Chapter 2
CONFESSIONAL 1083
Yang, Dal (Head Chef, Serenade: Juniper Ridge)
My brother was just here, right?
Yeah, I know you want us all speaking freely for these things, but come on.
If he’s painting some picture like he’s at fault for the accident, I want it on record right now that I’m the one who?—
He called me a cranky-ass crabapple tartlet? That—doesn’t even make sense.
For fuck’s sake.
* * *
Lana Judson is hammered.
That’s all I can figure for why she’s crawling through the dirt, eyes squeezed shut as she mutters about zippers and blowjobs.
Not that my dick doesn’t twitch at the idea. I’m only human, and Lana’s—well—gorgeous.
And completely not my type, with her sunshine vibes and her penchant for putting a spin on fucking everything.
“Stop crawling and let me help.” I might be an asshole, but I’m still a gentleman. Right as I reach her, Lana stands on her own. Her eyes are still shut, and she looks wobbly, so I grab her arm. “Steady. That’s it. Good?—”
“Oh my God, if you say, ‘good girl,’ I swear I will lose it.” Her eyes flutter open, lashes framing the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. “I’m serious, Dal.”
What the hell?
I’m still holding her arm, worried she’ll stagger straight into the fence. I don’t smell liquor on her breath, and her eyes aren’t bloodshot. She’s a little bit rumpled, flushed from booze or whatever has her all worked up.
“Let’s just get you home.” I can’t let her walk alone like this. Not even if it’s just a few hundred yards to her cabin. Yes, I know where she lives. I’m not dead, okay? “Come on.”
The pulse in her throat beats wildly as her gaze shifts over my shoulder. “Is she coming?” Her wince clues me in to what the problem might be. “Just stay here, Dal. With her. Let’s please pretend this whole thing never happened.”
“What whole thing?” I turn and give a sharp whistle. “Come here, girl.”
“Shit.” Lana yanks her arm free and smooths her hair. “You really don’t have to—Mouse?”
Lana blinks as my giant dog trots to my side. Part mastiff, part golden retriever, part…lion? Who knows. Whatever else got mixed in to build a giant beast weighing in at a hundred and thirty pounds. I love Mouse more than almost anyone on earth. She’s gotten my brother and me through some tough stuff.
Dragging my eyes off my dog, I see Lana gaping wide-eyed at Mouse. “Holy shit.”
“There’s nothing to be afraid of.” I give Mouse the signal to sit calmly beside me. “She’s huge, but gentle. I thought you’d met?”
Or not. And maybe booze heightens dog phobia? Hell if I know.
Then Lana starts laughing, falling to her knees at my feet. “Oh my God, Mouse!” Throwing both arms around my monster dog, she kisses one furry cheek. “Hi, sweetie.”
It’s the first time I’ve envied a canine.
Also the first time I’ve stared down at Lana’s blonde head, wondering how it might feel to thread my fingers through her hair and?—
“Wait.” My brain shakes off lust fog long enough to snap some pieces in place. “You’re not afraid of dogs.”
“What?” Lana blinks up at me. “Of course not. Mouse is adorable.”
“And you’re not drunk.” I rewind the last few minutes in my head. What am I missing?
Lana cocks her head. “Obviously.” With a little laugh, she gets to her feet. She’s smoothing her hair as she stands, and her eyes dart to my chest. “Not drunk at all. Just happy to see Mouse. Glad the garden looks great. What about a photo shoot at sunset?”
Something’s not adding up.
I glance at the ground and see the mug she dropped when she tripped. Scooping it up, I study the words.
Don’t tell me what to do unless you’re naked.
Desire stirs asI give it a sniff, but the mug just smells like coffee. Lana’s cheeks flush as I hold it out.
“I’m not drunk.” She snatches it back. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Sure.”
Something’s off here. Or maybe my senses are all out of whack. The soft peachy scent of her hair, the warmth of her skin. It’s all conspiring to confuse me.
“Why did you tell me to zip up my pants?” I’m wearing shorts with a long-sleeved T-shirt tied at my waist. I got sweaty on the bike ride, but I’m conscious now of Lana’s gaze on my chest.
Her throat rolls as she swallows. “I was joking.” She throws in a laugh that’s almost convincing. “Making sure you’re camera-ready for People magazine.”
“People? I thought you said Entertainment Weekly.”
“That’s what I meant.” Her smile seems way too bright. “You’re okay doing press, right?”
“Whatever.” I don’t love it, but fine. Something’s still not adding up. “How long were you standing here?”
