Page 16 of A Taste of Christmas Magic

His lips twitched in a smile he barely shut down as Rebekah ripped off the last strip of paper. Same message. Different delivery.

“I’m not hiding.” He hated that he sounded defensive. “I just want everything to be right. To be prepared.”

Rebekah snorted and watched him and Chloe like they were facing off in a match.

“You only get one shot for a first impression,” Chloe murmured softly. “Don’t I know it. Still.” She raised one shoulder and dropped it. “Take your shot.”

She was right. Rebekah was right. I’m stalling. When did I become such a coward?

Chloe’s unusual gaze flicked to the plated food on the table.

“Let’s see if you’re ready, Chef,” she invited, smiling up at him with that big cheeky grin he remembered from when she was a kid trying to get away with something or wheedle another biscuit out of Millie’s kitchen staff. “Wow me.”

*

Tasting food withChloe was unlike anything he’d experienced, and after the initial few giggles of surprise from the twins, the crew seemed to warm up to her effusive praise. It opened a spigot of happy Millie’s Diner memories for him.

Except Rebekah. Her glare drilled Chloe as if she were a venomous insect needing to be crushed with a shoe.

“I got this, Rebekah,” he reminded quietly.

Rebekah sat to his left; Chloe at the far end of the table.

“This is beyond cool,” Chloe sang out, waving her skewer with the tilapia that had been rubbed with curry leaves and soaked in sambar. She popped the food in her mouth and bounced in her chair like a little kid.

“I loved Millie’s. It felt like home. But this feels like a private club. A secret. An international hot spot where I’d get a decadent cocktail, a savory dish I couldn’t pronounce, listen to some ethnic, vibey music with sick beats, and hear some gossip that would place me in a deep moral quandary.”

Rebekah’s machine-gun laugh was raw. “She gets it, Chef.”

“Rustin, I mean, Chef.” Chloe blushed charmingly, and he stared at her, feeling a little off-balance by the adult Clo Beau. “Tell me about the dishes and if you have anything I could buy to serve at a meeting today.”

“I’m not a caterer,” Rustin objected.

“What kind of meeting, Junior League? Church group?” Rebekah sneered.

“You’ll do takeout, though, when you open, right?” Chloe clarified and then turned to Rebekah. “I have the Movable Feast committee coming over today to finalize the plans, menu, and preparations for the event. I asked Jessica to help me make some sandwiches and scones or something, and this is her answer.” Chloe held up her phone as if he could read a text from across the table, and never would he voluntarily read a text or communicate with Jessica Maye.

Taking his silence for an answer, she turned her phone around and read. ‘Chloe, since you jumped in to take over, handle your own food.’ “So this is me, attempting to handle my own food by asking for some clever appetizers from an expert in order to wow the committee, give them a preview of your awesome power,” Chloe said, tucking away her phone.

He opened his mouth to refuse, even as her enthusiastic praise and overt trust in him did something funny in his chest, but Rebekah, who never missed an opportunity, leaned forward.

“The Movable Feast?” Rebekah opened a screen on her phone. “The one on the town’s holiday events homepage?”

“Yes.”

“If we made some nibbles for your afternoon event… How many people?”

“Minimum, fifteen.”

“Would you post signage with our website, QR code, socials?” Rebekah raised one pierced brow.

“I haven’t agreed to cook anything for you today, Chloe,” Rustin said coolly. Rebekah had the vibe of a thoroughbred racehorse geared to bolt from the starting line, while Chloe was an excited pony kicking and whinnying, wanting to follow.

“Lucas can prepare it if you’re feeling too grand to ignore a business opportunity,” Rebekah snarked.

“Huh? For reals?” Lucas looked up from his cherry bounce.

Like hell he’d have his brother take charge of a menu before they were open to provide food for Belmont’s most exclusive and wealthy citizens. And wouldn’t it burn their tight, surgically trimmed and lifted asses to learn who’d made the food they’d enjoyed?

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