Must Be Fate: (Cody and Clover) (A Jetty Beach Romance Book 3) (17 page)

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

“I’ll probably drop something.”

“How many times have you dropped something at Old Town?” he asks.

“I guess just once,” I say. “That must be some kind of a record for me.”

“See?” he says. “You’re not nearly as clumsy as you think you are.”

I give him a weak smile.

“Clover, you’re special,” he says. “You light up the world—especially my world. You don’t have to be afraid when good things happen to you.”

I lean across to kiss him. “You always know the right thing to say.”

“Will you come home?” he asks.

My breath catches. His home isn’t mine, but I know he doesn’t mean it that way. “Sure. I’m sorry.”

His lips feel exquisite as he kisses me again. “Let’s just go eat. We’ll both feel better.”

I nod. I know what else will make me feel better. Dinner can wait a little while.

***

I drive north up the highway, heading toward the Ocean Mark. It’s one of the nicest restaurants on the entire Washington coast. Cody took me once and the food was amazing. I still can’t quite believe I’m going there to talk to the head chef about a job.

I was up-front with Natalie, asking for a day off so I could meet with Gabriel. She was thrilled for me. I told her it might not come to anything—after all, I have no actual training. I only know what a sous chef does because I looked it up. I watched a ton of YouTube videos over the weekend, but I’m still jittery.

The restaurant is built into the side of the hill on the ocean side. It looks like a big lodge, with thick timbers and a tall totem pole outside. There’s only one car in the small parking lot. It’s early, before their lunch service begins, so they aren’t open yet.

Wide double doors lead into the lobby. The lights are dim and there’s a big gas fireplace surrounded by river rock. Stairs go up to the lounge on one side and I can see through to the back, where floor-to-ceiling windows display the incredible view of the ocean.

I wait near the host station, not sure if I should go in and look for Gabriel.

It isn’t long before he comes out, wearing a white chef’s coat. He wipes his hands on a towel and smiles. “Clover,” he says, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thanks for having me,” I say.

“Let me show you around,” he says.

He leads me through the restaurant, showing me the seating areas and the upstairs lounge, then brings me back down to the kitchen. It’s like a stainless steel dream. Long countertops, gorgeous appliances, everything sparkling clean. He shows me around, pointing out where things are kept, and tells me a bit about how it works during a service.

“This is beautiful,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says. “I built it out myself, which was really exciting. I was finally able to create a kitchen that was everything I wanted.”

“I’ve never been in a kitchen like this before,” I say.

“So, you already told me you never went to culinary school,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me a little more about your job history.”

I try not to cringe as I tell him about the places I’ve worked. “I know how that makes me look, but I’ve moved around a lot.”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, it sounds like you’ve had a lot of interesting experiences. There was a time in my life when I was pretty transient. But what about now? How long have you lived out here?”

“Almost six months,” I say. “But I really love it here.”

“Me too,” he says. “So, that omelet you made me was fantastic—showed a real knack for mixing flavors and textures. How would you feel about cooking something else, here?”

I glance around. “Sure, I guess. What would you like me to make?”

He smiles. “Surprise me.”

A flutter of nervousness runs through my tummy as Gabriel walks out of the kitchen, leaving me alone. Shit. What am I supposed to do now?

I look through all the food in the giant refrigerators and multiple pantries. There’s so much. I think back on the meal I ate here.

The Ocean Mark specializes in seafood. They source local ingredients. He’d want something fresh, vibrant.

I get to work.

I poach a salmon fillet in white wine and butter. The wine will infuse the salmon with a subtle flavor without overpowering the good, fresh taste of the fish; the butter will give the sauce some heft, and a luxurious mouth-feel. Plus, let’s be honest: everything tastes better with butter. I add a few sprigs of fresh dill while it simmers, knowing it will be just the perfect little kick to pull the whole dish together.

For a side, I decide on sautéed green beans with garlic—super simple, but big on wow factor if you blister the beans and garlic just right without burning them. My heart beats uncomfortably hard while I cook, but I keep my hands steady and don’t break anything. I squeeze half a lemon over the beans; it would be more conventional to add lemon to the salmon sauce, but that dish is already just the right side of busy—and anyway, since when am I conventional? The lemon will be a bright, fresh contrast to the almost-charred elements.

When the food is done, I plate it as nicely as I can, garnishing with a purple kale leaf and a slice of lemon for color. The salmon looks perfect, flaky and moist, and the green beans are exactly right. I can smell the garlic and lemon, their flavors mixing nicely with the dill and white wine.

I find Gabriel at a table right outside the kitchen door. I put the plate in front of him, and have to make myself stay. I’m so nervous I want to run and hide.

He takes a bite of the salmon, and I can see his mind working. He tastes it carefully, his brow furrowed like he’s concentrating on the flavor. He doesn’t say a word, but takes a bite of the green beans, then puts down his fork.

Oh no. He hates it.

“I’m sorry, have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the chair across the table. “I didn’t mean to make you keep standing there.”

I sink down into the seat and fold my hands in my lap.

“This is delicious,” he says.

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “Really?”

“Yes,” he says. “This is everything I love in a salmon dish. Cooked perfectly, and the flavors are sublime. You didn’t overdo it, which is the biggest problem most inexperienced chefs have. This is subtle.”

“Thank you.”

“I realize you have a lot to learn, since you’ve never worked in a real kitchen before,” Gabriel says. “But it’s the slow season, so the timing is perfect. I can bring you in a few days a week for the lunch service and start teaching you. By the time summer comes around again, I think you’ll be ready. What do you think?”

