It had been easier when Lindsay and Campbell had staked out spots next to the camera, but they were meeting with an investor right now. “Is that what you do?”
“Sometimes. It’s old hat to me now, but it was terrifying the first few times. The writers even put in all my jokes and asides because I’d freeze up without the teleprompter.”
“Is that why you’ve been so distant lately? Because I had them nix the script? You’ll be fine, Beck. The best parts of the last show were the ones where we tossed the script and just talked.”
Beck made a noncommittal noise that frustrated Duncan even more. He wanted to get back to the easy camaraderie they’d had before. He knew this had to be about the sex. It was one of the reasons why he never slept with coworkers. Too complicated. Too many people could get hurt. It had been stupid to break his rule.
The director was giving the countdown before Duncan knew it, and then the cameras were rolling. He felt a moment of panic sweep over him, but Beck was a steady, calm presence at his side, and Duncan settled into the cadence of the show.
“Thanks for tuning in to
King of the Kitchen
. If you joined us last week, you already know the format for the next three weeks is a little different,” Beck said to the camera. “Duncan Walters is joining me for a culinary challenge—we’ll be taking classic dishes and putting new twists on them. And then you will get to vote on whose dish you think was the best reinvention by making a small donation to some very worthy charities.”
Duncan grinned. “Speaking of last week, I think it’s well past time we find out who won the brussels sprout challenge. Bob? Can you join us here and do the honors?”
They’d planned to have Christian do it, but his face was still mottled with slow-healing bruises, so Bob had stepped in again.
“Well, it was a close race. I tasted both dishes after filming last week, and let me tell you, it was a hard decision. They were both fabulous,” he said, smiling for the camera. “Thanks to our generous viewers, we raised more than twenty thousand dollars between the two charities.”
Duncan couldn’t help but gape. That was a lot of money for a small organization like Healthy U, and they were only one week into the month. He hadn’t fully realized how much money he’d be bringing in for the charity.
“So. The official votes are all in and tallied, and last week’s winner was—Duncan!”
Duncan pumped his fist in the air. “Never go up against bacon foam,” he said to Beck, who smiled and offered him a hand to shake.
“I’m not out yet,” Beck teased. “Thanks, Bob. Do you want to introduce today’s dish?”
“I’ll leave that to you gentlemen,” Bob said. He gave Duncan an awkward half hug. “Congratulations on your win.”
The camera panned, the light on the one next to it clicked on, and Duncan focused on shifting his gaze to it and smiling.
“Today we’re taking on the classic dish asparagus in hollandaise,” Beck said, and Duncan followed Beck’s lead and bent to grab the first of the prepped dishes Andre’s team had made.
“It’s hard to reinvent something that’s already delicious, but I’m game to give it a go,” he said.
Beck pointed to the ingredients assembled next to a large stockpot. “I’ll be making a roasted asparagus soup with a hollandaise crème fraîche.”
“And I’ll be making an asparagus pie a la mode with hollandaise ice cream,” Duncan said.
“As you can see, Duncan’s style of cooking is a little different from what we’re used to here on
King of the Kitchen
,” Beck joked. “Duncan has degrees in microbiology and chemistry, and he brings that into the kitchen. He specializes in something called molecular gastronomy, and it produces some of the most intriguing food out there right now. He taught us all about making a foam last episode, and he’ll be walking us through a few new techniques here today.”
Duncan looked at the camera and smiled. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Chapter TWELVE
“ARE YOU
sure you want to do this? Even I don’t want to be here, and he’s my father.”
Beck squeezed Duncan’s hand and grinned at him. “I do ‘meet the parents’ well. Don’t worry.”
Duncan snorted. “You should put that on your Grindr profile.”
“I don’t have a—”
“Yeah, I know. I was kidding.”
Beck side-eyed him. “Do you?”
“What, meet the parents well? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never done it. Besides, it’s not like this is actually a date. We’re just telling him about me accepting a contract with the network.”
“Have a Grindr account,” Beck said flatly, his lips twitching of their own accord when Duncan took on an overly innocent mien. He shouldn’t find it cute, but he did.
“Of course not,” Duncan said, overplaying it so he looked absolutely affronted. He waited a few beats, until the point Beck was actually on the verge of apologizing, before he added, “I have a Tinder. Equal opportunity, you know.”
