A Pairing to Die For Read online

  Following Reid’s lead, I take a small bite of scallop and chase it with a sip of wine.

  And I blanch. Because something is wrong. Very wrong.

  Instead of savory, sweet, and citrus flavors melding together on my tongue, all I get is an overpowering taste of burnt saffron. It’s so bitter and intense, my eyes begin to water.

  I spit my bite into my napkin.

  For a moment, I succumb to panic. Sweat beads on my forehead and stars swirl in my vision. Earlier this year, when my wine didn’t taste right, the most renowned critic in the Front Range ended up dead at my tasting bar.

  I take a deep yoga breath—in with the good, out with the bad—and ground myself by focusing on the custom-made ceramic tiles on the floor.

  Finally, I bring myself to look at Reid. His face is deathly pale and his eyes are horror-struck.

  Because it’s not just our table whose food isn’t right. There’s a flurry of activity as protests break out across the entire restaurant.

  Chapter

  Two

  The damage is random and inexplicable.

  On the outside, the dishes are the pinnacle of fine dining—the meat roasted or seared to perfection, the vegetables boasting impeccable knife cuts, the drizzled sauces and colorful garnishes a thing of beauty. But on the inside, well, not so much.

  The problems are varied. Some of the fare is overly salty or spicy, have sauces that are tart or acrid, while others have contradicting herbs sprinkled on top. The one thing they have in common is that the deficiencies have to do with flavor.

  Complaints reach our ears. Loud, impatient complaints that make me wince.

  “Who’s in charge here anyway?” a stout-faced man asks.

  “I’m leaving a review right now,” announces a foodie, wielding their smartphone like a weapon.

  “Overpriced drivel . . .” a woman with decidedly horselike teeth admonishes.

  The last thing Reid needs is for them to join forces.

  I ignore the sounds of disgust around me and turn to Reid. “Tell me how I can help.”

  He clenches his jaw, shifting his attention from one proverbial fire to the next. “No offense, Parker, but this isn’t really something you can ferment your way out of.”

  That gives me an idea.

  “I can pour free tasters of wine,” I suggest. “No one can stay upset when faced with free booze. It’s like a universal truth.”

  Reid snorts but shakes his head. His eyes are surprisingly vulnerable—cautious—when they meet mine. “Keep my family company?”

  A pit opens in the bottom of my stomach at his request, and my cheeks flush just thinking of the myriad of ways I’ll likely embarrass myself. But faced with his raw desperation, I find myself nodding.

  “You can count on me,” I say, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Now go work your magic.”

  Reid holds my gaze for a millisecond longer and then leaps into action.

  He’s a blur of motion as he dodges between servers, frantically trying to salvage their tips, and outraged customers. He circulates around the dining room, promising corrected dishes and offering complimentary desserts. Stress emanates from him, resulting in a laser focus. Owning a restaurant—creating a community through food—is his dream, and a night like this could destroy everything he’s worked for. I know a little bit about having your dream on the line, the toll it can take on your psyche.

  At this rate, he’ll be slammed for hours.

  This fact seems to hit Camilla and me at the same time. We share a look of dread, momentarily united in our apprehension of the other.

  I steel myself and ask the table, “More wine, anyone?”

  “Please,” Tristan answers, waving his empty glass toward me.

  Gary crosses his arms over his chest, his lips upturned in a sneer. “So this is what that culinary school education got him.”

  “This has never happened before,” I say, coming to Reid’s defense. “There must have been some mistake. Reid will get it sorted.”

  Gary grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like entitled.

  He’s one to talk. The hair at the nape of my neck rises like hackles. Keeping these people company is completely futile.

  Tristan eyes me pointedly over his glass and mimes scooting his chair farther from Gary. Maybe I’m not entirely without an ally. The thought fortifies me.

  “Reid’s food is amazing,” I say. “You should read the reviews. And trust me, critics aren’t easily impressed.”

