The Chef's Choice Read online

  Chapter 2

  "Peter, your girl's here," Jackson announced as he walked into the busy kitchen of his steakhouse.

  Chef Peter Anjou didn't have to ask who his friend referred to. Emille had been the faithful patroness of his culinary creations since even before Peter had decided to leave his career as an electrical engineer in order to become a chef. It was Wednesday night, and Emille was spending the night doing what she'd been spending her Wednesday nights doing for the fifteen years that they'd known each other. She was eating wherever and whatever Peter was cooking.

  Technically, Jack had a say in what was fed to his guests. And it was Peter's responsibility to prepare the menu and stick to it. However, there was an unwritten understanding when it came to Emille. Peter claimed carte blanche to prepare her meals off the menu. He planned these Wednesday night dinners with care and precision, because Emille never failed to show up for them. He still didn't understand why it was so important to her that she support him like this, but Peter was grateful for the weekly diner at table number twelve. As long as she had his back, he'd continue to enjoy his career.

  "She's looking good too," Jack commented mildly as he washed his hands.

  "She always looks good," Peter replied.

  "Yeah. But she looks beautiful tonight."

  Emille was a big girl. Six feet and two inches tall, and three hundred and twenty-something pounds of big. She had a nice shape for someone her size, but it was usually buried beneath layers and layers and layers of clothing. Despite her efforts to hide beneath mounds of clothes, Emille couldn't really change her nature. She loved fashion and made up for her poor choice of clothing with impeccably maintained hair, nails, and makeup. You couldn't fail to realize she was an very beautiful woman.

  Subsequently, she'd set herself up for people feeling free to tell her she'd be a gorgeous girl, "…if only you'd lose some weight." After seeing the damage that helpful comments about a woman's weight could cause, Peter had established a policy with Emille. He said nothing about her appearance, unless she went the extra mile on something. Then, he reserved his comments to a simple, 'You look nice', and left it there.

  "What are you making for her tonight?"

  Peter reached over and pulled forward a cutting board already set up with a bass on it. "She caught this on Sunday," he said, nodding toward the fish with a small smirk.

  Jack let out a low whistle of appreciation. Peter went fishing every Sunday morning. Occasionally, his friends would join him. Most often it was just him and Emille. If he knew his friend, and after nearly ten years of knowing each other Jack figured he knew Peter pretty well, Emille was the only woman he'd ever invited to join them.

  "Yeah," Peter was saying. "I promised her I'd grill this baby up for her tonight." Deftly, he began to fillet the fish. "I thought I'd serve it with a savory herb risotto, nothing too overpowering. And an arugala and baby spinach salad." He looked up to see his friend nodding in approval. "It's light, I know. But I figured I'd make up for that by making that chocolate raspberry tart she likes." Nodding toward his drop-drawer, Peter said, "The bill's in there. Put it on my tab and tell her it's comped, will you?"

  The slight raising of a brow was Jack's first response, then he pursed his lips in an 'If you say so' expression. He took the bill out of the drawer where Peter kept his notes and stationary and took his time looking it over. Finally, unable to keep it in any longer, he asked, "You do know she's on a date tonight. Right?"

  Peter almost sliced off a finger.

  "I take it she didn't tell you?"

  "Uh, yeah. She said something about bringing some guy from work." He started working on something else. Wednesdays were a sort of break for him. His sous-chefs were all familiar with the menu, and except for the occasional inquiries, they didn't need to check with him about much. As a team, he and Jack ran a very tight ship. Peter kept a close eye on everyone, but he was on Do Not Disturb when Emille ate at the restaurant.

  "Yeah. Well. It looks like she likes him."

  Peter's features were neutral as he asked, "How could you tell?"

  Emille and Jack weren't bosom buddies, but they'd become fast friends over the years because of Peter. And anyone who knew Emille on that level knew that a man was the last thing on her mind. In fact, other than a few sporadic interludes, Emille never really kept a man around. Maybe it was because she had Peter, Jack, David, and Nathanael. And of course, Ryce, whenever he was back in town.

  Jack tipped his head back and grinned. "She's wearing red."

  This time, Peter nearly spilled a pot of hot water over on himself. Black was the name of the game for Emille. He tried hard, but he couldn't remember ever seeing her in anything but black. Maybe navy, or brown. Maybe a mishmash of blackish colors on a black base. But never anything as bright as red.

  "Are you talking about her lipstick?" he asked, because then that wouldn't be so strange.

  "Nope," Jack smugly replied. His lips curled and his eyes narrowed as he rocked his head from side to side reciting in an announcer's voice, "She's wearing a bright red dress with a slinky little black bolero, and an F-me pair of leopard print shoes with red heels."

  Peter went along with it up until Jack started describing the shoes, because as inconceivable as it was that Emille might deviate from the black, it was highly unlikely that she'd be wearing pumps. She had stopped wearing anything higher than fully flat about a decade before. Peter would know since he found nothing in the world sexier than a tall woman in tall heels. He could even give an approximate rounding of the year he'd last seen her in flats because it was around the same time that her weight had gone off the rails almost overnight.

  "I'll stop by her table once she's done eating," he said needlessly. He always stopped by her table before she left.

  "Okay," Jack said, before he turned and departed through the swinging doors.