Of course he would. Beck closed his eyes for a moment and forced himself to remember he was here for moral support while Duncan broke the news to his father that he was going to start developing his own cooking show for the network. He wasn’t here because Duncan actually wanted them to socialize with his father like a couple. He was a colleague, not a date.
“Besides, I don’t think you can call it ‘meet the parents’ if you already know him. Once you’ve helped someone clean blood off racquet strings, you’re past the casual acquaintance stage.” Duncan stopped at the hostess stand and offered the pretty girl a blinding smile. “We’re meeting someone here. Has Vincent Walters arrived yet?”
The woman’s eyes widened at the name, and Beck could tell the moment she realized who he and Duncan were because she flushed a pretty pink. No doubt the foodie gossip rags would be full of the story about how he and Duncan were being seen out and about together again. They’d stopped once the show started filming, but that hadn’t ended the speculation in the press about their friendship.
Who knew, the two of them meeting Duncan’s father at a fancy restaurant would probably spark all sorts of new rumors. He’d probably read on the blogs tomorrow that they were buying a house together in the suburbs or something. Lindsay had been bored lately anyway. Putting out those fires would give her something fun to do.
“He hasn’t arrived yet, sir, but I can seat you if you like.”
Duncan raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you typically seat patrons if their entire party hasn’t arrived yet?”
“N-no.”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to get you in trouble. We’re perfectly happy to wait at the bar until he gets here.”
Beck didn’t bother to even try to muffle his laugh as the woman stammered her agreement and pointed them toward the bar.
“That wasn’t very nice,” he whispered as they made their way over to a gorgeous mahogany hard-top table that wasn’t claimed.
“Would you allow your host to seat a partial party at any of your restaurants?”
Beck grinned. “Nope.”
“And I know Zane Miller has the same policy. It gums up the flow and is rude as hell.” Duncan picked up the bar menu a passing waitress had left for them. “Hmm. Classic or experimental tonight? Though it looks like the trendy options aren’t very exciting. How many reincarnations of a Pimm’s Cup are we going to have to see before those die out?”
Beck settled onto the stool right next to Duncan—the waitress had only left one menu, so it only made sense to crowd in close—and perused the offerings. Duncan was right. Everything had candied flowers or other
en vogue
ingredients.
“I’ll have a Vieux Carré. With Château de Beaulon if you have it, Hennessey if you don’t,” Beck told the waitress when she materialized a minute later.
Duncan snorted and shook his head. “So fucking fancy. Is the Flossmoor Station Iron Horse Stout on tap today?”
She nodded.
“That, then. Thanks.”
“Why were you even looking at the cocktails if you were just going to order a beer?” Beck asked, rolling his eyes.
“Because I like to see what people are doing. And I don’t think I like your tone,” he teased. “There’s nothing wrong with beer. It’s not like I ordered a Sam Adams.”
“See! You gave me shit for ordering top-shelf liquor in my drink, but you don’t want low-bar stuff, either. It matters.”
“I don’t see how you can actually taste the difference when it comes to cognac that’s mixed with other things. I mean, why spend the money on higher-quality cognac if you’re going to mix it with bottom-shelf rye?”
A cough from behind them made them both turn around, and Beck watched Duncan’s eyes light up as he threw his arms around the man who’d interrupted.
“I would never serve bottom-shelf anything, you plebeian. You know that. You’re the one who picked out the local beers, after all. Though I stock Sam Adams and whatnot because we do have some patrons who like it.”
“Because they’ve never tried a nice small-batch local beer,” Duncan groused. “Beck, this is Zane. This dive is his place. Zane, this is Beck Douglas. I wasn’t sure if you two had met before or not.”
Zane gave Beck an appraising look before offering his hand. Beck shook it, studying him with equal scrutiny. He’d heard of Zane, but he’d never tried his restaurant before. Even though food was his business, Beck didn’t get a chance to eat out around Chicago very often. This place had been on his short list of restaurants to try, so he’d been glad when Duncan said it was where he met his father for dinner once a month.
