Kristin Hardy - The Chef's Choice - The Chef's Choice

“When he could.” Cady added an armload of her own.

“Roman says he’s been going with local stuff, too. Actually—” Damon flicked an assessing glance at her “—he said you were the one who went to the market for him. Said he’d never have made it through if it hadn’t been for you."

Cady shifted uncomfortably. “Roman talks too much.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Don’t get any ideas. He was shorthanded and working his butt off, so I pitched in to help. It’s not an ongoing program. I’ve got a business to run.” She shut the tailgate of the truck. “You want the farmers’ market, big guy, that’s your job. I’d be happy to write down directions for you."

“Better yet, go with me.”

“Hello? Business to run?” She tapped the side of the truck.

“Just this once, that’s all. Show me around, introduce me to the people you do business with."

“Money’s the best introducer there is.”

“And you know as well as I do that business is about relationships.” He gave her a second glance. “Then again, maybe you haven’t figured that out."

“I’ve got all the relationships I need.”

“You might be surprised. The right one could change your whole world view."

“My world view is fine, thanks very much.”

“Look, just give me tomorrow morning,” he said in exasperation. “I’ll keep it quick."

She reached in her pocket for her keys. “Tomorrow won’t work. They only hold the market twice a week—today and Saturdays."

“Twice a week? For a town with as many restaurants as Portland? You’re kidding."

“It’s May. It’s Maine. You’re lucky the market’s even open this time of year."

“Don’t sound so happy about it.”

She’d promised to be civil, Cady reminded herself, and even for her, she wasn’t doing a very good job. She let out a long, slow breath. “All right. It just so happens that I’m working a job today for a summer client, so they won’t know if I push them off until later. If you’re obsessed about having me take you to the market, I’ll take you. One hour only,” she warned. “And you’d better be ready to go now. I’ve got a job site to be at this afternoon.” She opened her driver’s door.

Damon glanced at the rubbish-filled truck bed. “Are you going to take it like that?"

“What, you think people are going to steal my dead leaves?”

“No, because I figure it’s all going to blow out by the time we hit the highway. Let me drive."

“I didn’t know Manhattanites knew how to.”

“I’ve seen it on TV,” he said.

“Forget it. I know where we’re going. For your information, the dump’s on the way. I was already planning to stop."

He eyed her. “You just want to be behind the wheel.”

“That’s right,” she said, getting in. “Nobody moves me from the driver’s seat."

His slow smile set something fluttering in her stomach. “We’ll see about that."

It was what she got for being nice, Cady thought as they drove up the highway to Portland. If she’d thought twice, she’d never have agreed to be stuck in the tight confines of a vehicle with Damon Hurst. He sprawled comfortably in the passenger seat, his lanky frame making the cab seem very small. It was impossible to ignore him. However much she tried to pay attention to the road, he was what she noticed.

He didn’t bother to make conversation. She wasn’t sure if that was a relief or if it left her to focus all the more on him. He just sat there in his leather jacket and stubbled chin, looking like something out of a blue jeans ad, looking like—

Cady cursed and stomped on the brakes as the car ahead slowed suddenly.

“A decent following distance might help with that,” Damon said mildly, though she noticed he reached up to grab the overhead handhold.

“If you’re going to be a backseat driver, change seats.” “You don’t have a backseat.”

“I know. So relax and enjoy the scenery.” She whipped over into another lane and onto the exit ramp.

“I can’t see it with my eyes closed,” he said through his teeth as the truck swayed with the quick succession of turns she made on the city streets.

Cady caught sight of a parking space and punched it to get through a yellow light and to the opening. “Well, you can open your eyes up now, sweet pea. We’re there."

“Thank God,” Damon said and slowly, carefully, released his grip. “Next time, I’m driving."

“There won’t be a next time.”

“I’m still driving.”

The square before them was filled with the color and hubbub of the farmers’ market. Canvas-tented booths in blue and green and yellow displayed boxes of lettuce in a bewildering variety, pyramids of the fall’s apples and potatoes and cabbage. Hothouse tomatoes provided flashes of red next to the vivid purple and green of rhubarb. Even though it was barely eight, the market was bustling.

Catching sight of a stand selling pastries, Cady made a quick beeline for it.

Damon came to a stop beside her. “What are you doing?”

“Breakfast,” she told him. “It’s the least I deserve after making the drive."

“Are you kidding? I’m the one who ought to be rewarded for surviving."

“Fine. You can buy us both drinks. I’ll take a Coke.”

“At eight in the morning?”

“It’s the best one of the day. What do you want here?” She gestured at the pastry and pulled out her wallet.

“A corn muffin, I guess,” Damon said, lining up before the coffee urn.

“A corn muffin and a cheese Danish,” Cady ordered.

They made their way over to a bench, exchanging booty. He watched her as she took a bite of Danish, washing it down with a swig of cola.

“You know you’ll die young eating like that?”

“That’s what people tell me,” she said, licking crumbs off her fingers with relish.

“Cream cheese and Coke. I don’t even want to think about what that combination tastes like.” He took a swallow of coffee.

“It’s not about the taste, it’s about the sugar rush, although you’d be surprised if you tried it."

He gave her a pained look. “Someone needs to educate your palate."

“My palate’s doing just fine, thank you very much. Okay—” she balled up her napkin “—let’s get going."

Damon swallowed the last of his muffin. “That didn’t count as part of the hour, by the way.” He tossed his trash into the nearby barrel. “The clock starts now."

“Then get going.”

It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought it would be like going grocery shopping—pick and buy, pick and buy. Instead, Damon wandered down the rows aimlessly, stopping at this stand to sniff at a shiny red apple, that one to weigh a bunch of rhubarb in his hands and stare thoughtfully into space.

“You know, that’s the fourth place you’ve checked out the lettuce,” she said as he examined yet another head of brushy green stuff.

“Do you buy a car at the first place you go?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, I’ve seen your truck."

Cady scowled. “What’s wrong with my truck? It got you here, didn’t it?"

He put down the head of lettuce and walked to the next stand. “Thank God for small favors."

“It’s under no obligation to get you home, you know. Speaking of home, when, exactly, are you going to start buying things? You are going to eventually, aren’t you?"

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He stopped at a vendor selling mushrooms and picked up a deformed orange thing that looked as though it had grown under someone’s back steps. Cady repressed a shudder. Her notion of cuisine ran toward pizzas and burgers, not something nasty that looked like an alien life form.