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A spurt of resentment etched through his gut like acid.Hehadn’t been lucky enough to have rich grandparents willing to pay for culinary school!
“IthinkI remember her, Mrs. Snowberry.” He forced his best easy-charm grin, the one that had always worked Saturday night wonders at the Elk’s Head Tavern, back when he still had time to date.
And he’d be double-damned if he let Summer know how strongly her presence still affected him.
“Didn’t we go to high school together?” he asked Summer, trying to keep his tone casual.
Her eyes widened in surprise. For an instant he thought he saw hurt flash across her expression.
Her tone cool, she replied, “Uh, maybe? What year were you?”
Fuck. That stung, but good. Was shereallytrying to pretend that she didn’t remember him? Or maybe she really didn’t.
He wasn’t sure which was worse.
Brock’s temper flared. “Aren’t you the one on TV? Pink tool belt?” He did his best to fake ignorance. “Restores old houses in Seattle, or something like that?”
He cursed himself as soon as the words slipped out.Now she knows I’m just yanking her chain!
“No, that’s my sister Winnie.” If Summer’s tone had been cold before, it positively dripped icicles now.
“Summer’s an executive chef and owns her own restaurant in San Francisco these days,” Mrs. S interjected proudly.
As if everyone in town doesn’t already know that!Brock thought.
Scowling, he crossed his arms.
He saw Summer’s gaze dart to his biceps, and fought the urge to smirk at her.Guess she likes what she sees.It made him feel fractionally better.
“Last year, she madeGolden State Foodie Magazine’slist of California’s ten best chefs under thirty,” Mrs. S continued.
“Oh, right, you’re the famous chef, huh?” Some stupid impulse made him add, “Isn’t my meatloaf is the best you’ve ever had? I sourced the bison from your family’s ranch and ground the meat myself.”
To his surprise and pleasure, she nodded. “It’s excellent.” Then she spoiled everything by adding, “Too bad about everything else.”
What the hell?He scowled down at her. “Oh, yeah? You think you could do better?”
Her golden brows shot up, and her bright blue eyes met his squarely for the first time. A hot jolt of desire raced through him, seasoned with irritation and dislike.
He didn’t want to want her, not when she was sitting there, all smug and superior inhisrestaurant, criticizinghisfood.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” she said calmly. “For one thing, I’d ensure that all of a table’s orders came out at the same time. And I wouldn’t make my customers wait for nearly an hour for their food.”
He hated she was right. “Well, I pride myself in cooking each dish to perfection before I serve it,” he shot back. “Quality’s worth waiting for.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said, looking unimpressed with his bullshit. “Look. Your foodisgood. But I came in wanting to try your lamb chops. You were out. Same story for the elk chili,andthe fish and chips.” She actually rolled her eyes. “The meatloaf was my surrender in the face of overwhelming outages.”
Brock blew out a frustrated breath.Why the hell did she and Mrs. S have to come in today, of all days?
“Any other criticisms, Ms. Executive Chef?” He didn’t try to keep the growl out of his tone.
“Plenty of them,” she shot back. “Starting with the observation that nothing about this place does your food credit. This plate was such a sloppy mess when it came out that I was bracing myself for a terrible meal.”
Yeah, well, from what he’d heard, the places she worked specialized in serving fancy shit, like a plate holding a single roasted carrot surrounded by a few dots of sauce. That kind of pretentious crap would never go over in a place like Snowberry Springs. People in these parts expected a meal that filled them up and stuck to their ribs.
He smirked down at her. “Well, you know what they say—don’t judge a book by its cover.”
Summer raised her brows at him and reached for one of the menus. She lifted it by her fingertips, as if it were contaminated with something nasty. “Or a restaurant by its tacky,sticky, laminated menus?”