“We haven’t had the pleasure, but I’ve heard a lot about him,” Zane said before turning his attention solely on Beck. “Duncan’s never brought a plus-one to his standing I-can’t-kill-you-because-we’re-in-public dinner with Vincent. I kind of want to sit in, to be honest. You must be all I’ve read about and more if you’ve captured Duncan’s attention.”
Either Zane was a jealous ex-fling, or he and Duncan were closer than Duncan had let on, because the interest in Zane’s voice was pointed.
“We’re not dating,” Duncan said with an annoyed huff. “And besides, he’s a special snowflake.”
Beck recoiled a bit but kept himself from fidgeting by curling his toes in his shoes. It was an old trick of his, honed during Christian’s interminable speeches and employed in all of the boring restaurant audit meetings Beck had to endure now. It also worked to help him keep his expression neutral when he wanted to frown or flinch. Duncan’s casual dismissal of the idea that they could be dating made him want to do both.
Duncan’s denial got a smile out of Zane. “He does appear to be.” The waitress brought their drinks, placing them on the high top with extreme care because her boss was standing right there. “I’ll leave you to your fortifications. I saw Vincent for lunch a few days ago. He’s livid about that show of yours. You’re going to need them.”
He excused himself after patting Duncan heartily on the back and left them to their drinks. His warning had brought Duncan’s frown back. Beck nudged him with his knee under the table.
“I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”
Duncan huffed. “Oh, it won’t be. It’ll be worse. That’s how things go with Vincent.”
Beck wasn’t sure what to say to that, so they sat in silence, sipping their drinks, until the host from earlier came over to get them.
“Mr. Walters has arrived. If you’ll follow me,” she said, her face still a bit flushed.
They gathered up their drinks and let her lead them to a table set into a bit of an alcove near the back. Duncan let Beck in first before he slumped into a seat in the high-backed velvet booth directly across from his father.
“Vincent,” he said, his voice even and detached.
“Mr. Walters, nice to see you again,” Beck said, holding his hand out.
Vincent shook it and winked at him. “Call me Vincent. After all, my own son does.”
There was a slight edge to his voice that belied the easiness of his wink, and Beck felt Duncan tense up slightly next to him.
“I apologize for being late. I got caught up in the kitchen at Goût and got away a little later than I’d have liked.”
“It’s no problem,” Beck assured him, when the silence from Duncan made it clear he wasn’t going to be answering.
“So things have been going well with the two of you, I see,” Vincent said, and Duncan sat up even straighter, the tightness of his lips becoming more pronounced.
“Maybe we should order before we start talking shop,” Duncan said, his tone clipped.
“I wasn’t aware there was much shop to be talked, but as you wish.” Vincent’s gaze turned shrewd as he looked at the two of them.
“Actually, no.” Duncan looked up from the menu he’d been studying. “Maybe we should do this before we order.”
“Do what?” Vincent asked, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t tell me you’re going to leave the kitchen to work on that show permanently.”
Beck tried not to recoil at the condescending way Vincent referred to
King of the Kitchen
, but it was hard. He knew a lot of chefs thought working in television was below them, and he’d even had a clue Duncan’s father would be one of them because of the absolute glee Duncan had taken in signing his contract, but he hadn’t realized quite how much disdain Vincent had for it.
“Actually, something like that. And, thanks for asking, it’s going really well,” Duncan said flatly. “And there’s nothing to say I couldn’t do both, like Beck does. He manages several restaurants and is responsible for most of the content of the show.”
Beck’s pulse jumped at the pride and affection in Duncan’s voice as he defended him.
“What, then? Are you finally ready to take the helm at Goût? I’ll rescind my offer if you mean to try to do it and the television show. No offense, Beck, but a chef needs to be fully present to do his food justice. You’re talented enough to oversee Goût, but that’s not a part-time job, Duncan.”
Duncan scowled. “I’ve told you I don’t want that job. I don’t want any job from you. I don’t know how I can be clearer than that, Vincent.”
Duncan’s tone was more irritated and angry than Beck had ever heard it before, but Vincent didn’t seem the slightest bit surprised to have it directed at him. Beck had assumed Duncan’s animosity toward his father was playful, but apparently it wasn’t. There wasn’t anything jovial or teasing about the way the two of them were squaring off over the table. No wonder Zane had them sit at the alcove table. This was quickly becoming a scene.