  “I’m sure,” Camilla says, daintily wiping at her lips. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to visit the powder room.”

  She leaves and soon, Gary, Ben, and Tristan bend their heads together in conversation. To Tristan’s credit, he tries to loop me into their discussion about the state of the economy, but Gary staunchly ignores me, even when I interject my (very insightful) two cents. As if I could possibly understand the intricacies of such things.

  Grinding my teeth together, I toss my napkin on the table and excuse myself.

  I tug at the beaded necklace around my neck so hard it almost snaps. I let go and grip the fabric of my dress instead. My late aunt Laura gave me this necklace and the last thing I want to do is break it.

  What would she do if she were in my situation? I have no idea, because this would never have happened to Aunt Laura. Everyone loved her. She had this ease with people, this accepting aura that was warm and inviting. Until she was unceremoniously killed by a drunk driver two years ago.

  I seek asylum in the restroom. It’s gorgeous, with elaborate mirrors over mod porcelain sinks, the walls painted a flattering slate. There are musical influences in here, too. Framed magazine covers featuring prominent women musicians hanging between trumpet sconces.

  I splash water on my face and dab my cheeks dry with a paper towel, eyeing myself in the mirror. Raven hair cut in an A-line bob, blue-gray eyes, funky-yet-hip tassel earrings, my favorite dress covered with tiny daisies. Whatever it is about me that Camilla and Gary disapprove of, I don’t see it.

  And that’s when it hits me: Camilla isn’t in here.

  I go back to the main restaurant. She hasn’t returned to our table, and Gary, Ben, and Tristan are still immersed in their Boys’ Club. There’s no way I’m going back there alone.

  I follow the sound of Reid’s voice to the kitchen, where I fully expect to find him barking orders to Oscar and his other sous chef, Nick, or convincing his pastry chef, Britt, to save the day with her decadent cakes and buttery baklava.

  Instead, I find Reid staring down his mother.

  I pause before the swinging door, peeking through the thin window. Camilla is standing in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by state-of-the-art stainless-steel appliances, arms crossed over her chest. She must have ambushed him the moment he stepped back there, not caring how unprofessional that might be.

  I mean, they’re not even alone. Behind Reid, Nick is busy dicing root vegetables and Britt carefully arranges spiced pears on flaky tartlet crusts, both determinedly ignoring the confrontation unspooling in front of them.

  “I don’t appreciate being pawned off on some girl,” Camilla says.

  “Her name is Parker,” Reid answers, buttoning his chef’s coat over his T-shirt. “And I warned you I was busy.”

  Hearing my name on Reid’s lips makes my cheeks flush. He has enough to worry about without having to come to my rescue.

  “I don’t understand what you see in her,” Camilla says. “She’s just a winemaker, for Pete’s sake.”

  My jaw drops in indignation. I knew things weren’t going great, but I didn’t think they were that bad.

  “If you knew me at all, it would be obvious,” Reid says. He navigates around his mother to the stovetop, where fresh saucepans await his culinary wizardry.

  “She’s not good enough for yo
u.”

  My temper flares and I’m tempted to march in there and give her a piece of this winemaker’s mind, including a few choice words usually reserved for Broncos games or particularly stubborn corks, but Reid’s next question roots me in place.

  “Why are you even here?”

  “What?” Camilla straightens primly, her shoulders back.

  Reid removes his preferred knife from his storage roll, a black carrying case for his culinary tools. The knife has a birchwood handle and steel blade that he keeps honed to a precariously sharp edge, and I know it to be one of his most prized possessions. It was given to him as a gift from his mentor and friend, the first chef who gave him a shot straight out of culinary school. He cares for it like it’s his baby. Or his cat, as it were.

  “Why are you and Dad in town?” Reid asks again, his tone almost conversational as he adds a knob of butter to a pan. “I thought it was to try and make amends, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Camilla doesn’t answer right away, which leads me to believe she’s doing some quick thinking. “We came to see you, to dine at your restaurant.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  Suddenly, I sense a presence behind me. I spin around and come face-to-face with Oscar.

