Page 4 of Geordie

The six cases of wine are in the back of the Rover, tucked under a blanket to hide it from prying eyes and to protect the order from the sun. I pull out two, managing a case under each arm. The restaurant appears deserted from the sidewalk, there's no one in the window seating, and I can't see beyond that. When I push through the front door, it's not empty. I thought they closed about this time to prepare for dinner. I'm getting glances from a few diners as I walk among the tables to the kitchen. I see white tablecloths, expensive art on the pale gray walls, and hear the hushed conversations of a high-end restaurant. After I disappear, the diners will soon forget I crashed their calm.

I stride across the room to the kitchen without incident. My shoulder pushes through a door into controlled chaos. A few startled kitchen workers dressed in white chef’s jackets and gray pants are staring at me as if I'm an apparition. “I've a delivery from MacTavish Cellars. Where do you want me to stack these cases? I've got four more in the truck.”

There are a half dozen pairs of eyes gawking at me, but no one answers, so I repeat the request in Spanish. One worker, a small, slender female who looks too young to be working at all, takes two steps backwards, turns, then disappears through a door.

Still no response. This is going to be a tough crowd. I'm about to switch to French when a woman appears through a door at the other end of the kitchen. There's an outline of dark hair pushed under a white baseball cap with the name Dalliance written on the front panel. Her dark, furrowed brow and thick lashes framing dark-brown eyes evaluate me. Her smooth, tawny skin is a stark contrast to her gleaming white uniform, or is it a trick of the light that the woman is shimmering?

The kitchen crew resumes their tasks as if I'm not here. They're not completely engrossed in their work; several are giving furtive glances to the goddess in white who's descended from wherever goddesses reside these days.

“Why did you bring a delivery through the restaurant?” Her low, sultry voice is like a sweltering night in the tropics, and it awakens an unexpected place in my groin. I've not answered because I'm staring at her until the weight of the boxes I'm carrying reminds me I'm making a delivery.

“I didn't realize you were open for business until I entered. I was told you would be preparing for dinner at this time. Where would you like me to put these?” I punctuate my excuse with a smile to show I mean no harm.

Suspicion hoods her dark, intelligent eyes. “Follow me.” she says, breaking the spell. “You can stack the boxes in my office.”

The staff parts to allow me to pass. I walk sideways into the cramped room, trying not to topple anything as I fill the space. She points a slender finger to a corner where she wants me to set down the boxes.

“Pull your truck around to the back. Two doors down is an alley. Turn into it, then make a right into the first driveway. Come through this door.” She points at the back door to her office as if it's misbehaved. “Please leave through here now to get to your truck.” She turns away to head into the kitchen.

It's a quicker task unloading through the back door with no one to watch me work. When I've stacked the last of her boxes, I slip into her chair and pull out the invoice, spreading it out on a wee area that won't disturb the order of papers, books, and the laptop on her desk.

I cross off the cost of one case as a gesture of goodwill for my error, recalculate the related tax, and add up the revised figures. When I initial the changes, I bump her keyboard and the laptop comes to life onto a webpage. Either she doesn't bother with security or she was just in the office before I returned. The page is called PollenNation. Their logo looks like an apiologist's rendering of a bee with a splash of mustard yellow in the image's background. I scan the site's welcome page, thinking it's a gardening company until I read the About Us section. It says it's a fertility network for future parents and co-parents. My heart sinks a wee bit when I realize she's married and is having trouble conceiving a baby. It's a lost chance to get to know this woman with all that beauty and fire. It would have been a challenge to win her heart.

“Are you done?”

I glance away from the screen and scramble to my feet to face the goddess of the kitchen. Her gaze cuts to her chair, then back to me, and I'm silently being told I've invaded her space sitting at her desk. I rip off the customer section of the invoice and hold it out like a peace offering.

She takes the paper, suspicion still set in her eyes, then turns her attention to the invoice.

“My name is Geordie—”

She cuts me off before I can complete my introduction. “You're not charging me for a case?” She glances up. “Are you allowed to do this?”

“Aye, and I was told you might have questions about the wine.”

Her chin tilts up, considering. “Is Connell coming later?” This time, her tone is dismissive. She thinks I'm the delivery guy and doesn't give her name, as if I don't deserve the courtesy.

“He sent me in his place.” That should be enough to steer this conversation to a discussion between equals. “I can discuss the wine and suggest pairings if you'll show me the menu.”

She crosses her arms, the invoice dangling from her hand. Damn, she's a sight. She exudes sex even in that genderless chef’s jacket. What would she be like out of that uniform? No, I chide myself. You know she's not available, and she's a customer. It's wrong to think of her in any other way.

“Thanks for the offer,” her voice throwing a chill in the air, “but I'll speak to your winemaker. He promised to help me with the pairings when I placed the order. I want his suggestions before we publish our fall menu. Tell Connell to call me to make another appointment.” She lifts the invoice to study it again, shaking her head as she reviews the paper. “Thank you for the delivery. We'll send the payment today.” She stuffs the paper in her pants pocket, throws me a glance that says she doesn’t think much of me. Turns, and walks back into the kitchen.

Chapter three

Dalliance

Lily

I’vebeeninashitty mood since my dinner with Stephen yesterday. Bad breakups will do that. My restaurant is a safe place because I know exactly what to expect from the staff, food, and my vendors. Even the customers don’t surprise me with their wishes and whims.

Here, I’m in a space where I find solace in my work, until I had a giant walk through the goddamn restaurant like this is a fast-food joint. The man had arms the size of The Hulk’s, carrying a case of wine under each arm like he was cradling puppies.

When I was told he was here delivering, he’d already disrupted the diners in the restaurant because he saw no reason to look for a service entrance. We’re lucky there were no complaints. He just burst into my kitchen without a thought, demanding someone stop what they were doing to help him.

Outsiders don’t understand the delicate flow of a commercial kitchen. Working with several people in a tight space, there needs to be grace and tolerance. The clang of pots, metal on metal, the unrelenting heat, the clipped chatter while we coax perfection from quality ingredients. It’s the pressure of doing this day after day, dish after dish, always striving to be the best, has everyone on the razor’s edge. The arrogance that he can do what he likes without consequences is typical asshole-male behavior.

The irritation stays with me as I pull down a saucepan and turn on the flame. I whisk egg yolks, water, and lemon juice into a sauce. I’m preparing a not-so-classic Bearnaise. This is a fusion restaurant where we marry unlikely flavors to make magic. I pinch pepper flakes from a small bowl to incorporate into the creamy yellow, then a pinch of a spice mixture I created. The thought of that guy’s corded muscle straining at his T-shirt sleeves comes into my head. If I beat the egg in the sauce any harder, I’ll ruin the base and will have to start again. Slowing my hand, I force myself to create the right consistency.

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