Taste: A Love Story (3 page)

“Stupid douche bag.”

That was all Logan heard as he set his coffee down and rounded the bar toward the front of the restaurant.

His sister, Makenna Rye Conroy, her long brown hair pulled into a knot, shouldered through the front door. Her muck boots told him she’d already been to the farm, most likely to help their father feed. The woman did more before noon than most people did all day. She was typing a message on her phone with one hand and in her arms she balanced a water bottle, folders, her purse, three large pieces of leather, and a pair of tennis shoes. She resembled a game of Jenga, and Logan wasn’t sure if he should touch anything for fear it would all come tumbling down. She anchored one hip on the closest barstool, thumbing her phone and still holding everything.

“Did you want to me to take some of that, or am I the douche bag?”

Nothing, just more thumbing and a large exhale of breath.

“Kenna.” He tried again to get her attention as he locked the front door.

“Hmm?” She finally dropped the contents of her arms on the bar in front of her. “Oh shit. Sorry.” Realizing she’d put shoes on the clean bar, she moved them to the stool next to her, set her phone down, and turned to Logan.

“Rough morning?” he asked.

“No more than usual, why?”

“Well, you have what looks like”—he leaned forward and touched the glob on the shoulder of her black sweater—“chewed up . . . cracker, maybe?”

Kenna examined her shoulder, pulling the arm of her sweater forward to get a better look. “Oh yeah, Paige didn’t want to go to day care this morning. There’s some kid on the afternoon-session kindergarten bus who she finds, wait for it, ‘intolerable.’” Kenna let out the tired laugh of a single mom in love with every detail about her daughter. “Can you believe she actually used that word?” She shook her head and grabbed a napkin off the bar to remove the glob. “We stopped at McDonald’s on the way in. Did you know they still have animal crackers?”

“Do you feel any guilt feeding your daughter fast-food when your brother owns a restaurant?”

“Nope.” Makenna looked at her phone again.

“Well, you should. Do you have any idea what the fast-food industry has done to our society? All it does is foster substandard—”

Makenna covered his mouth with the hand not zipping through her phone. “Shhh”—she set her phone down again—“no one wants to hear from your soapbox this early in the morning.”

Logan stuck his tongue out and Makenna immediately dropped her hand, wiping it on her jeans.

“Eww, you’re gross and still, like, five years old.”

Logan laughed. “So, who’s the douche bag?”

“Huh? Oh, right. This,” she picked up her phone and began frantically trying to get something on the screen. “This douche bag left a review for us on Yelp and I quote, ‘the waitresses are hot, but their onion rings,’ spelled T-H-E-R-E, ‘sucked. They were cold.’ Frowny face.”

“We don’t have onion rings.” Logan leaned over to look at her phone.

“I know. If you read the rest of this moron’s misspelled review, it’s clear he’s talking about The Yard House. You know, the sports bar?”

Logan was confused.

“Please tell me you know what The Yard House is?”

“Of course I do. I’m just confused why we got their review. And are their waitresses really hot?”

Makenna hit his arm and Logan laughed.

“I have no idea, nor do I care. What I care about is that this review brought down our rating. I hate Yelp. There’s no damn filter. Any idiot can go on there and leave crap. I’m okay with the legit ones if you don’t like the food or the place was dirty, but if you’re going to say our onion rings suck and give us one star, could you fucking make sure we serve onion rings?”

Logan said nothing. She’d been his sister for thirty years; he knew when to sit back and let her rant.

“Sorry, it’s just that people use these sites, Logan. Some might even pass on giving us a try based on stars or forks or whatever. I e-mailed Yelp’s technical support, but Lord knows how long that will take. It’s the name. People are searching Yard House and stop at The Yard.”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do about that. They should correct it eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it’s not good to have this out there. We already have the one from last month. Remember the creepy toothless guy who left us one star and said he hated that we took over the lumber yard because he used to ‘cop a squat’ under the awning to keep himself and his grocery cart out of the rain?”

Logan laughed. “I loved that one. It’s printed and up on my fridge at home. Made me almost want to build another awning somewhere. I’m still wondering how a homeless guy got to a computer and if he did, why would he take the time?”

Makenna’s face was stone. “One star, Logan. We can’t afford one-star anything at this point.”

He sighed. Never in a million years when he was busting his ass at Margot’s in Seattle and dreaming of his own place did he think these would be the things he would be dealing with. “I know, but we can only do so much. According to Summer—”

“Which one’s Summer again?”

“The hostess, curly hair,” he said.

She nodded.

“Anyway, Summer told me some woman was leaving last night and commented that she loved the food, thought the place was great, but our white napkins left lint all over her black pants. We’re never going to please everyone, Kenna. We have to let some of this shit go.”

“Able to let that one go were ya? How long did it take you to order the black napkins?” Makenna’s thumb paused midair over her phone as she raised her eyebrows at Logan.

“Last night,” he sighed and dropped his head to the bar. He told himself all the way home he didn’t care that his napkins were white, but by the time he crawled into bed, he’d convinced himself the lady had a point, got back out of bed, and ordered the damn things.

“Yeah, that whole Zen, let-it-be shit only works when you’re watching the sunset and even then only until the phone rings. That’s why monks don’t run restaurants.”

“I suppose that’s true.” Logan finished his last sip of coffee.

“I’ll follow up.” Makenna walked behind the bar and pour herself a large Coke. “Both of these reviews need to be taken down. I’m on it. All part of the job.”

“Breakfast of champions?” He pointed to her drink.

“You know it.” She held her glass up in a toast.

