Authors: Jennifer L. Hart
"Positive attitude attracts positive things. Yeah, I've heard that somewhere before."
Rodrigo beamed. "That's it. Do not let one
muy pequeño
mistake define you. Now I insist you show me your
restaurante
."
I opened my mouth, but before I could form an answer, another accented voice called my name.
"Andrea." Jones glared at the familiar arm Rodrigo had draped over me, and one eyebrow went up. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your…friend?"
Uh-oh, I think I'd just pole-vaulted from the frying pan into the fire. Ducking out of Rodrigo's grip, I pasted on a small smile and said, "Rodrigo, this is my fiancé, Malcolm Jones. Malcolm, this is Chef Rodrigo Lobo. His show used to be on Flavor TV, until he hit the big time."
A flash of even, white teeth as Rodrigo took in Jones. Jones bared his teeth as well, but only an idiot would mistake that expression for a smile. I scowled at him, but he didn't seem to notice, his gaze fixed on the younger man.
Well, wasn't this awkward? I turned my body into Jones's, wondering what had his hackles up all of a sudden. Best to distract him. "Did you find Stu?"
Slowly, Jones dragged his piercing, blue gaze to me. "No. I suggest we check in with your aunt though. She's feistier than usual."
Well, at least now I knew which fire to put out first. Although Aunt Cecily was more of an atomic bomb blast, especially if she was riled. The woman didn't acclimate to change well, and between Pop's dietary restrictions and a town full of television people, she was probably poised to detonate.
Giving Rodrigo a thin-lipped smile, I laced my arm through Jones's and practically dragged him away. "If you'll excuse us."
If he was offended by our abrupt departure, he didn't let on. "I'll catch you later,
chica.
"
A muscle jumped in Jones's jaw, but he didn't say a word as we made our way through the human gauntlet toward the Bowtie Angel. The front door was logjammed, so instead of pushing my way through, I headed toward the kitchen door in the narrow alley. I'd just opened the gate when I was gripped from behind and spun around to face one seriously angry New Zealander.
"What the devil was that, Andrea?"
My mouth fell open. "What?"
"Don't play games with me. I'm in no mood. You let that bloke put his hands all over you."
I shoved him back, needing some space. "I did no such thing."
"He desires you," he ground out through clenched teeth.
I made a disgusted sound. "You're jealous? Seriously? Malcolm, Rodrigo is a flirt. It's his shtick. I could have been any woman here, and he would have behaved exactly the same. Let it go." I tried to move past him, but he pressed me up against the side of the building.
"You're not just any woman," he gritted eyes flashing blue fire. "You're
my
woman."
And on the heels of that soul-deep declaration, he kissed the stuffing out of me.
I was so stunned at first that I didn't respond. He took advantage of my shock to press me fully against the side of the building, pinning my arms above my head as his lips seized mine. His heat and urgency grew contagious, and I lost all sense of time and place. Lost everything except for my connection to my man. This was unlike any kiss we'd ever shared—so carnal, so possessive. A claiming kiss.
His free hand gripped my hair, which had spilled loose of my messy bun. The heat raged on and on and on…
Until someone doused us with icy cold water.
Malcolm swore as the chilly blast pounded us, an assault just as relentless as our stolen moment of passion. I shrieked and lunged away from the building and away from Jones.
The water cut off, and Pops stood there, a hose in one arthritic hand. "None of that hanky-panky now. Them TV people are everywhere, and you two are acting like a couple of horny teenagers."
"Pops," I snarled dripping wet and steaming mad. "You could have just said something. How can I go in there looking like a drowned rat?"
"Should have thought of that before you decided to get all frisky in the alley." My grandfather gave Jones a withering glare, dropped his weapon of choice, and disappeared into the building.
"Well, at least it wasn't a shotgun," I groused and wrung my hair out. Although his methods may have been crude, the impromptu shower had cooled my overheated blood.
"I'll drive home and get you a change of clothes." Jones refused to meet my eyes.
"Malcolm?" His name came out like a question, mostly because I didn't know which question to ask.
Not that it mattered. He strode off without a backward glance.
