Page 6 of The Chef's Kiss
“Hmph. Thought so. The suit is a dead giveaway.”
The other woman looked me up and down. “Might want to leave it at home next time, city slicker.”
Neither of them seemed unkind. “Is there a reason, Mrs.—”
“Peterson,” the first one said. “And yes. You look like a buffoon walking around these parts in clothing you were dumb enough to spend so much money on. Not even the Ashford boys are that brazen.”
Brazen? “I’m sorry, I don’t know who the Ashfords are.” Other than Conner, but I’d only met him once at the shop.
The second woman snorted. “You will.” Then, both women stood and walked away without another word.
Something about this town wasn’t right. I looked down at my suit, flattening a palm against the soft fabric I’d been so proud of. I was a man who valued clothing, valued my appearance.
That didn’t make me a buffoon.
But now, I felt like one.
I finished my coffee and decided to head to the wine bar early, hoping someone was there before it opened.
The brick building was within walking distance, and I always preferred the exercise when I could get it. I tried the front door, but it was locked.
A crash came from around back, and I ran toward it, finding a woman with dark hair, ripped jeans, and a loose t-shirt bent over a box of broken bottles, curses flowing from her lips.
“Need a hand?”
She jumped at the sound of my voice.Looking back over her shoulder, she pursed her lips. “Sure you want to risk a stain on that suit, city boy?”
Why did everyone keep calling me that?
With a sigh, she jerked her head to the truck that still had a few more boxes. “Don’t drop them and I might consider giving you a free lunch. Well, an appetizer at least.” She walked inside, leaving me to get the next box.
Glass bottles clinked together as I hoisted it into my arms, straining with the effort. It was heavier than I’d imagined.
When I set it on the bar, the woman smiled. “There are a few more.”
I unloaded the rest of her truck while she prepared the register for the day. When I set the last one on the floor, my arms ached. “I don’t need a free lunch, but did that earn me a meeting with the manager here?”
“Depends.” She shut the register drawer. “What about?”
“Wine.”
“Color me intrigued. We like wine here.” She attached a name badge to her shirt and under the name “Vic” read the title manager. “Have a seat and I’ll grab us a couple of glasses of my favorite red. It’s drinking time somewhere, right?”
I looked around the vacant place, marveling at the stacks of empty bottles along the walls, the wine casks made to look like fancy decorations. This place would have fit in the city.
Vic returned a moment later with two half-full wine glasses. We sat at a high table close to the bar.
“If you dressed up for the occasion,” she said, “this business of yours must be serious.” She hid a laugh by taking a sip.
“What is wrong with this suit?” I didn’t get it. It was designer, expensive.
“It marks you as an outsider. Though, around here, they’d know you were a New Yorker just by looking at you. You ooze fast-pace-small-town-will-kill-me vibes.”
I sighed. “Whatever vibes I ooze,” what an awful word, “I’m here for a job.”
“Ah yes, Lena’s restaurant. We all heard about the city chef she hired. Bold move.”
“I’d like to set up a contract with this place to provide the best local wines to—”