“Not long.” Her smile’s all sunshine, but her posture’s off. There’s a tension in her shoulders that I might’ve missed if I hadn’t spent months watching her march across campus on pink clouds of cheer. That’s Lana Judson—sunshine in human form. Some magical blend of sweetness and fire, daylight dipped in darkness. It’s a contrast I can’t put my finger on, just like I can’t catch what’s missing here.
Lana stuffs the mug back in her bag. “So I’ll go ahead and pitch Entertai?—”
“Hang on.” The pieces click as I replay my words from the past five minutes. Holy shit. “You thought I was fucking someone.”
“What?” She sounds suitably horrified—by the language or what I’ve implied? Her laugh rings way too shrill. “Wow, Dal. Maybe don’t say stuff like that to the reporter, m‘kay?” She’s shaking her head, still smiling like I’ve said something wild. “Okay, so I’ll get a group chat going with you and Tia and Nick to find a few interview times that work for everyone.” She’s dusting off her knees, all business now. “I’ll send talking points beforehand about the origins of the gardens, all the work you’ve done to keep it organic, plant native species, protect pollinators, et cetera, et cetera. Any questions?”
“Yeah.” I fold my arms, certain I’ve hit the mark. “You really thought I’d bring someone to a public garden for sex?”
Her cheeks go pink, but she doesn’t back down. “That’s quite the imagination you’ve got there.”
Nuh-uh. I’m right and I know it. “Does it suck to always be spinning some angle?”
Lana blinks. Just once as her mask slips. “Yes.” Her voice is almost a whisper. “Yes, Dal.”
Wait. “Yes it sucks, or yes you thought I was?—”
“It sounded like sex, okay?” She’s flustered and I shouldn’t love it. “I couldn’t see you at first, but all I heard was, ‘You like when I rub there?’ and ‘Go ahead and lick it,’ and ‘I need you to come when I tell you to.’ Then I spot you with no shirt on and what was I supposed to think?”
My mouth quirks. “Mouse chased a rabbit and didn’t come when I called. You heard me reprimanding her.”
“By rubbing her belly and giving treats?” Lana stares me down like it’s some sort of standoff. “In that case, remind me to piss you off.”
“Because you want a belly rub?” I shouldn’t like the thought of that. Something else pings my memory as Lana goes back to brushing dirt off her shorts. “Or should I tell you you’re a good girl?”
Her chin tilts up as her ears redden. “Let’s just stick to the talking points, shall we?”
My sex-starved brain takes notes and tucks them back in a dark box. I don’t have time for this. I don’t have the bandwidth for another entanglement with a woman more fixed on media spin than human connection.
I clear my throat. “I’ll watch for the group chat.”
“Do.” Her eyes dip to my chest again and she swallows. “Nice tattoo.”
I glance down and feel my heart harden. The organ’s still there, still thumping behind sharp ribs and the faded ink that brands my chest. Behind the scar this tattoo covers. A chill rolls through me.
“Thanks.” I tug my shirt from its knot and drag it over my head. When I pull my face through, Lana’s fixed her mask of cheerful composure.
“I’ll be in touch,” she says and turns on her heel.
I watch her go, admiring the shape of her. Watching her curves as she flows through the trees on a slice of sunlight.
* * *
“We’ve got justenough time for dinner.” Cinching a Serenade apron at my waist, I turn to my older brother. “What do you want?”
“What are the choices?” Ji-Hoon rolls his wheelchair through the spotless restaurant kitchen. It’s an hour before opening, but if we don’t eat now, we won’t get a chance until after 10 p.m.
“Pick one of the specials.” I shove the menu across the steel countertop. The one that’s set low so my brother can work from his chair when we need extra hands in the kitchen. “The pork chops aren’t moving like I thought they would,” I mutter. “Order that so you can tell all the assholes out there how fucking great they are.”
“See?” Ji-Hoon sighs and shoves the menu back. “Calling customers assholes is why you stay locked in the kitchen like an ogre.”
“Ogres don’t live in kitchens,” I grumble.
“Trolls?”
I mutter some more, intent on getting my workspace ready. It’s Friday night, and from the look of reservations, we’ll be slammed.
“Just a general jerk, then.” Ji-Hoon rolls around to my other side. “The pork chop’s fine.”
“You’ll like it.” It sounds more like a command than encouragement, but whatever. I grab my best skillet as he checks our reservation roster. “The pork chop comes with a Korean-style sweet potato mofongo, aji Amarillo, and pepita salsa macha.”