  He gives me this cheeky grin, fully aware he’s caught me eavesdropping.

  I try for a smile, but it comes across as a grimace. Camilla’s harsh words are on repeat through my mind: just a winemaker, not good enough. I tell myself not to let her overcritical opinion get to me, but her words still sting.

  Tears swim in my eyes and my throat constricts.

  “Hey, you okay, Uvas?” Oscar asks.

  Oscar has taken to calling me Uvas, the Spanish word for “grapes,” since he graciously helped me unload a shipment two weeks ago. When growers determine grapes are at their peak ripeness, the fruit is picked overnight and then driven all the way from the Western Slope of the Rocky Mountains, arriving at my winery early the next morning. Which basically means that during harvest, a truckload of grapes can turn up at the drop of a hat and demand immediate attention.

  Oscar volunteered—with only minor cajoling from Reid—to help with a delivery of pinot grapes. In return for his labor, he can call me by whatever nickname he wants. Although, if I’m being honest, I kinda dig Uvas. It makes me feel like some sort of fermentation superhero.

  But at present, I hold my hands to my temples and shake my head, my tassel earrings brushing against the ruffled sleeves of my dress.

  He peers into the kitchen over my shoulder and clicks his tongue. “The Wallaces are a nasty piece of work. I don’t know how Reid turned out so chill coming from that.”

  I finally find my voice. It’s scratchy and weak and I loathe what Camilla has reduced me to. “She hates me. Camilla doesn’t even know me and she hates me.”

  “Maybe she’s more of a margarita chick.”

  I laugh, which was ultimately his goal, although my head pounds from repressed sobs.

  A dimple forms at the corner of his mouth and he rests an elbow nonchalantly against the wall. From the way he holds himself—cool, confident, and a touch mysterious—I can see why servers and hostesses are always vying for his attention.

  “Don’t worry, Uvas,” he says, his eyes kind and earnest. “Reid doesn’t put any stock into what she says. He let go of his family a long time ago.”

  I hadn’t even worried about that. That Reid would actually listen to his mother and start questioning our relationship.

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, and then change the subject. “So what was the deal with the food tonight?”

  “No idea,” Oscar says, staring fixedly at the floor. “Nick and I did our usual thing. We were busy, but we were managing.” There’s a sharpness to his words that sets me on edge.

  “Did you change any of the recipes? Add anything during plating, accidentally mislabel the olive oil or something?”

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, referencing his penchant for experimenting. “But not this time.”

  “If you say so . . .” I trail off, watching Oscar carefully.

  He shifts on his feet and runs a hand through his hair, an inscrutable expression on his face. There’s something he isn’t saying, which is odd. My stomach twists, and not from the inedible cuisine.

  “I do.” He hesitates before opening his mouth to continue, but when the kitchen door swings outward, he freezes.

  Camilla is framed in the doorway. Her lips are so thin they’re almost invisible and her fingers shake as they touch her coiffure.

  I play for sweetness, cocking my head to the side. “I was coming to check on you.”

  “I’m fine,” she says, and steps around us and back to our table.

  I turn back to Oscar, but he’s already returned to his station in the kitchen, whatever he was going to say forgotten.

  * * *

  * * *

  How do you casually mention you overheard a private conversation between two people? What if those two people were your boyfriend and his mother? Oh, and they just happened to be talking about you?

  For me, the answer is simple: you don’t.

  I lean my hip against the cool metal island. From here I have a view of the entire kitchen. Hugging one wall is a deluxe stovetop complete with cast-iron burners, large flat-top griddle, and ovens underneath, and on the opposite wall are sinks and a commercial dishwasher. The prep line features a built-in mahogany cutting board that runs the length of the counter, with custom-built holes for utensils, and shelving overhead holds pristine white plates of various sizes. The dual refrigerators and walk-in freezer are in the far corner, next to Reid’s office.

