Bliss (28 page)

“Will we? I'd still like to take you out, Bliss.”

“That,” she sighed, “is the nicest news I've had all day.”

She left him after a kiss that went a long way toward soothing the upsets of the last hour.

Silver barked softly at the first flakes of snow that sifted down into the courtyard as Sera turned her back on her future, and went home to contemplate her past.

H
e did it. That snake really went ahead and did it!”

Pauline slammed the newspaper down on the counter as she swept into the store, fuming. Having been filled in by Sera when the snake in question first slithered into town, three nights ago now, she was well aware of Blake's descent upon the otherwise delightful City Different, and she was about ready to blow a gasket. Or had been, before she saw the paper. Now, “supernova” might better describe her aunt's combustible attitude, Sera thought.

“Did what?” she asked, gingerly unfolding the paper. It was about a half hour before opening, and she was just getting the shop ready for the influx of Thanksgiving Day customers who'd be wanting to pick up their orders before the store closed early for the holiday. Pauline, who had flatly refused to let Sera do any cooking, had left a turkey in the oven back home and had prepped all the makings for a delectable feast in advance. Hortencia was over at the house making sure pots didn't boil over and getting the place prettied up for the occasion. Tomorrow, with customers in a food coma, Sera would have her first day off since Bliss had opened.

She
also
had a date, formally confirmed, to spend the evening with Asher.

For now, though, she still had four hours of retail chaos to get through. She'd
thought
herself well prepared for any eventuality. Boxes stood at the ready, ribbons all set to wrap them. Cookies, pies, and cakes sat proudly in their cases, waiting to be taken home to a lucky family for the holiday. Her advance orders alone ensured Bliss would be in the black for a spell. She ought to be rejoicing. But when Sera saw what her aunt, trembling with ire, pointed out with one stiff finger, she found herself in no mood for celebration.

It was another article by substitute food writer Marnie Pyle.

She scanned down the page. “Son of a bitch!”

It was ostensibly about Blake's new venture, a swanky new Southwestern fusion affair with appetizers in the $40 range. Ostensibly… until she got to the part where he just “happened” to mention his former protégée. Sera read aloud, her voice rising with outrage.

“A short while! Try four of the longest years of my
life,
” she seethed.

“Look what else he said, that rat fink,” Pauline commanded. Her hands were knotted into gnarled fists atop the counter and her long, wiry hair fairly crackled with outrage.

Sera placed a comforting hand on her aunt's shoulder, then continued reading. Despite her efforts to remain calm, her own voice played the scale of outrage with every sentence.

She flung the paper across the shop. “
Shortcomings!
He's one to talk. The man couldn't boil an egg without an assistant! And that's only his professional shortcomings. Don't get me started on the size of his—”

Friedrich, who'd been wiping the spigots on the already clean espresso machine, coughed sharply. Both women turned to look at the young man they'd practically forgotten was with them in the shop. Blushing, the slight, dark-haired youth mumbled something in the general direction of the brass-fitted machine's innards. It was so unusual to hear him speak that both women stopped, mid-rant.

“What was that? Speak up, kid,” Pauline demanded.

Friedrich swallowed and found his rarely used voice. “I said, it sounds like libel to me. Maybe you should sue.”

“I'll do one better,” Sera vowed. “Get that Pyle woman on the phone, would you, Pauline? I've got a few choice words for that chick.”

In the end, Sera had to settle for arranging an interview for the Monday after Thanksgiving—even the skeletal Miss Pyle, it seemed, took time off for turkey day. The reporter had grudgingly agreed to reinterview Sera, though she'd refused to apologize for printing Blake's words without referring back to their object for comment.
Journalists today,
Sera reflected as she served her last customer and prepared to go home to her own well-deserved dinner.
They'll print any old gossip, never mind the damage they're doing.
She couldn't help wondering if she'd soon see a drop-off in business as a result of what the paper had printed. Certainly, Pauline hadn't done much trade in the back room this morning, but Sera told herself she was being paranoid—Thanksgiving weekend just wasn't the right time, probably, for people to focus on their sexual gratification—they were too busy gratifying their gullets.