“Huh.” He shoves off the counter and heads for his chart on the far wall. “We might sell more of them if people weren’t afraid of mispronouncing it when they order.”
“People can point,” I fire back. “Or say ‘pork.’ Even the biggest idiot can manage that.”
Uncapping a pen, my brother makes a tick mark on his chart by the door. Not the schedule, the chart he made to track when I curse at customers. Or about them, apparently.
“That’s one instance of calling customers assholes.” He makes a second mark. “And one more of calling them idiots. Impressive, even for you. Something on your mind?”
I hate that he guessed. “No.”
“Because you’re not the only one getting messages from?—”
“We’re not talking about this.” I light up the stove, then check my ingredients. We’re low on mango, but we can get through tonight.
His eyes follow me to the pantry. “Maybe he’s right, Dal. It’s been six years since we were even on the same continent. What if?—”
“No.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, then a sigh. “He’s family, Dal.”
I don’t say anything to that. I don’t even look up, though my heart balls tight like a fist. After some time, Ji-Hoon wheels off toward the dining room. He’s scanning the tables, making sure we’re all set for the dinner rush.
Tossing a knob of butter in the skillet, I watch it sizzle for a second before drizzling in olive oil. Adding the chops, I sprinkle them both with more salt. Once I’ve got a nice sear going, I flip the meat and reach for the garlic.
For the record, it was Ji-Hoon who signed us up to be part of Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. A chance to run our own restaurant—him as the host, me slinging food. A dream deal, even if it means having our lives televised. It’s all part of some social experiment, which explains why Lana’s shrink sister keeps hounding me to let her dig through my brain. To unpack my trauma like a load of bad meat.
Like that’s gonna happen.
“Smells good in here.” Ji-Hoon rolls through, sniffing the air like a bloodhound. He slings a pair of plates on the counter, and I tip a pork chop onto each. Arranging the meat, I ladle each with a drizzle of sauce. Sauteed bok choy goes next to that, plus a scoop of smashed sweet potato with miso butter and some toasted sesame seeds. Ji-Hoon swoops in with a shower of fresh Thai basil and a pair of radish roses he carved when I wasn’t watching.
Perfection.
“Nicely done, chef.” My brother grabs napkins and silverware and wheels through the side door to the table we share at the start of each shift. “The only thing missing is?—”
“Don’t say it.”
He grins as we both take a spot at the corner table. As soon as we’re seated, he says it anyway. “Yang’s Spicy Sauce Blends,” he bellows in his best TV voice, sounding so much like Dad, I nearly drop my fork. “Come on, buddy. A little gochujang, maybe?”
“Fuck you.” I’m not really mad. Just annoyed by the sadness surging up in my chest. I chew on some pork chop and swallow, forcing the feelings down with it.
“You’re doing it again.” My brother’s eyes drop to my chest.
I look down and he’s right. I’m touching the spot where the tattoo brands me.
“I had an itch.” Dropping my hand, I focus on eating.
“Okay,” says Ji-Hoon with his smug, big brother smile. He saws off another bite of pork. “I’m just saying. The anniversary is kind of a big deal.”
“For a sauce blend?” All right, it’s not just any sauce blend.
Our father and his twin founded Yang’s Spicy Sauce Blend when they both were still in college. Yang’s became a best-selling brand across Asia, boasting strong sales in Europe and North America, too. Even when Dad died, Uncle Korain kept Yang’s Spicy Sauce Blend at the top of the market.
“We did our part,” I remind him. “And we’ve built our own corner in the culinary world. There’s no sense revisiting the past.”
“Who’s talking about revisiting the past?” He slices a careful bite of pork, pausing to dip it in sweet potato. “I’m talking about reconnecting with family.”
“We spoke to him just last month.” A five-minute call, I’ll admit. Just long enough to wish Uncle Korain happy birthday. Even that short chat left my gut hollowed out, as the sound of our late father’s voice filled the phone line.
I wish our uncle didn’t sound just like our dad. That they didn’t share a birthday, a history. Maybe then I’d feel differently about seeing him.
Ji-Hoon’s still watching me, so I stare right back. “You want a damn family reunion in Seoul or something?”
“Don’t be an idiot.” Of course he doesn’t want that. Neither of us would.
“So what, then?”
My brother lets out a long sigh. “I’d be open to having him visit us here.”
“Hell no.”
He flings out a hand, whacking a rosebud in its crystal vase. “Why are you like this?”
“Why aren’t you?” I get back to shoving food in my face and focus on something more positive. Something…lighter. Starlight or sunshine or bright blue eyes with cheeks stained faintly pink.
