Skinny Bitch in Love (8 page)

“Sign us up,” Dana said.

We got to cooking, sautéing veggies and shredding vegan cheese and creating six different pizzas, including my barbeque
seitan, which I had no doubt would be the most ordered item at Fresh. I showed them how to fill fajitas, roll enchiladas, and make an insane chile.

Their fridge and freezer full, I started packing up. I liked this personal chef thing a lot more than I thought I would. Especially when it didn’t involve former boyfriends and their fiancées.

Dana handed me a check. “Our mom said to tell her if you were good. She has this whole group of friends who do book clubs and Zumba and whatever, and they want to do cleanses and learn about veganism. I’ll give her your flyer.”

“Do that,” I said. Middle-aged moms had money. This was good.

Much richer, I headed out into brilliant California sunshine. My phone rang, killing the Zen of the moment. Unfamiliar number, too.

Maybe another potential client. Or the cute vegan chef.

“Clementine Cooper,” I said.

“Clementine, it’s Zach. Jeffries. I have a business proposition for you,” he said, his deep voice sending the tiniest jolts up my spine.

“I think you’re forgetting I don’t do animal innards,” I reminded him.

I could see him smiling. This was bad.

“Well aware,” he said. “I want you to come up with two vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. The menu should have something for everyone. I’d like to arrange for you to do a cooking demonstration and tasting for me.”

I rolled my eyes, which I was sure
he
could see. “I charge two hundred per hour, two-hour minimum,” I told him, making up numbers. “And the cost of ingredients is extra, of course.”

“Email me a shopping list and I’ll have my assistant pick everything up,” he said, as if that was perfectly normal. “How’s Monday night at my place? Seven o’clock.”

Monday night. Not Monday morning. Not Monday afternoon. Not the ole nine to five regular business hours. Night. Interesting. Maybe
Baby
wasn’t his girlfriend, after all.

And
his place
. No doubt something amazing right on the beach. “Let me check my calendar,” I said, silently counting to ten. “I have a cancellation, so sure. I have you booked for Monday night at seven.”

He gave me an address on Ocean Avenue, as expected.

Zach Jeffries. And me. Alone in his house.

Sara and I spent the weekend coming up with the two vegan entrees. Something that would complement the regular menu and specials, which were all dead-cow related, unfortunately. If I came up with something too out there, like the cherry barbeque napoleon that was presently being served to many a table at Fresh, Sara would bring me back to reality. We were talking about a menu of meat. Steak fries. Twelve dollars for a side of steak fries, but fries.

By Sunday afternoon, I’d narrowed a long list of possibilities down to two. I sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and
my laptop while Sara made us lunch—hummus and homemade whole wheat garlic pita chips. From the delicious smell wafting over to the table, I had taught her well. “Sar, what do you think: a portobello mushroom burger and some kind of tofu stir-fry.”

She handed me a plate. “Yes and yes. The wannabe models who come in with their steak-eating dates will all order your stuff even if they’re not vegan.”

Good point.

Sara turned on a
Downton Abbey
rerun, and I worked up some original recipes. An hour later, I had an incredible-sounding portobello burger with avocado slices and roasted red peppers and a basic but kick-ass tofu stir-fry. For added inspiration, I checked over different recipes from the school I attended, the restaurants I’d worked in, and I called my dad to get his three cents. The man never disappointed. He suggested blackened Cajun tofu for the stir-fry—brilliant as always.

“So is it just gonna be the two of you?” Sara called from her bedroom. “Or will his chef be there?”

“I don’t know. I’m kind of hoping we aren’t alone. Zach is too . . . something.”

“Yeah, too unbelievably gorgeous,” she shouted back. “So what are you gonna wear? I say make him crawl.”

“What does that even mean, you goof?” I couldn’t imagine Zach Jeffries crawling for anyone, really. “Anyway, I’ve already decided to dress like a chef. I want him to take me seriously. I’m wearing my white skinny jeans and chef’s jacket.”

“Sorry, Clem, but you actually look hot in that.”

I smiled. “I didn’t say I didn’t want him to think so.”

“Smart girl,” she said. “Holy crap, I just stepped on the scale and I lost two and a half more pounds!”

“Awesome!” I called back.

She walked over with the scale, put it down by my feet, and stepped on it. “Two and a half pounds! Gone! And a pound and a half last week. And I’m not even starving.”

I looked down at the digital readout. “I’m really proud of you, Sara.”

She smiled. “You know what? I’m going for the Attractive Friend spot in the yogurt commercial—the go-see is Monday. I didn’t think I had a chance—and I know I’ve only lost seven and a half pounds, but whatever, I’m going.”

“Yogurt. Blech. But that’s so great, Sara. You absolutely should go for it. And you’re gonna get it, too.”

She grabbed me into a hug, then swiped a hummus-laden chip and skipped into her bedroom with the scale.

Zach’s place
was
on the beach. On. The. Beach. A narrow three-story white and windows mini palace with balconies on the second and third floors. I wouldn’t have been surprised if a butler opened the door.

I was a few minutes early, and there was no way I was ringing that bell before exactly seven. I turned to look at the beach, the Santa Monica Pier just a block away, stretching out under the still blue sky.

At exactly seven o’clock, I rang the bell. My palms were sweating.

No butler. Just him. He stood in the doorway in a dark blue T-shirt, jeans—low-slung, slightly worn—and bare feet. A beagle that was standing behind him eyed me, then waddled back to a red floor pillow by the fireplace and curled up.