That was what Sera told herself—and reassured Pauline—with as much conviction as she could muster. But Blake's opening salvo had her more nervous than she let on. A few innuendos might not be enough to keep people from shopping at Bliss, but who knew what he had planned next? Blake's takedown back in New York had started similarly. And the worst of it was, the article had mentioned he was still in town—intended to stay through the holidays, apparently, to see his new venture through its maiden voyage. He could do a lot of damage in that time.

She'd never been able to figure out exactly why he was so relentless, so ruthless in his pursuit of her downfall, until a former associate had explained it to her after apologetically turning her down for a job.

“Look, Sera. I'd love to hire you,” the burly executive chef at a certain Midtown staple had said to her one afternoon. His ruddy face turned ruddier as he spoke, and he couldn't quite look her in the eye. Instead he fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers that graced the linen-draped two-top he'd invited her to share with him between the lunch and dinner shifts. At least he'd given her the courtesy of an interview—few others in his position had been willing to do as much, as Sera had learned to her chagrin over the months since her showdown with Blake in the Hamptons. “Meltdown at the Maidstone,” they were calling it, or so she'd heard from those few friends whose loyalty she'd managed to retain. Ever since, she'd been pounding the pavement like nobody's business, and getting nothing but doors slammed shut in her face.

“But you're not
going
to hire me, are you?” She'd gulped the tepid water from her glass, wishing it were wine—or hell, a whole flock of Grey Geese—but knowing she was through with all that. Pauline hadn't gotten her into that twelve-step program for nothing, and Sera was clinging to her new sobriety with all ten claws. But at times like these… well, a double vodka would go down pretty smooth. She fiddled with the stem of the glass, daring a glance up at the chef she'd always admired for being a straight shooter as well as a damn good cook.

“No, I'm not,” he said. “You're talented as hell and any kitchen in this city would be lucky to have you—but I'm sorry. I just can't risk it. Chef Austin's put the word out that you're untouchable, and he's got too much clout for me to go against him. He could have health inspectors on my ass. He could get me negatively reviewed. He could pressure my suppliers to stop selling to me. Hell, I once saw him get a fishmonger barred from the Hunts Point Market just for selling his mahimahi to another customer instead of saving it all for one of Blake's restaurants—when Blake didn't even have an order in that day. And that ain't the worst of what Austin's done when he's out for blood. Sorry, Serafina. You're a great pastry chef, but no dessert, no matter how delicious, is worth that kind of grief.”

“I… I don't understand,” Sera had whispered, hating the break in her voice that betrayed her. “Why is he
doing
this?”

“Way I see it, it's pretty simple,” the chef said with a sympathetic grimace. “I know Chef Austin, and that is one bastard who does
not
like to be crossed. I heard all about that day—hell, half the kitchens in Manhattan are
still
buzzing over it—and bad as that whole business was for you, it's been a slap in the face to Austin, too.” At Sera's uncomprehending expression, he explained. “Honey, you're the only woman—hell, the only
person
—who's ever managed to make a fool of Austin. He's a man who expects complete loyalty, blind obedience, and most of all
worship
. Hooking up with another guy, right there in his own domain in front of all his minions, was the ultimate humiliation, even if he would never cop to it in a million years. And when you dared to yell at him afterward, you challenged his rule. You showed spine, if only for a second. He can't have that—his whole reputation is built on being an iron-fisted tyrant. If girlfriends start sassing him, if fellow chefs mutiny, his whole empire could crumble. Or at least, that's how he sees it.”

“That, and he's a total freaking psychopath,” Sera had muttered.

“Yup.” The chef had patted her hand sympathetically. “There's definitely a screw loose with that one—or maybe one that's wound too tight. Dangerous either way. Once Austin locks on to a target, he doesn't stop until it's utterly annihilated. But hey.” He brightened. “Maybe you should try catering. I bet you could fly under the radar, and the money's not bad.” He'd hesitated, calculating. “I could put in a good word for you with a coupla places. I can do that much, at least. But stay away from Blake Austin—seriously, Serafina. The guy's like a pit bull, and I don't wanna see you get mangled.”

Too late.

But a year was long enough for Sera to spend rolling over and showing her belly in submission. It was time to put this rabid dog down.