Goddammit.
I’m not thinking about Lana Judson.
Except maybe a little. Did she really think I’d bring a date to the gardens? That I’d bang some random chick between the rhubarb and the?—
“What’s wrong?”
I blink back to my brother. “Nothing.”
“Because you’re smiling.” Ji-Hoon studies my face. “You never smile.”
Scraping the last bits of bok choy, I grunt. “Fuck off.”
“That’s more like it.” He finishes his meal, then grabs both our plates before I get to it first. “Did you see your girlfriend today or something?”
He zips off toward the kitchen before I can say I don’t have a girlfriend. I know who he means. “Not my girlfriend,” I mutter, following him into the kitchen to shove our silverware in the dishwasher. He adds the plates and we both wash our hands because it’s a motherfucking restaurant.
It’s almost showtime.
“I see how you look at her,” he says. The tenacious asshole isn’t letting up about Lana. “Would it kill you to ask her out?”
It might. “We’re not talking about this.”
“Give me one good reason you don’t date Lana Judson.” He keeps going before I give ten of them, starting with the clusterfuck of my last major relationship. “Have you even had a full conversation with her?”
That gives me pause. “Today.”
His eyes go wide, and I know I should have kept my mouth shut. “And you’re just now telling me?”
I shake my head and start chopping onions. We’ll need a fuck-ton for French onion soup. “It wasn’t a big deal.” Why did I start this? “She thought I was naked.”
“Hold up.” My brother scoots close to the counter. “This is a thing for you?”
“I wasn’t naked,” I point out. “Just shirtless.” He stares like I’ve got some explaining to do, and that’s probably true. “She thought I was having sex with someone.”
“And were you?”
I don’t dignify that with a response. “I agreed to do some shitty publicity with Entertainment Weekly. That’s all. That’s as exciting as it got.” A lie, but not totally. He doesn’t need to know how my heart sped up at the sight of her. How I haven’t stopped wondering if she is, in fact, a very good girl.
“You’re smiling,” Ji-Hoon says. “And since that never happens, I can only guess there’s more to the story.” He waits, but I don’t respond. “Something between ‘I saw Lana’ and ‘Lana thinks tomatoes turn me on.’”
“Go check the door,” I mutter. “Some asshole early bird is probably out there already.”
His smug smile tells me this isn’t over. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.” He heads for the dining room—stopping to make one more tick mark on the chart. On his way through the door, he calls out, “The pork chop is great, by the way.”
“I know.”
The next few hours flow one into the next as I pile plates full of steak tartare and blistered shishito peppers. We’ve got two assistants and a kickass sous chef, but I’m running the show. Ji-Hoon keeps things hopping at the front of the house, while servers race from the kitchen carrying plates piled with mushroom risotto, seared ahi, and my famous Moroccan brussels sprouts with tahini and preserved lemon.
And pork chops. God bless Ji-Hoon, he’s selling the hell out of those pork chops.
He also manages to get the full story from me about today’s chat with Lana. The dickhead loves it, of course.
“Two more chops, bro.” He wheels through the kitchen with a shit-eating grin. “You’ll never guess who I just sat at twenty-six.”
“The Pope.”
I don’t need to look up to know he’s rolling his eyes. “Try again.”
I hate this game, but he won’t leave me alone unless I play. “Scarlett Johansson.”
“Prettier.”
My heart rate ticks up, but I keep both eyes fixed on this swordfish I’m plating. “You gonna tell me Lana’s order or make me guess that, too?”
“She hasn’t ordered an entrée yet. I think her date’s standing her up.” A grinning Ji-Hoon wheels around to my other side. “You should go comfort her.”
I give a low growl since that’s easier than words. Keeps me from saying anything to lend fuel to his harebrained idea I’ve got the hots for Lana Judson.
But my brother’s not letting up. “Come on. You’re due for your hourly meet-and-greet.”
“I hate the fucking meet-and-greet.”
“Sadly for you, the guests like meeting their chef.” He makes another tick-mark on the chart. “God knows why.”
The man has a point.
“I can take over, Chef.” My sous chef, Simi, steps up to the stove as I set the swordfish under a heat lamp and hit the button to tell the waiter.
“Fucking hell.” I wash my hands, then dry them on a clean white towel. With another sigh, I tug off my apron and trudge to the dining room to do my rounds.