“Hey, Chef,” Zach said, holding open the door for me to enter.

I dragged my eyes from him to the incredible house. There was lots of glass and leather and serious pieces of art. One wall was entirely windows.

“This kitchen is bigger than my entire apartment,” I marveled as I followed him in. Stainless steel and soapstone counters. And no one else. Like a girlfriend. Or the chef from The Silver Steer. We were alone.

He leaned against the counter. He had to be six foot two. Maybe three. I hadn’t noticed last week how incredibly broad his shoulders were. “I liked your place,” he said. “What I saw of it, anyway.”

Yeah, right. “I’ll bet you never lived in a place like mine.”

He went to the refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer. I shook my head, and he put one back. “Okay, that’s true. I made a lot of money while still in college. I started a company at my dorm room desk and got lucky.”

“Lucky? You believe in luck?”

“Actually, no. I believe in smart. And action.”

“Me, too.”

“I can tell, Clementine. That’s why I specifically wanted
you to design the vegan offerings for The Silver Steer. What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-five? And you’ve already worked at some major restaurants and have your own business.”

“I’m twenty-six. But thank you.”

He smiled. “I admire people with strong convictions, and passions. I always have. I liked that you barged into the restaurant that day and stood up to—what did you call her? Lady Clipboard.”

I laughed. “So the admiration still holds even if it’s against everything you’re about.”

He opened the beer and took a swig. “I’m more than what I eat, Clementine.”

“But you live very differently than I do.”

“How do you know? I wasn’t aware we’d spent that much time together.”

“Ha. But still. You own a steakhouse. You spew fuel emissions into the air with your motorcycle. You use that crappy dishwashing liquid with tons of chemicals,” I added, jerking a thumb to the sink.

“Huh. Definitely never thought about the dish soap.” He opened the refrigerator and pointed to two shelves. “Those are the perishables.” He opened a cabinet. “And the rest of the ingredients. My chef approved your entrees. Get past me and I’ll hand him your recipes and pay you well for them.”

“You talk money a lot,” I said, taking out ingredients for the stir-fry.

“I own a restaurant. It’s all
about
money.”

“My place is going to be about the
food,
” I said.

He laughed and lifted his beer in salute. “I have no doubt that place will be a hit. So talk to me about tofu,” he said as I placed the block of firm tofu on a cutting board. “What the hell is it?”

I told him all about tofu, that it was made from soybeans and water, was high in protein and beautifully absorbed the flavors of spices and marinades. How it had less than a hundred calories, ten grams of protein, and five grams of fat per half cup serving. Good stuff.

And he listened to every word. His eyes on my face. On my lips, I noticed. Then back up at my eyes. Then surreptitiously glancing lower, checking me out.

As I stood next to him by the sink, draining the tofu, he was so close that I could smell his soap.

He seemed to notice he was staring at me and took a slug of his beer. “Did you start cooking after culinary school or did you always cook?”

Man. I had to actually force myself to look away from him, too. “I learned the basics from my father. My earliest memory is being in the kitchen with him, learning how to snap peas and tear the husks off corn.” I thought of my dad, in his wheelchair, so weak now, and I got that awful clenching feeling in my chest. “So, your dad took you out hunting the minute you could walk?”

There. Good, Clem. You have to remind yourself that this guy is a total carnivore. He’s the anti-you. Do not get suckered by that face. Or body.

He smiled. The kind of smile that said he liked being challenged. “I’m not a hunter. Ours is a breeding ranch. But I did
grow up with cattle and chickens and rabbits walking in my path all the time. There was a time—I was thirteen—when I was really awkward and skinny and my hair stuck up in all directions, and I transferred to a new school and had no friends. A goose and a rooster were the only creatures I talked to for months. I told them everything.”

Huh. Unexpected. “They say anything back?” I asked as I sliced the tofu, added the spices to the food processor, and then got busy slicing scallions and then shallots. I found myself moving a bit closer to him. My right arm brushed against his left one, and a freak tingle shot up my spine. From his
arm
.

“They were good listeners.”

He looked right at me, and we just oogled each other for a very long moment. Dammit.

I nodded, trying to break whatever this crazy thing was that was happening between us. “Yeah, animals are amazing listeners. I grew up telling our chickens and dogs and cats my life story and my sob stories.”

“I can’t imagine you had an awkward period,” he said, peering into the pan, where the spice-dredged tofu sizzled on low heat.

“Actually, I did. Before braces and filling out some I looked like a bucktoothed pole.” He didn’t need to know that until I discovered Frizz-Ease as a fourteen-year-old, I also had Bellatrix Lestrange’s hair, only blond.

“Well, it seems to have worked out okay,” he said, looking right into my eyes again. “You can’t tell me you’re not seeing anyone.”

A little jolt spiked up the back of my neck. “Nope.”

“Well, that must mean you’re getting over someone, then.”

I turned to face him. “How do you know that?”

“Because you’re beautiful. And passionate about what you do. Like I said, you’re doing your own thing, Clementine. It’s very attractive. So if you were interested in a relationship, I’m sure you’d have one.”

I turned back to the pan and added the veggies. “Something ended six months ago. Badly—for me, anyway. So I put blinders on and focused on getting promoted to sous chef and chef, and I thought it worked. But then—”

I stopped talking. He didn’t need to know every detail of my life.