Chapter 2
Two
Rochelle Ferrara pulled her hire car over outside the welcoming orange lights of Maynard’s Tavern, lights that failed to brighten the anxiety that kept her body stiff all over.
Just thirty minutes earlier, she’d stood out front of the large wooden sign belonging to Harlow’s one and only B&B, suitcase in hand, the establishment not at all what she’d expected. First off, a handwritten note taped to the door stated that the aging building was Under New Management . Second, the door in question had been locked!
No entry for her. Or anyone else with a booking. Not that there’d been anyone else around. Not even the door’s note offered any further explanation. Not a phone number to call. Nor did the one listed in the email from her initial booking work.
Trying her best to restrain her frustration and panic, she’d returned to her car, then sat there staring at the circular Mercedes badge for a quiet moment, only to realize her car commented on her wealth and made her stick out, and therefore made her feel even more vulnerable. She had nowhere to go. No one to call. She was stranded.
The only person she knew in town was Emilia Bonacci, and she wasn’t about to bother her on the eve of her wedding. An attempted internet search showed slow network coverage, followed by literally no other places that might take a last-minute weekend booking. That’s when she’d seen Maynard’s Tavern listed as a place of interest. She’d passed the venue on her way into town, had noted its heavenly lights….
Now, heart heavy, she pushed her car door open and approached the large venue—one stranded at the edge of a giant and empty paddock, but her best bet at this late hour.
Despite all hope, a quick glance through the front window showed no customers conversing at tables and no music was heard playing through the glass.
What if there’s no one inside?
Still, she pushed at the weighty wooden door and the thing surprisingly swung open. A warm atmosphere engulfed her on entry, complete with dim lights and old-style furnishings that melted a portion of the strain compressing on her chest.
She took a deep breath and stepped toward the bar. After a decade in high-end furniture dealing, she could tell her oak from her ash wood, rococo from art deco, and right now she took in the details of bentwood chairs tucked under mid-century style, square timber tables, along with mahogany-brown leather booths filling the spaces along the sidewalls. Indeed, no other customers remained, and the tavern did seem closed, but even as her heart sank, she clung to the small positive detail that the door had been unlocked.
Just as she reached the bar, a tall figure caught her eye in the tucked away kitchen behind the food service counter. A man wiping down a stove. Far too busy to notice her.
She leaned into the bar, the protruding edge digging into her torso, as she called out, “Excuse me.”
The man turned his shaved head, and she made out the details of a full face, with pale blue eyes narrowed like he hadn’t expected anyone to be around, and he sought to discern who she might be. A slight ridge between his brow denoted a moment of annoyance before his expression relaxed altogether.
“Just one minute.”
He dropped the cloth to a counter and strode toward her, through a swinging door to the bar’s right, before stopping behind the bar proper. Even as he stood before her, he said nothing more. Less rude, more… confused… Maybe?
She sank back onto her black Fendi heels and donned an air of confidence she’d long learned to wear in moments of uncertainty. “Are you open?”
The man behind the bar smiled but shook his head.
“No, dear.” Despite his bleak reply, the warmth in his voice extended to his eyes in an odd mix of joy and sympathy that melted something within her. “Just closing up, though I thought Sarah would’ve locked the front door on her way out.”
The ridge between his brows appeared again, as though he pondered “Sarah’s” mistake. Meanwhile, Rochelle dropped her gaze to the bar’s dark woodgrain, her wood-gazing having more to do with a desire to delay an ever more inevitable night in her car.
Just twenty-four hours earlier she’d been sipping perfectly brewed espresso on the cobbled streets of Florence, Italy. She’d just cut a deal with a renowned local dealer to add some of his antiques for sale to her list of wealthy clients.
The trip had encompassed everything she loved—travel back to her family’s homeland, hours upon hours immersed in classic art, amazing food, and a chance to grow her business, only now….
“Ohh...” The unexpected, deflated sound fell from her lips, but she half-turned away all the same, not wanting to bother this man anymore.
“Do you need help, Love?” His endearing question caught her midstride and his continued words had her turning back his way. “I’m Gordon, the chef here. Is there something I can do?”
The strain in her shoulder blades eased and a small sense of relief washed over her. “I’m in town for Emilia’s wedding, and I was hoping to at least stay the weekend for an overdue break from flying about, but now Harlow’s one and only B&B is closed indefinitely, and my booking is seemingly canceled. I don’t have anywhere to go.” She cringed, trying to make light of her situation, while very little within her felt light. “As it stands, I’ll be spending tonight in my car.”
“Hmmm…” Gordon gave a small and repeated nod, his lips pressed into a thoughtful thin line. “Well, I’m sure it’s not as bad as that. You eaten lately?”
