Taste: A Love Story (17 page)

“It makes what I do sound . . . simple, childish. Children are optimistic. It’s hard enough getting people to see that growing their own food, knowing where their food comes from, is not some backwoods, hillbilly agenda. That good nourishing food, humane food, is basic. It’s a simple, basic right.”

“I said all of that. I used more quotes in this first piece than I’ve ever used. Partly because I’m not quite sure what you’re always talking about.”

He caught the joke but didn’t smile. Kara looked concerned, and it wasn’t that he disliked the article. It was well written, but as he continued to flip from the first page of her article to the second page, back and forth, back and forth. The words “optimistic” and “hometown” popped out at him like too much balsamic vinegar. Too syrupy and sort of like a novelty; here today and gone tomorrow. Maybe these were his own issues, nerves, or whatever. He’d never had something so in-depth written about him, his home, and what he believed in. There on paper it just felt odd and a bit foolish.

“And what’s this ‘Logan Rye not only grows his food, but he has recently learned the value of foraging’?”

“What is wrong with that? You have. I’m not sure why you are getting so worked up. The article was well received. The
Times
loves the tone. Logan, it’s just a peek into you and what you believe in as a chef and a man. It wasn’t meant to be all-inclusive.”

Kara seemed a little offended, so he backed off and by his second piece of pizza he decided all publicity was good for the restaurant. Kenna was thrilled, so he needed to relax.

“It’s not your article. Your writing is fantastic; I guess I’m not into all of this. I do what I do. It makes sense to me, and yeah it’s how I think the entire country should eat. We’d be better for it, but reading this. I don’t know, it makes me sound . . .”

“Like a different kind of guy, with a unique ‘optimistic’ vision for the world. A man who works hard, not only growing food, but also making delicious meals? That is who you are. If you wanted my article to paint you as some cool, mainstream, food-off-a-truck chef, I’m sorry. You’re not that guy.”

“Food-off-a-truck chef,” he repeated and laughed. Sometimes she surprised him with her one-liners. No other woman made him laugh like she did, except maybe Kenna, but he was often the butt of her jokes. “That’s a good one. I might need to keep that for myself on the days when I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to keep this all together. I still hate the word ‘optimistic’.”

Kara shook her head. “It means someone who thinks all things are possible. Like it or not, that is you, Logan. At least when it comes to food.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked because her comment seemed like a departure from the current conversation, like she was about to launch another “feelings” question his way without warning.

“Exactly what I said. You’re a little jaded in other areas of your life, but when it comes to food, you’re inspiring.”

“Well, it’s hard to have much else when I’m living at this place. Were you looking for me to inspire you, Kara?”

She laughed. “No, I’m fine, but thanks for that offer.”

“You sure?” He leaned across the table and touched her hand.

He liked debating with her, tossing things around. He felt better and she was back to playful. It was nice having someone to talk with. Oh, who was he kidding? It wasn’t just having
someone
, it was nice having her, watching her defend her work and then brag about him until he felt pretty damn badass even with the Peter Pan word. He cared about her and with the exception of that one moment the other night, things were light, fun. Just the way he needed them to stay.

“Never been more certain in my entire life. Back up, farm boy.”

He didn’t move, held her hand.

“There’s something about the way you say that.” He stood and moved to her side of the table. He could feel her nervous energy as the game played on.

“Is that so?” She met his eyes. Damn, the woman could go from sweet to dangerous in seconds.

“Conjures up all sorts of fantasies—farm boy and uptight princess. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Oh yeah,” she moaned and he knew it was for his benefit. Logan felt the game turn in her favor. She slid off her stool until their bodies were touching. The bar was pretty crowded; no one was watching and he noticed Kara didn’t even look. Progress, he thought. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into her, but when she ran her hand up the buttons of his shirt, he instantly felt like a damn teenage boy. “Were you thinking we could . . . take a roll in the hay? For old time’s sake?” she whispered in his ear.

No question, she was screwing with him once again, but he still couldn’t resist. He cleared his throat to make sure he didn’t squeak his answer like a sissy, as Garrett would have instructed.

“Princess, just say the word,” was his response. Short, cool, he thought it was well played until her hand snaked around to his ass.

Kara patted him as if he were a toy, her toy. Then she picked up her purse and patted him on the shoulder. “There you go being optimistic again, farm boy.” She flashed him a not-on-your-life smile and walked out of his restaurant. Her clicking heels carried away his favorite pair of legs and her own ass, which looked to be getting bigger and healthier. He grinned, shook his head at her through the bar window as she passed to the parking lot, and then he laughed all the way back to the kitchen.

Chapter Fourteen

T
he morning before Thanksgiving, the
Pasadena Tribune
ran a story featuring a picture of Kara dancing with Logan at the Fall Festival. The article questioned how she could be objective when she was “clearly in a relationship with the owner of The Yard.” Her feature had only been out a week, barely enough time to be proud before the vultures swooped in. She should have been outraged, hurt, insulted, but instead she was simply reminded of the world she lived in and prepared to give Olivia her resignation. That didn’t happen. When she got to work that morning, Olivia pulled her into her office and closed the door. “Those fucks! You just ignore these morons, honey. I’ve already spoken to Harold and he could give two shits about their piece. I mean, it’s a clear grab at attaching themselves to your great feature, and it will backfire.”

Kara didn’t often cry, and never in public, not since 1995 when she was photographed with ugly-cry face at a veteran’s memorial service. But if she had allowed herself to cry, it would have been right there in Olivia’s office. Her embarrassment and humiliation at being called a fluff had all come rushing forward as soon as Olivia offered her shoulder, but Kara kept it together. She thanked her and turned to leave.

