaching for the last croissant, Valerie took a bite and moaned. “Oh my, these are as good as Toni’s. Maybe better.” Immediately, her hand flew to her mouth, her eyes rounded like an insomniac owl. “Oh, dear. Don’t tell her I said that.”
A wave of chuckles moved through the room, but Morgan was the one to lean over, kiss his wife on the tip of her nose, and with adoring eyes that made Quinn both delighted that after all this time his brother was still so happy, and a bit envious that he had yet to find the love of his life, whispered just loud enough for Quinn to hear, “Your secrets are always safe with me.”
Valerie’s cheeks flushed with a tinge of dark rose and somehow Quinn suddenly felt like he was invading their privacy.
Measuring tape still in hand, and one side of her mouth tipped higher than the other in a cute little grin, the new chef chuckled softly, the sound warming the updated space. “If you like my pastries, wait until you taste my beef bourguignon. That will make your taste buds really sing.”
Did taste buds sing? Quinn snatched the last pastry, took a bite, bit back a delighted moan, and had to wonder, would these have tasted so dang good if Eloise were a man?