Authors: Michelle Major
“Abby’s fifteen now so she’ll be an adult.” He rubbed his hand along his jaw then winced. “She’s not even Cory’s kid. She and Zach had the same mother. She died last year of a drug overdose so both kids came to live with my brother, Cory.”
“So Abby isn’t actually related to you?”
He shook his head. “But she’s got no one else and she and Zach need each other, especially now. Trust me, I know I’m not a great bet for either of those kids—”
“I wasn’t thinking that,” she interrupted. “It’s really great of you to take them in. Not exactly what I would have expected from Ben the Beast.”
“I hate that name.”
“It made you famous.”
“Isn’t that the kicker?” His voice was hollow, giving Chloe the strangest urge to reach out and comfort him. Lost souls. Karen accused Chloe of collecting them, but she reminded herself that this man didn’t need her help. He was, in many ways, the enemy. But it didn’t feel that way in the quiet of her cozy storeroom.
“I like you better when you’re not shouting.”
“That’s also part of what made me famous.” He took a breath and cracked open one eye. “I like you better when you’re not shooting pepper spray in my face.” He stood, grabbed a clean towel from the shelf, and dampened it under the faucet. He dabbed at his eyes then turned to her, his blue-gray eyes bloodshot but still commanding.
“Better?” she asked, also standing and taking a few steps to the other side of the room. The intimacy that felt safe when he was debilitated with his eyes closed now felt too intense, and she needed to break the connection pulsing between them.
He nodded then glanced down. “Why am I wearing a neon-pink shirt?”
“It’s all I had in your size.”
He smoothed a hand over the front of the shirt, which clung to his broad chest like it had been accidentally shrunk in the dryer.
“Or close to your size,” she amended, swallowing as once again she was reminded of his strength. “We should go now.” She walked past him into the main part of the store, flipping off lights as she did.
He followed and she picked up her purse and laptop bag again, reset the security system, and headed out the front door. Although it was fully dark now, Ben almost glowed in the bright shirt, making Chloe smile in spite of herself.
“Where’s your car?” he asked after she locked the front door.
“I live close enough to walk.”
“I’ll walk you home, then.”
“You don’t . . . I’d rather . . .” She clutched her computer bag to her front. “No,” she said finally. “I’m fine on my own.” He looked like he wanted to argue so she held up a hand. “It’s nice of you to offer, especially after what I did, but this is where we say good-bye, Ben. Thank you for . . . well . . . thank you for being nice about the pepper spray.”
He gave a small nod then stepped closer to her. “I’m not nice, Chloe. I get that I scared you, but shit happens and we move on. You said you like me better when I’m not shouting, but loud or quiet, you shouldn’t like me at all.”
She sucked in a breath as he reached out and traced a finger along her jaw. “I would never lay a hand on you that would cause pain, but I am going to hurt you. I own the building, and this is where I’m opening my restaurant.”
A new level of panic spread through her as she absorbed the knowledge that he had a plan for her shop. “Why here?”
“Because I want this space. And I always get what I want.”
C
HAPTER THREE
“W
hy that space?”
Monday morning Ben watched his publicist, Michael Ames, root through the refrigerator in his father’s ramshackle house near Federal Boulevard on Denver’s northwest side, about a mile from the Highlands neighborhood that housed The Toy Chest.
“Because it’s the space I want.”
Michael set a plate of leftover pizza on the counter and took a bite of one slice.
Ben pointed to the far side of the counter. “There’s a microwave in the corner if you’d like to heat it up.”
“Did you just suggest I use a microwave?” he asked, swallowing audibly. “What the hell is wrong with you?” He glanced from the pizza to Ben. “By the way, this is phenomenal. What kind of cheese did you use?”
“A mix of smoked mozzarella, Pecorino Romano, and Emmentaler.” Ben stepped forward to grab his own slice. He didn’t bother heating it either.
“What’s wrong with plain old mozzarella?” a booming voice called. “If it’s good enough for the Italians, it should work for the rest of us.”
