Jackie Braun - Falling for Her Rival

Although she was petite, she hadn’t worn dangerously high heels to compensate. Her footwear choice on this day was a sensible pair of flats whose only bow to femininity was a row of flirty ruffles that crossed the toe. They were a practical choice for the kitchen, although he’d noticed that Amazon-sized Angel had gone with spikes and even down-home Flo had opted for a wedged heel that added a couple of inches to her otherwise average height.

Lara was saying, “I’m at Isadora’s at least twice a week, although I limit my biscotto intake to one piece once a week.”

Disciplined, he thought. But what surprised him was the fact they hadn’t met before now given their affinity for both the hard Italian cookie and the place.

“I’m there most weekday mornings. I bring my laptop, clear my email, that sort of thing. I can’t believe I’ve never run into you.”

“I know. What time do you arrive? I usually show up around seven, and then I’m in and out pretty fast. I get my order to go.”

“Seven?” Finn whistled through his teeth. “That explains it. I’m still in bed at seven. In fact, I rarely throw back the covers before nine.”

She blinked as if trying to clear away an inappropriate visual. Or maybe his ego just wanted to believe that was the case.

“Night owl?” she asked.

“I didn’t used to be, but...” He shrugged. “I work as a private chef now, so I’m a night owl if my client is, and lately, she is.”

“She?” Lara’s eyebrows rose.

“I signed a confidentiality clause, so that’s about all I’m allowed to say.”

“Ah. Someone famous, then. Got it.” She nodded before asking, “Do you have a lot of freedom to plan the menu or does your client tell you what she wants and how she wants it?”

Finn couldn’t stop his laugher. He didn’t try, even when a blush stained Lara’s cheeks.

“You make me sound like a gigolo,” he responded once he’d managed to catch his breath. “I know food can be a sensual experience, but...”

“Sorry. I—”

He shook his head and waved off the apology. Then Lara did it again, put her foot right back in that very appealing mouth of hers.

“It must pay pretty well. Otherwise, why would you...? I mean, obviously, you’d rather run a restaurant kitchen.” She squinted through one eye. “That came out wrong.”

“That’s all right.” Hell, sometimes Finn felt as if he’d sold out, but a guy had to make a living and at least he was still able to do so with his cooking. “To answer your first poorly phrased question—” He laughed again. “I plan the menus, but sometimes she makes a request. And she likes to have dinner parties, so...”

“Late nights.”

“Exactly. Tonight included. I’ll be lucky to plant my face in my pillow by three.”

“It’s Wednesday.”

“Yeah. Welcome to the life of the idle rich.”

Isadora’s was just ahead on the other side of the street. Finn swore he could already smell the coffee on the stale afternoon breeze. They stopped at the curb. While they waited for the light to change, he asked, “What kind of coffee do you drink?” He tipped his head to one side. “You’re not one of those half-caf-with-skim-milk women, are you?”

“And if I say yes?”

“I’d have to turn you on to the beauty of a plain old cup of freshly brewed French roast.”

Her brows notched up.

Now who was guilty of poor phrasing? Finn thought. But she didn’t call him on it.

Instead, she agreed, “Simplicity is underrated.”

“Yep. Everyone wants to complicate things, thinking that somehow makes the end result better.”

Finn wasn’t only talking about coffee now, but the direction his kitchen—and he still considered Rascal’s kitchen his—had gone under Sheryl’s and Cole’s leadership. Rascal’s, named for the classic Our Gang reruns he’d watched as a kid, had featured traditional food with fun, funky twists. These days the menu was more classical than classic, heavy with French influences that ran counter to the eclectic decor and irreverent name.

“Personally, I like Colombian and I look for organic beans harvested and sold under Fair Trade. Does that make me high maintenance or too trendy?” she wanted to know.

“Even if it did, at least it would be for a good cause.”

“So, it’s okay to be picky or demanding if you’re doing it for a good cause?”

Finn laughed. “Something like that.”

They arrived at the shop and he held open the door for her. At this hour of the day, the place wasn’t very busy. Most people already had reached their daily caffeine quota. A few professional types in business suits stood in line at the take-out window. In the dining room, trendily dressed girls whom he guessed to be high school age sat laughing at one table. Two other tables were taken by preoccupied twentysomethings tapping away on their laptop keyboards.

“Counter or table?” she asked.

“Your choice.”

Lara turned and started toward a table that was wedged against the window. It was the one he often sat at so he could watch the foot traffic file past. As he sat down, he could hear the slight buzzing of the neon Open sign overhead. A waitress was over almost immediately to take their orders.

Lara went with Colombian. He went with French roast. They both took their coffee black. Another reason to like her, he decided. Food required seasoning. But a good cup of coffee didn’t need to be doctored up with cream, whether flavored or plain. Nor did it need sweetener of any sort. Especially if one was going to be dunking cookies in it.

“I’ll have the macadamia-nut-and-dried-cranberry biscotto,” she told the waitress.

“Make that two.” It was what he always ordered, as well.

After the waitress left, Lara quipped, “We made her job easy.”

“We can always send the biscotti back and complain about the coffee to test her patience and make her earn the tip we leave.”

“I’m sure she’s already waited on more than a couple people like that today. I’ve worked in enough kitchens to know that some people make special requests or send back food just to be a pain in the rear.”

He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I thought you were a food stylist.”

Lara pointed at his mouth. “Did you know that your lip curled when you said that?”

“It did not.”

She nodded. “Afraid so.”

“Okay, maybe a little. It just seems like a poor use of your talent.” And obviously she had talent or she wouldn’t have made it on to the show.

Tone dry as dust, she replied, “Says the man who pimps out his cooking to the highest bidder. What’s the story behind that?”

“We’re talking about you right now. We’ll get to my story later.” He wasn’t sure what he would share with her. But right now he wanted to know more about her, so he asked, “Do you enjoy styling other people’s food?”

“I’m very good at it.”

“But that’s not what I asked.”

The waitress returned with their coffees and biscotti. Lara picked up one of the hard Italian cookies and dunked it into her cup. Stalling?

Finn prompted, “Well?”

“Sure. I enjoy it. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. Appearances are important.”

“Appearances can be deceiving,” he shot back.

That was true both in the case of a roasted turkey that had been brushed with oil to make it look moist and a fresh-faced woman with secrets brimming in her eyes.

“Yes. And no. I’m willing to go out on a limb and bet that Ryder does not sing in a church choir.”

But did Ryder have something to hide? Finn didn’t think so. He was an in-your-face kind of guy. Lara Smith? The way she sometimes acted, Finn wondered.

“All right, I’ll come clean,” she said only to end with, “I like cooking more.”