Page 8 of Perfect Pairing
“New chef and his family.”
“New chef?” I asked, stalling in the middle ofthe foyer. “What the hell happened to Roscoe?”
My dad huffed an irritated sigh through his nose, the muscles in his jaw twitching as his teeth ground together. “He wanted out, so we let him go.”
I gaped. Roscoe had been working for our family foryears, since my sisters and I were toddlers running rampant through the vineyards. He used to feed us grilled peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and hand-squeezed lemonade for lunch, and he brought us his homemade chicken noodle soup when we weren’t feeling well. Essentially, he’d been another father to us.
“What happened?” I asked softly.
Mom settled a hand on my arm. “He wanted to spend what was left of his career back in Europe.”
There was more to it than that, but it said enough. We weren’t where he wanted to spend his twilight years, and that was fine. Clearly, Dad didn’t think so, but I knew he’d get over it. He and Mom hadn’t wasted any time replacing him, after all.
I was included in the family business to an extent. Each of us girls owned shares of the company. Chloe was supposed to take over when Dad retired, and Amara had recently finished her MBA and stayed in Europe to expand the winery’s international distribution. We’d all gone over to London to celebrate her graduation a couple months ago, and I couldn’t be prouder of her. She and Chloe were built for their roles. On the flip side, my passions lay elsewhere. I preferred to be involved more in name only.
“So tell me more about this new chef,” I said as we resumed packing my car.
“Oh, he’s wonderful,” Mom gushed as she loaded a boxlabeledfantasy books. “We met him a few years ago when we ate at his restaurant in New York City, and he’s just such an amazing man, especially given everything he has been through.”
“His food is quite honestly the best I’ve ever had,” my dad confirmed before he ruffled my hair. “Next to yours, of course.”
“Don’t lie to me, old man,” I said, wagging my finger at him. “Just because Icancook doesn’t mean I’m the best. I’ll stick to pastries.”
“Fine, fine,” Dad said. “You’re…passable.” I chuckled—he wasn’t wrong. “Chef Wendt is…exceptional.”
My curiosity was sufficiently piqued for a number of reasons. First, while my mother routinely fawned over any and every one—that was the kind of woman she was; she never met a stranger—my father was far more reserved with his praise. Not to mention, he had personally hired Roscoe back in the day and had not only been good friends with the man but also a big fan of his food.
To hear him speak so highly of this new guy was equal parts disconcerting and intriguing.
And that said nothing of the fact that this Chef Wendt had come from the city I spent the last four years in. I wondered if we’d ever crossed paths…then shook off the idea. There was no possible way.
“Well, what do you say?” I asked a few hours later, planting my hands on my hips and surveying the hatch of my SUV, which was packed floor to ceiling with boxes and suitcases. “Want to go grab lunch at the winery?”
“Yes!” Mom said, excitedly clapping her hands. “Today happens to be Ezra’s first day, so it’ll give you guysthe chance to meet before you take off.”
Ezra Wendt, I thought. The name tickled something in my brain, but I couldn’t latch onto what.
“Great!” I said, genuinely looking forward to meeting him.
We piled into Dad’s Suburban and headed down the peninsula. Mom and I chatted idly about them coming down to see me next winter when things at the winery slowed down for the season, and we discussed my plans to come home for Christmas. Soon, we pulled up to Chateau Delatou, and I found myself eager to get inside. I loved eating at the winery restaurant when Roscoe was running the show, and I couldn’t wait to see how the new guy measured up.
We were shown to a table in the center of the dining room, and the hostess tried to give us menus before my dad waved her off.
“Tell Ezra three of the Delatous are here, and that we’ll eat whatever he feels like making us,” he said. The girl simply nodded and scurried off.
While we waited, my mom chatted animatedly about how well her flower garden was doing, the gossip she’d picked up at the diner the other day, and their plans for the Fourth of July—all of which she discussed like I’d be present.
My stomach growled, and I rocked side-to-side in my chair simply for something to do, my eyes scanning the room. Nearly all the tables were full, wine flowing, food disappearing quickly from plates as our guests enjoyed their afternoon. Ezra had really been thrown into the fire for his first day, and I admired the man’s bravery for agreeing to start a new job in a new kitchen in the middle of our busiest season.
I swept my gaze over the heads of customers, and it snaggedon a tall, dark-haired man coming down the short hall from the kitchen, three plates balanced in his hands.
Inexplicably drawn to him, I couldn’t tear my eyes away. I started my perusal at his feet, which were encased in a scuffed pair of white Chuck Taylors. Then, I dragged my gaze up—and up and up—over long, lean legs, a trim torso covered by a white button up shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing strong forearms dusted with dark hair. Higher still, my eyes roamed to the strong column of the man’s throat, over his chiseled jaw shaded by stubble, and a long, straight nose. At last, I connected with his brown eyes, the same color as the burnt sugar crust atop a crème brulée.
The second our gazes collided, something shifted in me. It reminded me of that moment in romantic comedy movies when the lead and love interest meet for the first time, and everything around them fades away. The whole world narrowed to that point of contact. I didn’t know how or why, but mybodyknew.
This man belonged to me, and I belonged to him.
His strides were confident as he crossed the dining room toward us, and though he shot smiles and words of greeting to every guest he passed, his eyes never wavered from mine.