  The area is spacious enough that Reid, his two sous chefs, and his pastry chef can work without bumping elbows, but not so spacious that they can’t hold a conversation.

  The air buzzes with a nervous energy, like the final countdown on one of those stressful cooking competition shows. I roll my neck, riddled with knots, and make a mental note to hit the climbing gym ASAP.

  I wish I could handle pressure half as well as Reid’s staff. While I’m effectively dodging my one task for this evening, they’re busy taking corrective measures.

  Oscar busies himself plating. Even though time is of the essence, he moves deliberately, carefully wiping splattered salsa verde from the edge of a plate. After adding a dollop of crème fraîche and a squeeze of lime juice, he moves the plate to the far end of the island, where it awaits delivery.

  Reid’s other sous chef, Nick Prasad, arranges perfectly cubed butternut squash, sweet potatoes, and parsnips onto a sheet pan and drizzles them with olive oil. Lanky, soft-spoken, and with neatly buzzed hair, Nick is a rule-follower to the core. The most emotion I’ve seen him express was when he was bickering with Oscar over the correct way to dice cauliflower (for the record, Nick was right).

  Reid calls him a technical genius for his impeccable knife skills and knack for memorizing recipes. While Oscar views cooking as an art, Nick views it as a science, cooking with precision over feeling. Together, they make an unbeatable team, although they usually don’t see it that way.

  Sensing my gaze, Nick glances up, his neck turning blotchy from even that tiny amount of attention. I give him a small smile, but he’s already refocused on the sheet pan.

  That’s more than Britt Hartmann, genius pastry chef and all-around badass, spares me. Britt has a platinum pixie cut, impressively toned arms, and an intimidating demeanor, in large part thanks to her previous job working at a prison. She’s moved from her spiced pear tartlets, which are in the oven, to layering freshly whipped cream dotted with specks of vanilla between layers of phyllo.

  As for Reid, he’s at the stove, adding crushed garlic to the pan of melted butter. It sizzles and snaps and I almost drool for how amazing it smells.

  I’ve spent enough time watching Rei
d cook to know this is a critical stage. Garlic can go up in smoke faster than, well, this night. Especially during the dinner rush. So, I wait.

  I wait while he chops sage with undisguised gusto, adds the green smithereens to the pan of butter and garlic, and rescues ravioli from a pot of boiling water and coats them in the sauce, his motions swift and seamless. In the time it would take me to microwave a Lean Cuisine, Reid has served up a dozen plates of delectable fare.

  The servers on duty, Katy and Tony, pause their whispered conversation near the drink station, the only decipherable word of which was hangry, to seize the dishes, relief painted on their faces.

  It isn’t until they’ve whisked the last plate to the front of the restaurant that Reid turns toward me, dabbing his brow with a towel, a sign that he has a minute to talk. “Look, I’m really sorry about tonight.”

  “For what?”

  “For the way my parents treated you.” He drapes the towel over his shoulder, letting out an aggrieved sigh. “I guarantee it was more about me than you. They still don’t understand—or agree with—my life choices, which they took out on you.”

  He pauses and looks at me full-on, his green eyes flashing with emotion. Anger, sadness, remorse.

  I’m not sure how to respond. I’m not one of those girls who say things are okay when they aren’t. But I’m afraid that if I open my mouth, I’ll somehow make the situation worse.

  “I wish it were different,” Reid continues, turning back to the stovetop. He snags a clean pot from where they hang from hooks beside the range hood. “That I could make them understand, apologize, but it is what it is.”

  “You told me once that every family has their problems.”

  “Some worse than others.”

  The hurt in his voice, how he must feel still not having his parents’ approval after all he’s accomplished, breaks my heart.

  “True,” I say, pushing myself away from the island and moving to his side. “They’re not all bad.”

  He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Succumbed to Tristan’s charms already?”