She still had no idea what she was going to say to the reporter on Monday. She only knew she had to cut Blake off at the knees, before his slanders ruined the fledgling happiness she'd carved out for herself here. But she had all weekend to dream up a scheme, and Pauline had promised to convene the Back Room Babes to help them brainstorm after work on Monday evening. Tonight, she told herself, was for turkey.

And tomorrow, her date with destiny…

If by “destiny,” one meant the scrumptiously fine Asher Wolf.

Y
ou look lovely.”

“I believe that's
my
line, Bliss,” Asher said with a smile.

Sera blushed, wishing her internal censor hadn't chosen tonight to take a hike, allowing her to blurt out her admiration for her new beau like the dork she profoundly didn't want him to know she was.

Asher didn't seem to mind. He leaned in and kissed Sera's cheek, stroking it, as was his wont, with a gentle caress of his fingers. Despite the chill in the air, the inch or so of snow that had fallen over Thanksgiving Day, his hand felt hot to her as he stood in her doorway, tall enough so Sera had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. “I hope you won't mind if I borrow the sentiment back from you. You are stunning this evening.”

“Thank you, Asher,” she said, feeling absurdly formal. In honor of the occasion, she'd worn the earrings he'd given her, along with a forties-style V-neck dress in cherry red that managed to look retro-cute while not being too costume-y. She'd found it in a boutique on Water Street this morning after the belated realization that her regular uniform of jeans and a ratty tee probably wouldn't cut it for tonight's big date. Wrapped in the dress's flattering folds, she was fairly confident she looked her best. She just wasn't sure her “best” put her in the same league with her dashing landlord, who looked effortlessly elegant in a black button-down and black slacks that showed off his lanky frame to mouthwatering effect. He had the peacoat on again, open despite the cold, and she saw that he wore a sharp black corduroy blazer beneath it.

He did say we're doing it up fancy—or at least as fancy as Santa Fe gets. Good thing I
took him seriously.
She'd even dug out a pair of black pumps from deep in her wardrobe, and was glad of the extra couple inches they added to her less-than-towering physique.

“You want to come in?” she asked, gesturing behind her to the living room, where Pauline was doing her unsubtle best to eavesdrop while pretending to point out items from the Ecstasy Emporium's catalog to an indulgent Hortencia.

Asher shook his head. “Normally I'd love to, but I'm afraid we're on a tight schedule.” He waved at the two women on the sofa. “Hello, Pauline. Hello, Hortencia.”

“Heya, studly,” Pauline called out, dropping her pretense of catalog shopping. “You got that little item we talked about?”

“Got it,” Asher called back. “Your aunt's a lifesaver,” he said with a wink for Sera, ignoring the look of alarm she shot in his direction.

Pauline better not have slipped Asher any of her darn sexual aids,
Sera thought darkly. The potential for humiliation was practically limitless.
Then again, if things get hot and heavy, this date is about 99 percent likely to end with me in a state of extreme mortification anyway. Why worry about a few stray sex toys?

Asher had refused to tell Sera where they were going tonight, promising that she'd be well fed and pampered but denying her any details.
My mystery man.
Sera wasn't sure she liked surprises, but if she couldn't trust Asher, whom could she trust?

Trust
yourself
, Sera,
said a voice in her head that was part Margaret, part Pauline, and part finally growing-up Serafina Wilde.

“Are you all set?”

His question jolted her out of her thoughts. “Ready as I'll ever be,” Sera said, giving him a smile that was only half bravado.

“Ohhhhhhh!”

Sera clapped her hand over her mouth, ashamed of the frankly carnal noise she'd just emitted. But seriously, how could she help it?

“This is delicious!” She put down her fork and looked around. “Wait, where are we, and how did I just put such a fantastic piece of food into my mouth without knowing it?”

Asher laughed. “I must be slipping. I can see I've failed to capture your attention.”

Quite the opposite, in fact. Her attention had been
so
focused on her date that she'd failed to notice where he was taking her.