* * *
Since I didn't want to upset Aunt Cecily any further, I held court with Stu in the small garden behind the pasta shop. "What the freaking hell, Stu?" I greeted him.
One sardonic eyebrow lifted when he took in my sopping wet state. "New look, Andy? I doubt that will be camera-friendly."
I glared at him. "Never mind how I look. Who are all these people, and how did you get them here so fast? We just agreed to host the competition here yesterday for crying out loud."
Stu was short for a man. He only had about two inches on my five-foot-four stature, but the lack of height advantage didn't make him any less imposing. One of the foodie blogs had dubbed him Napoleon of the Kitchen because he wasn't going to stop before he conquered the culinary world. "There's a ton to do to just get everything set up, and we needed to jump as soon as possible. Don't worry—nothing's going live until the finals. Besides, there's the other thing you're supposed to be handling."
I wasn't sure if he appreciated the situation he'd put me in. "Again, I need more than a day's lead time. Jones and I have some stuff to deal with and—"
Stu glanced over his shoulder, checking to make sure we were completely alone. "It's getting worse, Andy. Chad Tobey is receiving threats."
I blinked. "What kind of threats?"
Stu lowered his voice even further. "Anonymous messages mostly, saying they are going to expose him to the world."
This sounded like more than somebody making a buck off a celebrity. "Where is he? I'm sure Jones will want to ask him a few questions." And if he didn't, then I sure did.
"He said he was getting a hotel room the next town over. Between production, the fans, and the media, this town is a zoo." Stu patted his pockets and then sighed. "You wouldn't happen to have a cigarette would you?"
When I shook my head, he blew out a breath. "It's for the best. I'm trying to quit. The stress of all this has me off the wagon."
"I hear you." I'd never smoked and rarely drank, but I could so go for a heaping plate of pasta. Carbs were my vice of choice. Never mind that it was barely noon, I was jonesing for a fix.
"Okay, well, the first thing we need to do is go before the town council and get all the permits. You might have to pay a fine for this snarl. And here's the number for a local real estate agent. She'll see to it that everyone else has a place to stay." Donna at least would appreciate the business.
Stu took the card. "I'll have one of my runners get in touch with her. And don't worry about the town—we've been flashing cash around all morning. The chamber of commerce will go to bat for us because we're good for business. What about the investigation? Did you get the files I sent?" He waved the pesky details off like they didn't really matter to him.
"Like I said, I just started looking into the files last night, but things have been hectic at home. We'll dive in as soon as all this gets straightened out." I waved my hand at the mouth of the alley, indicating the crush of people. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to check on my kitchen."
Without waiting for a response, I stormed past him and into the back door of the pasta shop.
Aunt Cecily stood by the stove, muttering in nonstop Italian while she stirred a big batch of gravy. Pops was at the sink scrubbing pots. Both glared at me as I entered the room.
"I'll fix it," I blurted, already digging my cell out of my sopping wet jeans. "Just give me some time." Not waiting for their reply, I strode through the kitchen and down to the office. Even through the closed doors, I could hear the buzz of voices from the front room. We weren't officially open, yet the place was packed.
I paced the eight-and-a-half steps, staring at my phone, wondering who I should call for help. Mimi, my sous chef, was out of town until late Sunday night. Donna would have her hands full with the short-term renters, and Lizzy was staying with Clayton. My heart actually stumbled in my chest, and for a moment there was nothing I wanted to do more than go back home and snuggle with the little guy all day.
But I'd made this mess and couldn't just abandon the town to the show. Decided, I punched in a number and waited.
"'Lo?" Kaylee picked up on the third ring, her voice froggy as though it were the middle of the night. Ah, to be a teenager on summer vacation.
"Hey, sweets, sorry to wake you, but it's kind of an emergency, and I need help at the pasta shop in the worst way. You think you could come in a bit early today? Like now?"
There was a shuffling sound as though she were sitting up. "What's going on?"
"Well, remember I was telling you about applying for
Diced
? Long story short, they picked me, and they are holding the competition in town."
"Now?" Her tone was incredulous.
