minutes later, with the food carefully replated and the tablescape tweaked to represent Lara’s vision, the photographer got his shot. It would grace the October cover of the national publication and be seen by millions of people.
“Another fabulous shoot,” the editor gushed as the photographer gathered up his equipment and Lara prepared to leave the magazine’s offices. “I should know better than to give you suggestions. What you come up with always looks better. No one makes food look more appetizing than you do.”
Lara accepted the compliment with a nod. As a food stylist, that was her job and she was good at it. She was much sought after because of her attention to detail, a reputation that she’d earned over the course of nearly a decade.
Perhaps that was why it stung so badly that to her father, Lara remained a colossal disappointment.
Those who can, cook. Those who can’t, style food.
So sayeth the legendary restaurateur Clifton Chesterfield.
He’d paid her tuition to the top-rated culinary school in the country, after which he’d sent her abroad for two years to study cooking techniques in both Tuscany and the south of France. From the time Lara had been old enough to make a simple roux, his plan had been that she would follow in his footsteps and someday run the kitchen at the New York landmark that bore his name. The landmark where he’d spent practically every waking hour of Lara’s childhood.
Was it any wonder that she’d resented the restaurant? Was it any wonder that she’d resented him for choosing it over his family?
So, as a full-of-herself young twentysomething, she’d rebelled. And she’d done so spectacularly.
At thirty-three, Lara could look back and admit that she’d taken her revolt too far. She’d publicly dissed both her father and his beloved restaurant, and then married the only food critic in Manhattan who’d ever dared to give the Chesterfield a subpar rating.
Her marriage to Jeffrey Dunham had lasted only slightly longer than the rise on a first-year culinary student’s soufflé before she’d come to her senses. By then, however, the damage was done. Her father refused to speak to her.
Six years later, Lara was old enough and wise enough to admit that she’d cut off her nose to spite her face. Irony of ironies, she now wanted to hang up her stylist credentials and pursue a career as a chef. She also wanted her dad’s respect, if not his affection. She wanted to hear him say, “Well-done.”
But when she’d approached him a year earlier about a job, he’d broken his silence only long enough to refuse to hire her—not even to do prep work. And since he wouldn’t hire her, no credible kitchen in the city would either. Such was Clifton Chesterfield’s reach and reputation.
Well, finally, she had an opportunity to make her father see her as a serious chef, and Lara wasn’t about to blow it.
With the shoot wrapped, she stepped outside to catch a cab. Barring a traffic tie-up, she had just enough time to make it to Midtown before one o’clock. Of course, she wouldn’t have a chance to grab lunch, but since nerves had tied her stomach in knots, she wasn’t complaining.
Overhead, fat clouds the color of ripe eggplants were huddled together. Any moment, the sky was going to open up and it was going to pour, and she hadn’t brought an umbrella. She tried not to think of the weather as a bad omen, but she couldn’t deny its effect on her hair, which had a hard enough time holding a curl when there was no humidity. It was stick straight now, a glossy auburn curtain that fell even with her shoulders. Before raising her arm to hail a cab, she fussed with the fringe of bangs she already regretted getting at her last salon visit.
When a taxi pulled to a stop a moment later, she dashed for it. She reached for the door handle at the same time a man did. Their fingers brushed and they both stepped back.
“Oh!” Lara gasped, not only because she had competition for the ride, but because the competition in question was drop-dead gorgeous.
While most of the men on the street at this time of the day wore decked-out business attire, carrying briefcases and barking orders into cell phones, this one was wearing faded jeans and a lightweight windbreaker. He looked as if he should have a surfboard tucked under his arm and be heading out to Long Beach to catch a wave. His face was tanned. His hair was a sandy-brown with streaks of sun-bleached blond thrown in. A quarter-inch worth of stubble shadowed his jaw and framed an easygoing smile that seemed at odds with his intense gray eyes.
“Rock, Paper, Scissors?” he asked.
“Why not?” she replied, hoping the rain would continue to hold off while they played.
“On the count of three, then.”
She hiked the strap of her purse onto her shoulder to free up her hands and nodded.
“One. Two. Three,” they said in unison as they each pounded a fist into the opposite palm.
Afterward he was holding his right hand out flat. Lara, meanwhile, was mimicking a cutting motion with her index and middle fingers.
“Scissors cut paper,” she said unnecessarily.
With a shake of his head, the man said, “I had you figured for a rock.”
Hmm. How to take that?
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I wouldn’t say I’m disappointed.”
He held open the cab’s door for her. Before closing it, however, he leaned inside. Something in his expression had changed so that it now matched the intensity in his eyes.
“Hey, since you’re costing me my ride, can I...can I ask you for a favor?”
“I guess so,” she said slowly. It wasn’t wariness she felt exactly. More like anticipation. Like a kid on Christmas, getting ready to unwrap the last gift from beneath the tree.
But then he shook his head. “Nah. Forget it. Crazy,” she thought he muttered as he started to straighten.
She tugged him back by saying, “No. Really. Ask. It’s the least I can do.”
He hesitated only a moment. “I’m on my way to something important. It’s kind of a big deal for me. A game changer.”
“A job interview?”
“Yeah. In a manner of speaking.”
She nodded, understanding. So was she. In a manner of speaking. “So, what’s the favor?”
“Can I...?” His gaze lowered to her lips. “Can I have a kiss for luck?”
Lara’s breath whooshed out on a laugh even as parts of her body started to tingle. “I’ll give you props for creativity. That’s a line I’ve never heard before.”
The man pinched his eyes closed, looking both self-conscious and alarmingly delicious. “Yeah. Pathetic. Forget it.”
He started to straighten a second time. In another moment he would be closing the door, beyond her reach, and she would be on her way. Luck? What the heck? Lara figured she could use a little of it herself. And what would a kiss from