The short journey in Asher's Land Rover from Pauline's place to the restaurant on Canyon Road had passed in something of a blur (caused, in large part, by the kiss her landlord had laid on her just as he was helping her into the car). She remembered being ushered inside a farolito-lit adobe compound that looked like it must be a historic property, then sitting down and folding her napkin in her lap automatically, but she'd barely taken note of their surroundings as the hostess seated them. She'd been too homed in on Asher—his attentive behavior, the hand he'd placed on the small of her back. Now, mouth full of lingering delight from the delicate truffle-infused
amuse bouche
their waiter had started them with, Sera gathered her wandering wits and gazed about her.

Freshly whitewashed adobe walls and gauzy cream draperies gave Sera the impression of having alighted in some ethereal haven, far from the ordinary concerns of life. The high ceilings were graced with discreet fans, stilled now that it was nearly winter. Wall nichos boasted tea lights that flickered romantically, and piñon logs crackled merrily in the kiva fireplace. Stark, modernist art installations and dried floral arrangements lent an embarrassment of elegance to the dining area. It was unlike anything one would see on the New York dining scene, and yet, based on that first fantastic bite Sera had just enjoyed, this place could go head-to-head with some of the top restaurants in Manhattan and come out with nothing to be ashamed of. In fact…

“Oh God, this isn't Blake's new restaurant…” she blurted out.

Asher hastened to reassure her. “This place has been here for years, and believe me, after the other day, I went out of my way to make sure your… ex… had no stake in it.” The way he said “ex,” Sera knew there was much more he would have liked to say—or ask.

“About that, Ash…” Surely, he had to be wondering what she was doing with such a skeevy ex-boyfriend in her not-so-dead-and-buried past. Asher deserved to know the truth—especially if Blake decided to rear his ugly head again. Since Ash was her landlord, anything Blake did to ruin her business could end up having an effect on him, too.
So much for small talk,
Sera thought.
We're headed right for “nasty revelation city” before we've even ordered our main course.
“I don't want to bring up unpleasant business in such a beautiful place,” she said, “but I should probably explain…”

“Bliss.” Asher's hand covered hers, and Sera forced herself to stop straightening the already perfectly aligned silverware that gleamed against the snowy table linen. She dared a glance up, finding Asher's gaze warm and kind—no judgment in evidence. Sera forced her shoulders to relax, willing them down from somewhere in the vicinity of her ears. Asher had never given her reason to fear mockery—unless it was of the gentlest kind. “You don't have to tell me anything, Bliss. You owe me no explanations.”

“But I want to,” Sera demurred. “Remember that night at your house a few weeks ago… how you said you liked what you knew about me, and I told you you didn't know anything at all?”

“How can I forget?” He laughed ruefully. “My lavender bushes still haven't recovered after the way you tore out of the driveway.”

Sera colored. “Yeah, well…” She looked down, hesitating.

“I'm only teasing you, Serafina. Please, continue.”

Hearing her full name coming from his lips stopped Sera short. Somehow it felt even more intimate than his nickname for her. It was an intimacy she desperately feared losing. “I want to tell you about my past, Asher—and there are some things you probably need to know—but I'm scared that after I do, you'll… that you won't…”

“Won't what?” He stroked the back of her hand with featherlight fingers.

“Won't want to be around me anymore,” she whispered. She looked away, blinking rapidly. It was times like these that Sera really regretted not being able to have a glass of wine—or ten—to take the edge off. But she knew that without her sobriety, she'd never have found herself in this moment—this potentially magical moment—with a man as wonderful as Asher. And she knew enough about herself to know that, even if he rejected her, she'd be okay—eventually. She wouldn't need booze to help her get over the heartache. She'd just
want
it a whole lot.

She made herself look up and meet his gaze.

His angry gaze.

Not a
lot
angry, from what she could tell, but definitely a wee bit pissed. Or perhaps exasperated, she wasn't quite sure. All she knew was that his green eyes were shimmering with turbulent emotions, tender and fierce by turns.

“Bliss,” he demanded, “do you think I'm a bad judge of character?”

“What?! No, of course not!”

He cocked his head to one side. “And do I strike you as self-destructive?”

Sera wasn't sure where this was going. “Definitely not,” she said. Asher was the liveliest, most engaged man she had ever met. Nothing about him spoke of dark, twisty bits. Sadness, sure. Heartache, perhaps—in his past. But not in such a way that he would want to harm himself, or make bad choices.