Ben looked up as his father walked into the room. “Christ, Dad,” he muttered. “Put on some clothes. I’m going to lose my appetite.”
“First, remember this isn’t your house, so don’t tell me what I can and can’t wear. And second, give me a break on the fancy cheeses.” Harry Haddox wiggled his hips with a smirk then scratched his crotch. He wore nothing but a pair of loose-fitting plaid boxers. In his youth, Ben’s dad had been an amateur boxer and his body still held some of its former muscle, but a basketball-sized paunch now drooped over the waistband of his boxer shorts. “I knew you before you were a food snob, Benny-boy. I know your tastes aren’t that picky.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with a microwave oven, Mike,” he shouted. “It’s called technology, and how else am I supposed to reheat my Folgers?”
The publicist shuddered, whether from Harry’s insistence on shortening his name or the thought of someone drinking instant coffee, Ben couldn’t tell. “Dad, stop yelling,” he hollered. “You’re going to wake Abby.”
“He already did,” the girl said as she stalked into the room. She stopped at the sight of Ben’s father leaning down to take a plate from the dishwasher. “Christ, Harry. Put on some clothes. You’re going to scar me for life.”
“Watch your language,” Ben muttered around a bite of pizza, ignoring the fact that he’d said almost the same thing minutes earlier.
Michael quirked a brow. “Are you certain she’s not related to you?” He lifted the dish of pizza toward Abby. “Breakfast?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ll have a Pop-Tart.”
“There are no Pop-Tarts in this kitchen,” Ben said.
She grabbed a box from the pantry like a prize from a penny arcade game. “Harry bought groceries yesterday.”
“Shit,” Ben muttered.
“No,” Michael corrected him. “But mostly chemicals.” He finished the pizza then tore a paper towel from the roll, dabbing at the corner of his mouth like he was in a Michelin-rated restaurant. “By the way, Mr. Haddox,” he said as Harry leaned in to nab the final slice of pizza, “you have a lovely home.”
Abby snorted as Ben coughed to hide his own laugh. His dad’s house looked much the same as it did when he was a kid, which was messy, cluttered, and without an ounce of hominess. The linoleum floors of the kitchen had seen better decades, and the appliances were mostly from the Cold War era.
Ben had offered more than once to buy his father a different, bigger, and better house or at least to remodel this one. But Harry was proud and the mortgage was paid, so he saw no need to change a thing. Ben would have preferred to rent a hotel suite or a loft downtown, but the kids had come to stay with his father immediately after Cory had been arrested. He didn’t want to uproot them again when they both seemed comfortable in this old house built in the Denver Square style.
“You’re slicker than snot on a doorknob, Mike.” Harry’s booming laugh filled the kitchen. “I like that.” He took a bite of pizza then gave Michael a hearty slap on the back. “The Rockies start a three-game home series tonight. Let me know if you want to catch a game while you’re in town. I can set you up with tickets, and I’ll slip you a free hot dog if I’m working.”
“Thanks,” Michael said, peering over his shoulder, probably to see if he had grease or tomato sauce staining his tailored suit. “I’m flying out this afternoon, but if our boy is serious about these restaurant plans, I’ll be back soon.”
“He’s serious.” Harry’s gaze settled on Ben. “My son might have made it big, but he knows family comes first.”
Before Ben could reply, Abby nudged his hip. “You’re in my way,” she said in her typical drill-sergeant tone. He moved and she took a dish from the cabinet behind him. “Has Zach eaten breakfast?”
Guilt stabbed at Ben. Zach had come down at least thirty minutes ago but had gone right to the family room and turned on the TV. Ben hadn’t given a thought to making the kid something for breakfast. His first pseudo-parent fail of the morning. Brilliant.
“I’ll bring him a Pop-Tart,” Abby said, gauging his expression. The girl was spooky with how accurately she could read him.
“I can make omelets,” he offered.
“Pop-Tarts are better,” she said and plucked up the two that had just popped from the toaster.
“I’ll bring OJ,” Harry said, grabbing the carton from the fridge and three plastic cups. “That kid’s going to need to give up the video games for a few minutes. I want to check out SportsCenter before I take my morning constitutional.”
