Because food was the one thing I was actually good at.
Food was the one thing that never let me down, never judged me, never looked at me like I was a walking disaster waiting to happen. Food made sense. Food had rules and techniques and a logical progression from raw ingredients to a finished dish. Food was the one area of my life where I wasn’t constantly tripping over my own feet.
Food was the thing I’d given up when I’d left Boston.
When Tracy had—Nope!
Not thinking about Tracy. Not thinking about the restaurant. Not thinking about the life I’d planned, the career I’d wanted, the dreams that had died the day my best friend had smiled at me and said, “I got the position! Can you believe it? They chose me!”
The position that was supposed to be mine.
The position I’d been promised.
The position that Tracy had swooped in and taken because she was better at networking, better at playing the game, better at flirting and showing her boobs, better at being the kind of chef that fancy Boston restaurants wanted on their line.
Water under the bridge.
Ancient history.
Totally over it.
Except I wasn’t over it, not really, because every time I thought about cooking—really cooking, the kind of cooking that made people close their eyes and moan—I thought about what I’d lost.
But that was fine.
Totally fine.
I was fine.
And right now, I had the chance to do something good with my skills. Something that didn’t involve culinary school politics or backstabbing best friends with enormous hooters or dreams that had curdled like milk left out in the sun.
I could cook dinner for Dr. Lyon.
An apology dinner.
A thank-you-for-not-firing-me dinner.
A please-forget-I-said-towel-situation dinner.
A dinner that would prove I wasn’t completely useless.
“Hey, Megan?” I sat up straighter, an idea forming. “What if we made dinner for your dad?”
Megan’s eyes lit up. “Like cooking?”
“Exactly like cooking. But you’d be my sous chef. Which means you get to help with the easy stuff, and I do all the dangerous knife work.”
“Can we make pasta?”
“We can make whatever you want.” I was already mentally cataloging the contents of Dr. Lyon’s fridge and pantry. I’d done a grocery run, so I knew he had decent ingredients. The man kept a surprisingly well-stocked kitchen for someone who probably survived on coffee and takeout. “What does your dad like?”
Megan scrunched up her nose, thinking. “He likes everything. But he really likes that chicken thing Grandma makes. With the lemon?”
Chicken piccata. Classic, elegant, impressive without being pretentious. I could do that. I could absolutely do that.
And if I happened to add a few extra touches—fresh herbs, homemade pasta, a proper pan sauce that would make him forget every mediocre meal he’d ever eaten—well, that was just me being thorough.
Professional.