"Well, not this second. But I'm going to be tied up with it, and there's no way Pops and
Aunt Cecily can run the entire place themselves with this kind of crowd. Do you have any friends who might want to earn a little extra cash? We're going to need a full staff, someone to do dishes and serve."
"What about Lacey?"
I choked on my own saliva. "Lacey L'Amour? You want Lacey L'Amour to work in my pasta shop?" Just the idea of it horrified me.
"Well, she knows her way around a kitchen. And she is married to your father, so she's totally family. Aunt Cecily would approve."
I didn't bother to contradict her. As far as Pops and Aunt Cecily were concerned, Jacob and Lacey were not family and would never be welcomed into our inner sanctum. "Thanks, sweets, but I don't think that's a good idea. Just get here as soon as you can. I'll think of something."
A knock sounded on the office door, and I hung up, reaching for the knob. "That was fast," I said to Jones as he stepped into the room, a duffel bag in one hand. "I thought maybe you'd take your time."
"I wanted to get back here. I know you need help." He'd changed from one black pair of jeans and a black T-shirt to another, though his hair was still damp.
I stripped off my wet garments, not meeting his eye as I asked, "How's Clayton?"
"Fine." His reply was clipped, as though the subject was closed.
I decided to let it go, for now, instead investigating his wardrobe choice.
He'd brought me a long skirt and boat neck top, both in black, with a black pair of mules. My lips twitched. "I can't tell if you're trying to dress me up like you or like Aunt Cecily."
Instead of laughing, he turned away—not that there was anywhere to go in the dinky space. "You know I don't feel comfortable matching colors. It was either this or all white. And I didn't figure all white would go well with tomato sauce."
Shame burned over me like prickly heat. How did it always slip my mind that Jones was colorblind? Maybe because he didn't bring it up too often, always so confident. As far as fatal flaws went, it was a minor thing, but the man was still sensitive about his inability to distinguish between blues and greens. It always took me off guard to see Malcolm Jones unsure, and I reached for his hand. "This is perfect, thank you."
Even though I was stripped down to my skin, his eyes searched my face. "About before," he began, but someone tried the handle on the office door.
"Later," I squeaked as I scrambled into my clothes.
"Andy," the person on the other end called. Shoot, Kyle had tracked me down.
Jones body-blocked the door. "Just a moment," he called.
"I need to talk to you," Kyle shouted through the wood.
Kicking the wet things off to the side, I nodded to Jones. "I'm decent. Let him in."
Jones stood aside, and Kyle barged in. "You want to tell me what the hell you were thinking, inviting all these TV people into town?"
Kyle had changed over the last six months and not for the better. His happy-go-lucky grin was nowhere in sight, and dark shadows clustered under his eyes. I wished he and Lizzy would just kiss and make up already. They were better together than they'd ever be apart. But both of them were stubborn, so the standoff didn't look to resolve itself anytime soon.
"Later," I said to Kyle as I clasped Jones's hand. "We've got work to do."
"We do?" I could hear the question in Jones's voice. "My kind of work or your kind of work?"
"Our kind of work," I said. "We're going to see one of the judges for
Diced
."
"I'm coming with you," Kyle announced. "I'm not letting the two of you slip the hook so easily."
"In that case, we'll take your car." The sheriff's ride had lights and a siren, so we were less likely to get stuck in traffic. Not wanting to deal with Aunt Cecily's dark mood again, I pushed my way out through the front of the pasta shop where many unfamiliar faces talked on cell phones, held impromptu meetings, and scurried about doing whatever was necessary to set up a live television show from a small town.
I texted Stu, asking for Chad Tobey's phone number and the name of the hotel where he was staying. He hit me back less than a minute later.
Head into Fairhope. He's got a reservation at the Blooming Blossom Inn
.
I tried Chad's number twice on the ride over to the neighboring town. Unlike Beaverton, Fairhope was full of franchise stores and chain restaurants, and the streets were even more crowded than usual, although nothing compared to the kerfuffle in Beaverton.
"Who are all these people?" Kyle asked as he turned into the packed hotel parking lot. "Don't they have lives?"
"It's the show. Some are fans who want to see it filmed, others are food bloggers or reviewers, and others are hopeful contestants. And then there are the groupies."