Page 16 of The Chef's Kiss
“I’m sorry if it’s caused you trouble.” I saw the picture in what they called a newspaper here. It was aptly named theWeekly Wine. I hadn’t read any of the articles except the one with a picture of me outside the motel.
“No trouble.” Lena studied me. “It’s natural for the town to have an interest, but I wanted to make sure you were okay with it.”
Okay with my business littering the front of that rag for everyone to see? “I guess I have to be.”
“No, you don’t.”
The article got most things right, so they did their research at least. It perfectly captured my heartache at losing both my job and the prospect of my own New York City restaurant. Not to mention my reputation. But there was one thing I didn’t like putting a spotlight on. “Did you hire me because my parents’ fame can bring attention to the bistro?”
Lena’s eyes widened, like she hadn’t even considered the possibility. “No. Absolutely not. In fact, I’d very much appreciate it if we keep the celebrity endorsements at bay. No offense, but I want this restaurant to succeed on our own merits and through word of mouth.”
“None taken. I couldn’t agree more.” For the first time since getting coffee spilled on me this morning, I smiled.
“Really.” Lena reached across the table to grab my arm. “How are you settling in?”
I wasn’t used to people like her. People who cared to ask such questions. Or, even rarer, people who truly wanted the answers. I hid the awkward tension by taking a bite of my grilled cheese—something I wouldn’t have been caught dead eating in New York.
After I swallowed, I knew I couldn’t hold off any longer. “It’s … hard.”
To my surprise, a laugh popped out of her. “I know that look. You have Ashford problems.”
“What are Ashford problems?”
“Before Conner and I went into business together and started dating, I struggled here because the Ashfords hated me. It would’ve been nearly impossible to get my business off the ground without Conner’s support.”
“Seriously? That seems backward. But why would the Ashfords hate me? They don’t even know me, and I’m working for Conner.”
“It’s not you necessarily. They hate outsiders, and the town tends to take on their personality. Doesn’t help that half the businesses are owned by their relations or that Conner and his father—The Ashford—don’t see eye to eye on much these days.”
“I miss the city, where no one bothers to know anyone else.” I groaned, rubbing my forehead. “This place is—”
“Strange? Yeah.” She laughed. “I’ve lived here my entire life. It’s my home, and even I know it’s a little weird. But that’s what makes it special. Once you’re one of us, the town looks out for you.”
I didn’t plan on staying long enough to become one of them. This was just a ticket back to my life. But something told me that wasn’t the right thing to say to my boss.
“So, these Ashfords … that’s the wine family, right?”
She nodded, swallowing a bite. “Now, I guess they’re also in apples and horses and cakes and hardware and—”
“I get it. They have a hand in everything. Wait, cakes? That Jake idiot is an Ashford?”
“Yes, but more of a commoner than a royal.” She laughed. “It’s a really long story. And he’s not an idiot. Jake is actually an incredible baker. He can make anything.”
“That’s not what he told me.”
She rolled her eyes. “He can make anything; doesn’t mean he will. He has a good pulse on what this town will eat, though. Jake isn’t the only one you’re struggling with, is he?”
I sighed. “I’ve left three messages with Superiore Bay Wines about a distribution meeting, the people at Hugga Mugga won’t speak to me long enough for me to inquire about coffee supply, and the only printer in town won’t phone me back with a quote for menus.”
“Is that all?” She lifted one brow, pulling a card out of her pocket and flipping it over. She dug in her purse for a pen before scribbling down a number. “This is Conner’s number. Give him a call and he will handle his father and the wine. You don’t want your coffee supply from Hugga Mugga. They won’t have enough. But their supplier is a guy named Roosevelt Chris. He roasts it in his garage.”
I stared at her. She couldn’t be serious.
“The second number is his. As for Jake … tell him you’ll give him free rein to craft two of the desserts as long as he follows your simple desires for the others. The man is creative and will appreciate your trust in him enough to stop being a douchebag for a few minutes.”
She slid the card over to me.
I picked it up. “What kind of place have I stumbled into?”
