Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64238 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 321(@200wpm)___ 257(@250wpm)___ 214(@300wpm)
“You say it like you see it,” he observed with another snort.
“Mmhmm. The truth is, he’s young and greedy. He likes the limelight, the applause.”
“Who doesn’t?”
I scoffed. “Not me.”
“You literally came over here to browbeat me into eating this burger so I could tell you it’s delicious.” Riley held up the burger in question and took another bite.
“Merci. And you’re eating, so my work here is done. Welcome to Elmwood. I hope you heal quickly. If you need anything, call…someone else,” I joked. “Or come by for dinner sometime. I serve more than a plain burger, and my specials are…très bien.”
“No doubt. What’s for dinner tomorrow?”
“I haven’t decided. Perhaps coq au vin. I braise my chicken in a luscious burgundy with tasty mushrooms and crispy pancetta. Sublime.” I kissed my fingers as I stood.
“Then I’ll be back. Nice to meet you, Jean-Claude.”
Nolan gave me a curious look in the kitchen. Thankfully, he was on his way to coach the juniors, so he didn’t have time to interrogate me in depth. That was good because if he’d been paying attention, he might have noticed I’d been more charming than usual, and he might have even suggested that I was guilty of flirting with the hockey hunk. And…he would have been correct.
Which was uncharacteristic enough to warrant an explanation. I didn’t flirt. Ever. I certainly didn’t flirt with straight men.
Riley was at the diner on Tuesday for breakfast. I spotted him and Vinnie in the parking lot on my way to the coffee shop to harass Ivan about his uninspired latte art. I paused at the corner and waved when Vinnie called my name.
Wednesday, Riley showed up for lunch alone. He sat in the same booth in the rear, wearing sunglasses and a Mariners ball cap. He ordered a tuna on rye with french fries. I was busy preparing for dinner, but I instructed the cook on duty to add a salad, compliments of Jean-Claude. I didn’t check on Riley or say hello, and he didn’t ask to see me. But he ate everything on his plate…including the greens.
Thursday, he came by around three p.m. for…what was the lunch and dinner mix? Linner? I was busy with my roux and didn’t pay attention to Riley’s order, but it was hard to miss the stir in the air at his appearance.
“Is that Riley Thoreau?”
“Oh, my God, yes! Switch tables with me, please. I heard he was in town, but I haven’t seen him yet, and wow, he’s hotter in person.”
“He ordered tuna on rye. Gah! I love tuna on rye and…”
I tuned out the chatter and concentrated on my flour-to-fat ratio. I supposed I could have added salad to his plate or maybe stopped by his table to suggest another lunch idea because…tuna salad again? But no. I stayed put, ignoring the strong urge to check on him. Was he still wearing sunglasses and sitting away from the window? Was he feeling any better?
Mon Dieu, why should I care?
Riley was not a monkey in my zoo. I could not worry about him. It was bad enough that I saw or heard about him every day. In a town where I could rely on running into the same people in the same places, his ubiquitous presence was jarring.
Two interesting facts about moi: Number one, as head chef and self-appointed culinary master of Elmwood, I spent ninety-five percent of my time in the kitchen. That meant I rarely saw customers unless I specifically made an effort to say hello. Number two, I hated saying hello. Or as Nolan called it…schmoozing.
Sure, I was a friendly guy, but I didn’t want to have to be nice—if that made sense. In spite of my admittedly heavy-handed approach with Riley and his burger the other day, it wasn’t my style to pump patrons for compliments. Either you liked your meal or you didn’t. I didn’t need a dissertation. If I made it, I knew it was delicious. If you didn’t like it, you probably had bad taste.
And I definitely didn’t inquire after the health and well-being of handsome strangers when I was vaguely concerned that my interest had something to do with his striking gray eyes and chiseled jaw. Steering clear of the dining room was wise and no doubt, he’d be off to Seattle by the weekend.
Friday, Riley was still here and still ordering tuna on rye.
Saturday…well, that was my limit.
I took one look at the order sheet and threw my hands in the air. I grumbled a stream of obscenities as I marched out of the kitchen, making a beeline for the hockey man hiding behind dark glasses, his face buried in his cell phone.
“Again with zee tuna. Why?”
Riley glanced up with a start. “Um…excuse me?”
“It’s not healthy to eat the same thing every day. It’s bad for your digestion.”