I make it three steps past the host stand when I spot Lana Judson. She’s changed clothes since this morning, and a dark purple dress hugs her curves like a dream. Her blond hair twists back in a fancy updo as she frowns at her phone. A glass of white wine sits off to one side, with an order of my famous truffle fries right beside her. She plucks the longest from the basket and bites off the end, nibbling it down like the world’s hottest bunny.
Why is she so goddamn pretty?
I’m supposed to be out here glad-handing customers, walking around like some jackass, while satisfied patrons heap praise on my tenderloin. Instead, I’m beelining it for the table of the one person here who hasn’t ordered a meal.
“Hey.”
Lana looks up and blinks. “Oh, hey.” There’s that pretty pink tint in her cheeks. Is she thinking about our mix-up this morning? “Sorry to take up a table without ordering an entrée. This reporter cancelled on me, but I’m trying to get my brother here for?—”
“It’s fine.” I wonder which wine she ordered. If I can suggest the perfect meal pairing.
Instead of doing that, I just stand like a dumbshit and stare. I’d probably do that for an hour or two if she weren’t way better than me at small talk.
“Cooper’s not answering, but you know what?” She sets her phone down and props her chin in her hand. “How about I go straight from the appetizer to dessert?”
“Sure.” I wait for her to tell me what she wants. Lana just stares. Shit. “Let me see if I can find a dessert menu somewhere.” God only knows where Ji-Hoon stashed them. I start to turn, but Lana’s voice stops me.
“It’s fine. I know what I want.”
I turn back to face her. “What do you want?” That came out growly and rough, and now she’s looking at me like I’ve unzipped my pants. “For dessert.”
“Espresso, for starters. I’ve got a late call with Australia.” Her smile could melt ice in her water. “And I’d love some of that dessert you had on the menu last week? That little bowl with the ice cream and persimmon jam with?—”
“We’re out.”
“Oh.” She looks crestfallen. “Okay then—how about the lychee cheesecake?”
I nod and turn back to the kitchen, done with my rounds for the next sixteen years. I’m not cut out for this crap. I key in her order, then turn back to dinner prep.
Seconds later, Ji-Hoon rolls in. “What did you say to her?”
“Who?”
He means Lana, of course. “Don’t be a dick.”
Like I know any other way to be. “Mark it on the chart.” I point to the form by the door. “If I get called out for cursing, so do you.”
My brother shakes his head. “You’re a real piece of work.”
Tell me about it.
But I don’t have time to be any other way. We’re here for a fresh start. We’ve got that in spades, and no way am I screwing that up by letting my dick run the show. Lana Judson is too sweet. Too kind, too hellbent on seeing the bright side of everything.
Somewhere between last call and shutting down the grill, I lose track of time. Before I know it, Ji-Hoon rolls back through the kitchen. “That’s the last of ’em. Turned out to be a pretty good night.”
“Huh.” I wash my hands at the sink, conscious of my brother’s eyes on me. Of how close I came to losing him back when— “Hey, bro?”
His wheels squeak to a stop. “Yeah?”
“You still want dibs on that last order of makgeolli?” That’s the dish Lana asked about, for anyone wondering. “The one you stuck in the back of the cooler.”
“Why?” When I don’t answer, he wheels back to my side. “Why?”
“Because I want it.”
“You hate makgeolli custard almost as much as you hate persimmon jam.” He watches me wash my knives without speaking. “Pretty sure you also hate the horchata ice cream that goes with it.”
When I don’t reply, he runs over my foot. “Ow! Cut it out, asshole.”
“That’s another tick-mark,” he shouts, wheeling toward the door. “Tell Lana to enjoy my makgeolli.”
Goddammit.
Going to her house after 10 p.m. is a bad idea on many levels. So why am I boxing up the chilled dessert and trudging toward the small bank of cabins where Lana Judson lives?
It’s a warm night in Oregon, all pine-scented breeze and the slosh of the pond to my right. I might not love the cameras here, but I do love Juniper Ridge. The way purple sage grows wild through the lava rock, or how a nighthawk’s cry splits the inky black silence.
It’s peaceful here. A good place to ditch all your demons.
I nearly chicken out as I’m climbing the steps to her porch. But then I’m pounding on Lana’s door, holding the box in the crook of my arm. If she doesn’t answer in three seconds, I’ll leave. I shouldn’t be here anyway.
Her door flies open and there she stands, wearing less than she did a few hours ago. She’s in soft cotton shorts cut right below her ass, and a speckled pink tank top with no bra underneath.
My mouth goes dry, then somehow blurts the world’s dumbest greeting. “Still want my makgeolli?”