“Then please, do me the courtesy of assuming that I would not ask a lady to dinner if I believed her to be of less than sterling character.”

“Oh,” she whispered.
He thinks I have “sterling character.”
Tears stung her eyes, and tenderness melted her heart.
Remember that mascara, Sera! Keep it together.
“Good point. Sorry about that, Ash. I didn't mean to insult you. I just hope you don't change your mind when I tell you the rest…”

Asher leaned in and kissed the hand he was holding. “After all the lovely qualities I have seen in you, Bliss—your courage, your kindness, your humor—I doubt there's anything you could tell me about your past that would make me turn away from you. I'm not so faint of heart as all that—and you need to know that about me.” His hand tightened around hers, firm and urgent. “You must
trust
that about me, if we're to make a go of what's between us. And, Bliss, I very much want to make a go of things with you. So,” he challenged, “whatever it is, why don't you try me?”

Sera could not deny him. After a speech like that, he could have demanded a kidney, and she'd have handed it over on her great-grandmother's prized silver chafing dish. So she took a deep breath and, in a torrent of words, told Asher everything. How the famous Blake Austin had recruited her, wide-eyed and painfully shy, right out of culinary school. How she'd lost herself under his influence, lost herself even more under the influence of alcohol. How he'd found her wanting, how she'd found the solace of vodka. Sparing nothing, she described the humiliating Meltdown at the Maidstone, Blake's vendetta, and her slow crawl back to respectability in the year since. She left out only Blake's recent comments in the
Chile Paper
this week, not wanting to dump her drama on Asher lest he feel a need to get involved.
Blake is my problem, not Asher's, and I'll be the one to face him down if it comes to that.

Appetizers came and went as Sera spilled her story, Asher refusing the wine list in an act of solidarity she didn't fail to notice.

At length Sera stumbled to a halt. “Anyhow, that's about it. The whole sordid story. My failures, my shortcomings, and the chef-shaped monkey that just won't get off my back.” She stared down at her barely touched plate.
What a waste of foie gras,
she thought, apropos of nothing. She wasn't sure if she felt liberated or nauseated. Or maybe liberation itself was a bit of a queasy thing. It all depended on how Asher reacted.

Her date leaned back in his chair, crossed his long legs at the ankles, and folded his arms across his chest. “I'm disappointed, Bliss.”

“I'm sorry?”
Oh, crap-covered-crap. He's totally disgusted now. We probably won't even make it to dessert. And I so wanted to know how the sweets in this place would stack up to my own…
But it wasn't the potential loss of pastry that had Sera's heart squeezing painfully in her chest.

“I don't see why you should be,” said Asher. He saw her look of confusion and unfolded his arms, reaching forward to touch her again. This time it was her wrist he captured in a gentle vise. “Don't see why you should be
sorry,
that is. I'm only disappointed because, after all that buildup, I expected you to tell me you smothered kittens for a hobby or baked straight razors into your layer cakes.” He shook his head, speaking urgently. “Bliss, from what you've described, you've done nothing to be ashamed of—nothing that you could help anyway—and the things you couldn't help at the time, you've since put to rights as best you could. You've been paying penance for events that happened long ago, and paying far too much, if you ask me. Isn't it time to let them go?”

Sera sighed, turning her hand over in his, tracing her fingers across the jeweler's scars and calluses that marked his sensitive flesh. She'd thought the Blake years were behind her, that she was no longer the sad, messed-up woman she'd once been. Yet when Austin had showed up, he'd brought with him a whole lot of baggage she'd hoped to leave behind forever. Part of her still feared Asher would see her as Blake always had—someone pitiable, flawed. Someone who couldn't satisfy.

“I'm trying,” she said, giving Asher a wobbly smile. “But there are times I still feel… I don't know…
wanting
somehow.”

“Let me tell you something,” said Asher. “That was one deeply petty little man I met the other night. He cannot steal what you possess now.” His grasp tightened. “Bliss, you've got a spirit that shines out, that's so infectious I smile each time I see you coming. That is the woman with whom I want to dine—and not just dine, if I'm fortunate, but laugh, and chase dildo-thieving dogs, and slay my unfortunate shrubbery.
That's
who you are to me, Bliss. Not a failure. Not
wanting.
”