She shook her head. “I’ve come here straight from the airport, but—”
“Alright then.” He reached across the bar and patted her hand, his touch and instant acceptance rocking her more than if he’d simply sent her away. “We’ll feed you and figure out the other details as we go. How does that sound?”
Incredulous laughter burst past her lips. Just like that, he’d help her? She lifted her gaze to his heart-melting smile, one that stole any questions over how quickly he was willing to put himself out to make her life easier. Even more confusing, the longer she looked at him, the more she liked what she saw. Even more appealing than his looks was the ease of his demeanor and his unassuming kindness.
Is this country hospitality or is there something else at work here?
Do I mind either way?
A slow smile tugged at her lips, and for some inexplicable reason, she turned her hand and clasped on to his. “I’ll cut you a deal, Mr. Gordon. You let me into that kitchen back there, and I’ll cook us both a meal.”
His smile shifted from amused at her address of “Mr. Gordon” to slight suspicion at her request to use his kitchen, perhaps an understandably territorial man when it came to that space.
But she’d spent her whole life surrounded by powerful and territorial people, so had no qualms about letting go of his hand and powering around the bar toward those swinging doors.
“The name’s Rochelle, by the way.” She marched on, every step taking her farther and farther away from being stopped. Her jet-setting life offered few chances to cook for herself, when cooking and eating home dishes was what she missed most during her travels. “Hey, were you at the Harlow Fair all those months ago? I swear, you look familiar.”
“Ahh... I... I don’t know....”
She ignored his uncertain tone and crashed through the double doors, her mood lifting even more at a wood pallet brimming with bunches of fresh herbs, while another contained a small mountain of onions. That said, her first stop was a tall metal shelf holding bottles and bottles of sacred olive oil.
“Oh, yes, I do remember you.” She turned and beamed at Gordon. “You were serving pulled pork mini burgers at a stall. Best ones I’ve ever had, by the way.”
A pause drew out while his mouth wavered and he seemed to fumble for words, though he did eventually find some. “Yeah, I guess. We did have a stall and I did cook pulled pork burgers, but—”
“Yep, definitely you.” She clicked her fingers at him and then thrust a bottle of oil into his hand before he had much time to think. “It’s that unexpected, soft Irish lilt of yours. Very charming.”
She raised a brow at him and tried not to laugh at his overly still and perplexed stare. “My parents were Irish, but I’m American born and raised. I never figured some of their accent rubbed off on me.”
“Maybe it’s just that I’m new here and everyone else no longer notices?” She nodded to the oil bottle in his hand. “Now, crack that open for me, will you?”
He peered down to the bottle in his hand, his numb expression lifting to her, while his brow shifted to a firm and heavy set. “Well, hang on a minute, I might have offered to help you, but you can’t just traipse in here and take over my kitchen.”
She crossed her arms and waited, allowing a few moments of quiet to settle between them. “Okay, so here’s my deal”—because cutting deals was what she did best. Because she loved that suspenseful moment where the other person could always say no—“You’re right, I am taking over, but I’ve been on the road for months now and I’d really appreciate a chance to cut loose in this kitchen. I also think you’re one attractive man. So, I propose we start with spending some time here cooking together—a recipe of my choice, by the way— and if you’re game, you take me home with you tonight.”
A rush of adrenaline swept through her body. That she’d been so bold. That she now had her “moment.” The one where he could say, “No.” Where he could crush her with rejection, though she suspected she’d be less crushed, so much as unfortunate to be at the receiving end of a cold and miserable night in her car.
Everything about this moment carried a distinct weight and silence she wanted to end, though she knew the next opportunity to speak belonged to Gordon.
His cheeks hung a little slack and his mouth slightly open, a low creak preceding his next words. “You mean”—he snapped his mouth shut and took a slow swallow—“as in?”
Sensing he feared elaborating on the question, she took further initiative and dragged her gaze down his body, and then leveled back a sly smile. Maybe Gordon here didn’t have a classical heartthrob vibe going on, but she’d been around riches and glamor long enough to appreciate that pure aesthetics weren’t everything. She knew how to spot a hidden gem in this man’s strong, safe, and sweet demeanor. So, to her, he was downright irresistible.
She shrugged, trying to make her proposition seem as lighthearted and unthreatening as she intended it to be. “You’re single, aren’t you?”
He gave a slow nod but offered no verbal reply.
So, she spoke again. “Then, why not?”
He blinked again, shaking his head, as if to come to his senses. “You seem so sure I feel the same way about you.”
“You don’t?” She waited as his gaze did a slow glide down her body, from the low neckline of her figure-hugging black, Dior tank top that displayed a good portion of her full bust, down to the forest green Bottega flare skirt that showcased her unapologetically wide hips.
His focus latched to hers again, wide, and clearly taken aback, before he nodded slowly. “Alright then. We’ll give this a whirl.”