Ben heard Abby groan as they left the room.
“I’ll have an omelet,” Michael told him, placing the empty pizza plate in the sink.
“Make your own,” Ben mumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face.
Michael only laughed. “Back to business,
Benny-boy
. I spent yesterday on the phone with one of Denver’s top commercial realtors. If you’re determined to open your first restaurant in your long-ago abandoned hometown, he’s got way better options for you than converting an old-time toy store into a ‘Ben the Beast’ signature restaurant.”
“Lay off the nickname.”
“It’s not just a nickname, it’s your brand. I still don’t understand why you’d want to screw it up by leaving Vegas.”
“Thanks to the shooting schedule for the TV show and all the damn promotional appearances you’ve got me doing, I haven’t been in a Vegas kitchen for almost two years.”
“But your legend lives on,” Michael argued. “There are at least two different investment groups hounding me about their partnering with you.”
Ben stalked to the edge of the kitchen. “No partnerships. I told you that.” He’d worked round the clock for years to finally gain the title of executive chef. But even when he’d taken over the kitchen at La Lune, the five-star showpiece in one of the Strip’s luxury hotels, he’d had to create dishes that fit with the elite theme of the restaurant. He’d become an expert at sourcing the most exclusive ingredients and using them in innovative ways but had no real style of his own beyond high-dollar excess.
“They’ll give you as much control as you want.”
“Bullshit.” Ben slammed his hand on the counter. “Men in suits are great at making promises before the dotted line is signed. Things go to hell once the contract is locked in.”
“
A Beast in Your Kitchen
has been a wild success.” Michael actually sounded offended that Ben would suggest otherwise. “It’s given you exposure you never would have had, even as a famous executive chef.”
“It’s also ruined my reputation as someone with real talent. I’m more than a face and a temper.” He wasn’t sure whether he said the words to convince Michael or himself. As hard as he’d worked to run his own kitchen, Ben knew that even in Las Vegas, people had talked about his histrionics in the kitchen as much as they had the food he served.
He might not have much fondness for his childhood home, but he also wasn’t happy living life as the bad boy of the restaurant industry. “I can’t even grab a beer without people asking for an autograph or picture. And half the time they want me to bare my teeth like I’m some sort of foodie werewolf.”
“You’re not getting sympathy from me, Ben. When was the last time you paid for a beer or a meal or spent an evening alone without a gorgeous woman ready for action?” Michael asked, crossing his arms over his chest. “There are perks to the lifestyle. I’m not sure you’d know how to function like a real person anymore. Maybe you are part werewolf.”
“Go to hell, Michael.”
“A dumpy storefront in an obscure Denver neighborhood might just be my version of hell.”
“Do your research. The Highlands is one of the most popular areas in the city. This neighborhood has had a complete overhaul in the past few years.” Ben was shouting now, his temper getting the best of him as usual.
“Don’t pop a blood vessel.” Michael held out his hands, palms forward. “I was joking.”
“I don’t think you know how to joke.” The publicist’s sharp focus was one of the things Ben had appreciated at the beginning of their partnership, but now he wanted a break.
“I know how to make you money. Vegas, LA, New York. Why can’t you pick one of those? Seriously, Ben, the altitude here is killing me.”
“Then leave.”
Michael pushed away from the counter, a flash of panic lighting his dark eyes. “You don’t mean that.”
“I want my reputation back, and I’m staying in Denver. We might not be much, but Dad and I are all those two kids have.” Ben felt his gut start to churn as he said the words out loud. “At least for now,” he amended, still not willing to fully commit to this new domestication. The ramifications of the promise he’d made to his brother almost paralyzed him with doubt. Altitude notwithstanding, Ben hadn’t been able to take a steady breath since he’d arrived in Colorado.
“You can move them,” Michael suggested. “Hell, I was an army brat and look how well I turned out.”
Ben arched an eyebrow.
“At least say you’ll consider a different location. The cash you’re going to need to do a build out on a property with no kitchen is mind-boggling.”