“You really want to hire me?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “You’re a natural. I’m not stupid enough to pass up on that kind of talent.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

He smiles. “You could say you accept.”

I put a hand to my mouth to stop from laughing. I shouldn’t be giggling, but I can’t help it. “Yes, I definitely accept.”

Gabriel reaches out a hand, and I take it. “Great. Lori, my business manager, will give you a call to work out the details. I’m sure you’ll have to work out your schedule with Natalie at the café, but you’re welcome to start anytime.”

“I’ll talk to Natalie and let you know,” I say. “Thank you so much. Really. I’m kind of beside myself right now.”

“I have a good feeling about this,” he says. “I’ve been looking for the right person for a while now. It kind of seems like this was meant to be.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe it was. 

I’m probably as excited for Clover’s new job as she is. It does mean she’s busier, since she has to juggle shifts at the café with time at the Mark. She hopes Gabriel will hire her full-time by next summer, but for now she has to work both places. She handles it like a champ, with her usual sparkle. I’m proud of her, and I love seeing her happy.

I still have that medical conference in Portland, and she arranges to take a few days off so she can come with me. She definitely needs the break. I book us a nice hotel, so she’ll be comfortable while I’m attending sessions and meetings all day, and tell her to go nuts with the room service.

It’s a three-day conference, and the first two days are informative, if a bit dull. I spend the day at the convention center, attending lectures, taking notes, and networking with other doctors. The first night, I take Clover to a great little French restaurant downtown. She looks stunning in a short black dress and bright red heels. We sip wine, and the food is fantastic. Afterward, we go back to our hotel and try out the jetted tub.

The second night is a Saturday, and Clover wants to go out but keep it casual. I change into jeans and a dark blue t-shirt. Clover wears a black shirt with a lacy back, and a fluttery skirt that shows a lot of leg. We grab burgers and beer at a microbrewery, then walk to a bar nearby. There’s great music playing and the bartender’s pours are generous.

Our table is off to the side. I sip a glass of Jack Daniels, listening to Clover talk about her childhood. Her life is so foreign to me—growing up moving from place to place, without a lot of rules or boundaries. I can tell she misses her parents, and it blows my mind that she hasn’t seen them in years.

“How did your parents meet?” I ask.

“A concert,” she says. “They were both tripping on something and woke up in the back of someone’s truck together. I think that was it; they were always together after that.”

“That’s … wow,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “I didn’t know how different they were until I was around twelve. We stayed in one place for long enough that I made a few friends. I went over to another girl’s house and I couldn’t get over how different her family was. I’ll always remember the huge wedding picture in their dining room. Her mom was in this frilly white dress. She looked young.”

“Your parents didn’t have wedding pictures in the RV?” I ask.

“No, they weren’t married,” she says, and takes another sip of her drink.

“Really?” I ask.

“Nope. They didn’t believe in marriage.”

I sit back, my hand on my glass. “Believe in it? That’s a little odd, don’t you think?”

“I suppose,” she says. “I mean, it seems like most people expect to get married someday.”

“Don’t you?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” she says with a shrug. “I don’t think I really believe in marriage either. It’s so permanent, you know?”

“Sure, but don’t you think, maybe, if you met the right guy…” I trail off, realizing what I’m about to say. Neither of us are ready to have this conversation, not even close. But it does bother me that she’s so flippant about marriage. “Never mind.”

She pushes my drink toward me. “Okay, serious doctor man. We’re supposed to be having fun tonight.”

I smile and swallow the rest of my whiskey. She’s right. We’ve both been working hard lately, and I’ve been looking forward to unwinding with her all day.

“You know what we need?” she asks. “We need shots.”

“Baby, I think you’re absolutely right.” I resolve to stop at two, because I have a breakfast meeting in the morning with several colleagues.

I don’t stop at two.

Clover and I stumble out of the bar an hour or so later, laughing so hard we almost can’t breathe. I keep my arm around her shoulders, as much to steady myself as her. Her arm is around my waist, her hand beneath my shirt, warm against my skin. We’re downtown, and we should be within walking distance of our hotel—but looking around, I’m not quite sure which direction to go.

We turn left and head up the sidewalk. It’s well after dark, but it’s a mild night and there are still lots of people out. After a few blocks I still don’t see our hotel. My head is swimming from the whiskey and I’m not too sure why I was looking for the hotel in the first place.

“Oh my god, Cody,” Clover says, stopping. She points up a side street. “Let’s go there.”

I look in the direction she’s pointing. “Club 90? What is that?”

She laughs. “I think it’s a strip club.”

I’m drunk, but I’m not sure I’m that drunk. “Why do you want to go to a strip club?”

“Come on,” she says, pulling me down the street. “Let’s live a little.”

People mill around outside—not just guys, but couples and groups of twenty-somethings. At first I think it must just be another bar. As soon as we’re inside, there’s no question where we are. It’s definitely a strip club.

In the center is a t-shaped stage with poles at all three ends. Women dressed in nothing but thongs swing around the poles, flipping their hair as they dance. The place is packed, the seats surrounding the stage all taken. Music blares from huge speakers, and the lights are dim. Tables are set around the rest of the floor, most of them full. Women walk around in black lingerie with tiny bowties at their throats, serving drinks; several bouncers stand with big arms crossed over their thick chests.

I want to tell Clover I’m not sure about this, but she grabs my hand and leads me in. I love women as much as the next guy, but I’ve never been a fan of strip clubs. The dancers can be aggressive, and to be honest, a lap dance has never done it for me. I can’t get over the fact that I’m paying for it, and I know the woman doesn’t give two shits about me. There’s nothing particularly sexy about that, no matter what she looks like.