“Oh, and if you are sleeping with that delicious man, honey, more power to you.”

Kara laughed.

“At some point you have to ignore the haters or they’ll eat your soul,” Olivia added as Kara walked out.

She was pretty sure they’d already reached her soul, and long before the Pasadena Tribune food section jumped into the ring. For the rest of the day she worked on the second Logan article and tried to put the
Tribune
out of her mind, even though her phone didn’t stop vibrating. She eventually threw it in her purse. She’d promised Logan “no fluff,” and yet there the two of them were, splashed all over some other paper as just that. Kara made tea, called Jake for one of his famous talks, and by the end of the day she had silenced the voices in her head telling her she’d never be good enough.

“Did you see this?” Makenna asked, walking up to Logan while he was waiting for Travis to give him a side of fennel salad to complete the order for table twelve.

“I really hate when you start a conversation that way.” Logan eyed the order tickets clipped in front of him.

“Yeah, I know, and I was waiting for you to have a break, but I don’t think it’s coming, so look at this.” She held the newspaper in front of his face.

“Whoa, get that out of here unless you want to spend some quality time with the health department next week. Just let me,” he paused as Travis handed him the salad, “finish these next two and I’ll meet you at the bar. Go try and cheer Sage up. She’s still pissed she lost the Halloween cocktail contest again.”

“But—”

“Go away, Kenna.” Logan leaned around her. “Drop the pizza for seventeen, Matt. And what the hell is taking so long on the potatoes for eleven?” He returned to the rhythm of his work. Everything else could wait.

Makenna huffed and left the kitchen.

After about an hour and some words with their apprentice, Todd, who was now sporting a blue streak in his already too-long bangs, Logan entered the bar area, looking for Makenna. She normally sat at the bar and talked with Sage, but it was packed, so she was at one of the tables by the window with her face in her laptop. He grabbed some coffee from Sage and sat across from his sister. Her fingers were typing frantically. She said nothing and pushed the newspaper across the table to him. It was the
Pasadena Tribune
, their food section. The headline read
Malendar Plays Favorites
and below the headline was a picture of him dancing with Kara at the Fall Festival.

“What the hell is this?” Logan asked.

At the sound of his voice, Makenna finally stopped typing.

“Read it.” She returned to her laptop.

“After the glowing praise Ms. Malendar, food critic for the
Los Angeles Times
, received for her first of three feature articles on Logan Rye, it seems clear objectivity is not her primary concern,” Logan read. “While the article was engaging and we mean to take nothing away from Mr. Rye or his accomplishments, one has to wonder how Malendar can write anything more than a fluff piece when she’s so clearly ‘involved’ with the subject matter.”

Logan set the paper down and ran a hand over his face. His eyes burned.

“So, there you have it. Great publicity one minute and God only knows what now.”

“This is bullshit. Anyone who reads this will see it for exactly what it is.”

“And what is it, Logan?” she asked. “Because we’re all in this. We all have something to lose here.”

Logan took a deep breath and reminded himself this was not important; this was a stupid article that would be gone as quickly as it arrived. Negative energy and he would not let it piss him off.

“The feature the
Times
ran last week was great. People have mentioned it, hell you framed it and hung it on the damn wall.” He pointed to the article near the bar. “It was, and still is, a good thing for us. This”—he flicked the paper—“this is trash and it’s not going to affect what we do here.”

Makenna shook her head. “I sure as hell hope you’re right, because I know I say it all the time, but everything has to be better than perfect at this phase of the game.”

“I know, and I’m getting as close to perfect as I can.” He touched her hand. “Now, I’ve got to get back to work, so throw that crap out. Go pick up my niece, bring her some real food for dinner, and get some sleep, you look like shit.”

Makenna laughed and wiped under her eye with her middle finger letting Logan know she was his number one fan, sort of. He popped his towel at her and went back to the kitchen.

Part of his job was to manage and keep an even head. That was what he’d tried to do with his sister, but as he rounded the corner into the back room, his heart was racing. He wasn’t all that concerned about the
Tribune
article. Few people read the food section for anything more than reviews, even fewer read past the stars indicating good, better, best. Logan had agreed to the
LA Times
piece at Makenna’s urging, but he’d never thought it would have a sink or soar effect on their restaurant either way. So, this new article wasn’t that big of a deal for him, but it was for Kara. It’s not like they were really “involved” as the article stated, but he knew her well enough to be humiliated for her. He believed in his work and if anyone took issue with the quality of his job . . . well he’d spent most of his life making sure that never happened. He wondered if he should call her, but what would he say? Then Travis called him to the window and the next time he looked up, it was closing time.

Chapter Fifteen

S
enator Malendar and his family worked the lunchtime shift at the St. Christopher Homeless Shelter on Thanksgiving morning. As expected, Kara and Grady were there being dutiful children. Grady brought Kate, his fiancée, with him. Kara liked her—she saw that Kate was good for her brother. He deserved someone, she thought, smiling at the two of them as the family emerged for a brief meeting with the press. Kara stood tall in dark slacks and a raspberry sweater. She found her focal point, a traffic sign, to keep her gaze “up and interested” as her mother had trained her. Her father fielded questions, her mother flashed a toothy grin, and Grady held Kate’s hand. They were almost done; Kara had just started thinking about cranberry sauce, when the question zinged past her ear.

“Senator, any comments on your daughter’s relationship with Logan Rye?”

Kara’s eyes moved away from the safety of her traffic sign to Grady who shook his head in disgust. She had told her parents about the article and assured them it was not a big deal, but standing there, unable to leave without looking like she actually had something to hide, it suddenly felt like a big deal.