“It’s got to be that location.”
Michael ran his hands though his hair, yanking on the dark strands. “Do you know how long that will take, even if we get started immediately?”
“We can’t start right away,” Ben said. “The current tenant’s lease isn’t up for another month.” At Michael’s horrified look, Ben shrugged. “It will give me time to meet with an architect and contractors to come up with a concept.”
Michael’s arms dropped slack to his sides. “Are you saying you don’t have a concept yet? What kind of food is it going to be?”
“I haven’t decided,” Ben said after a moment. “My usual, I guess.”
Michael had been with him long enough not to settle for that kind of answer. “What’s the usual?” he asked, tapping the toe of one Italian loafer. “Like you just told me, you haven’t worked in a commercial kitchen as an executive chef for over two years. As good as you were at La Lune, that was Maurice St. Clair’s legacy and we both know it.”
Ben didn’t bother to deny it. From the time he’d used his meager savings at age eighteen to move to New York City, his one goal had been to work for the aging French master who ruled the Manhattan culinary scene. St. Clair’s reputation was on par with the truly world-class chefs like Joël Robuchon and Marco Pierre White, but Ben had been attracted not only to the other man’s creative take on haute cuisine but to his showmanship as well. Maurice had been one of the first true celebrity chefs, and Ben had wanted in on the whole package. He’d done it, too, brazenly waylaying St. Clair in his SoHo restaurant. The older man had been furious and had had Ben thrown out onto the street, only to call him back before Ben had time to brush the dirt off his jeans. It had been trial by fire, but Ben had thrown himself into making it work.
By that time, Cory had started dabbling in drugs and their father was only a year into his sobriety. Ben had needed an outlet for his anger and his energy, and the grueling seventeen-hour days had provided just that.
Maurice had taken Ben with him to Las Vegas when he’d opened La Lune, but a heart attack had forced St. Clair’s early retirement. At twenty-six, Ben had been one of the youngest people ever to be made executive chef of a five-star restaurant. Three years later, Michael had visited the restaurant and proposed brokering a deal with the then-fledgling EatTV channel. By then, Ben’s temper was legendary throughout Vegas and the restaurant industry as a whole. Michael had pitched
A Beast in Your Kitchen
to capitalize on that and set Ben apart from the regular crop of down-home chefs and overly enthusiastic commentators on the cooking channels.
The show was a runaway success, and Ben had enjoyed the fame and notoriety for a while. Lately he realized that being the loudest person in the room didn’t always mean he was listened to the closest. Often it only left him with a sore throat and headache.
“I need a break,” he said finally, resisting the urge to shout the words at the top of his lungs. “I want you to clear my schedule for the summer. At least until preseason meetings start for the show.”
“Let’s get this straight. You don’t have a location yet. You have no team or investors working with you, and you haven’t even started on the menu.” Michael snorted. “Is this a premature midlife crisis?”
“I don’t give a shit what you call it.” Ben kicked at one of Zach’s discarded sneakers lying in the middle of the kitchen. “I’m taking my time with this, Michael. I’ve earned it.”
The publicist bit down on his lip. “You know how fast this industry moves, right? How many hungry guys there are out there, just like you a few years ago, vying to take your spot at the top?”
Anger bubbled in Ben at the veiled threat, but he let it wash over and through him before answering. “Maybe I’m ready to hand it over.”
Michael looked around as if someone important might be listening. “Don’t say that to anyone but me, Ben. The food industry is a killer. You know that. They’ll smell your indecision and start circling like vultures.”
“Go back to New York, Michael,” Ben said with a sigh.
“You’ve got an event booked in Vegas at the end of the week.” Michael whipped the iPhone from his pocket and punched at the screen. “I can push back a few of your network appearances, but this is an industry showcase. If you cancel at this point, the gossip will be brutal.” He glanced up from the phone. “It may even send reporters after you.” He swept one arm widely around the kitchen. “We’ve been able to keep your family business under wraps, but it won’t be difficult to figure out once people start looking.”