Logan shook his head.

“Fine, I’ll add some fruit.” She grabbed a few cherries and a straw. Taking a very long sip, she closed her eyes in pleasure and was instantly energized, ready to go.

Watching his sister spring to life, Logan thought maybe he should ditch the coffee and return to the Mountain Dew of his college years.

“So, what are the fires today?” she asked and he handed her a page from his yellow pad.

Bringing Makenna on board was one of the best business decisions he’d ever made. She had the Rye family drive and she loved spreadsheets and numbers, all the parts he hated.

“We’ve got the senator’s volunteer thing Wednesday night, unless they cancelled? Please tell me they didn’t cancel.” She started adding the items on his list to her own longer one.

“Nope, still on.”

Makenna let out a sigh. “Thank God. That’s going to be huge. Lots of people who haven’t tried us yet, and because it’s volunteers, it won’t only be hoity-toities. Real people will be there too.”

Logan laughed. “What does that mean?”

“It means the normal, eating-out population will be represented. We like them.”

“And what about the senator’s crowd?”

“Eh, they’re good too. I mean an eater is an eater, but they’re usually more trouble than they’re worth. Shitty tippers.”

“Wow, isn’t that some kind of profiling?”

“Sure is.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“Just calling ’em like I see ’em. I need to put this stuff away.” She stood and loaded her arms again. “I have to go prepare myself before our new server shows up and starts complaining about how she needs more hours.” Kenna rolled her eyes.

“I probably don’t pay you enough,” Logan called after her.

She threw her head back as she retreated into the kitchen, pushing through the large door. “Truth, the man speaks the truth!”

Logan laughed, wiped down the bar, and turned on the overhead speakers. Fallout Boy’s “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark (Light Em Up)” filled the restaurant. Travis would be there in about twenty minutes. Logan hummed the lyrics as thundering drums spilled into the dining area. He turned on the front lights and opened the screens to the patio. By the time the lead singer howled the chorus for the last time, he had some great ideas for the senator’s event. He would serve their brisket and ask Travis his thoughts on which sides should go with it. By the end of the day, Logan hoped to have the menu for the senator’s event nailed down and any thoughts about the senator’s daughter pushed back where they belonged.

Chapter Three

K
ara was on the Rose Bowl loop track by 5:30 Wednesday morning, her
Kick My Own Ass
playlist paused and ready as she stretched and adjusted her laces. It was a clear, but chilly September morning. A group of cyclists passed and she pulled her sleeves over her thumbs, squeezed the play button on her headphones, and set out to clear her cluttered mind.

As she closed in on mile one, he was still in the forefront of her thoughts. From the pictures and interviews she had read when The Yard first opened, Logan was bigger now and even more sure of himself than he was back then. The memory of the first time she’d laid eyes on him would no longer stay where she willed it and burst forward as mile two approached.

They had been paired up as partners at the Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris. They were both UCLA students and had never met before, but there they were in white aprons at a classroom table thousands of miles away from home. It was strange how things happened.

“Logan Rye,” he’d said, extending his hand with an ease Kara called “campus causal.” She had noticed it when she arrived at UCLA her freshman year. The walk, the talk, the way people greeted one another—it was something she didn’t have much exposure to in her eighteen years prior to college. Sure, her brother, Grady, had an ease about him, but it was still a bit studied, a bit calculated. It came from growing up as they had, in a fishbowl. After being at UCLA for two or three days, Kara learned there were people who carried themselves as if no one was watching because, well, no one was. It was heady and she loved it, at least from afar.

So, thousands of miles away from school and into her junior year, Logan Rye was that ease, that comfort. She shook his hand and noticed immediately that it was large, warm, and callused. Not a lot of artistic guys, working with food or otherwise, had callused hands. As she quickly glanced up at him, she realized Logan didn’t look like the typical artist by a long shot. Even then, he presented more like a farmer than a budding chef.

“Winnie, Winnie Parker,” she had replied. She no longer tripped over her introduction because she’d practiced it enough in the mirror. Although, Kara was still working on remembering to turn around when someone called out, “Winnie.”

“Winnie, great. Nice to meet you.” Logan opened his folder. “Do you have a lot of cooking experience?”

“No, first time in a cooking class. I’ve watched our family’s cook—” Kara caught herself. “Cooking shows, my family watches a lot of cooking shows, but that’s about it. How about you?”

“I’ve worked in a restaurant since freshman year of high school, picked up some things here and there, but I’m looking forward to some formal training.”

Kara smiled. She wasn’t sure what else to say or who she should be at that point.

“Of course, I can’t understand most of what Madame Auclair is saying, even though I’m pretty sure it’s English.” He laughed, but quickly stopped when Madame Auclair cleared her throat and walked past their table.

Kara gestured to the proper place on the handout. They were going over the basics of their cooking tool set. Each student was given one and they were at “paring knife basics.” Logan noticed where her finger pointed and nodded. Kara momentarily forgot her notations were in French. She found it easier to stick with one language when abroad, but realized they would be of no use to her partner.

“Wait, you speak French?” Logan asked before she could figure out whether or not she needed to hide that detail too.

She nodded, focusing on the knife grip Madame Auclair was demonstrating at the front of the class.

“Huh, that’s cool.” Logan grabbed his knife, holding it exactly right on the first try as if it was second nature. He began slicing in that rocking motion. He may not have looked like an artist, but the movement of his hands was a bit mesmerizing.

Kara had the grip, but the rhythm was different. It felt a bit odd because she’d always thought of chopping as up and down. Logan reached over, molded his hand over hers, and steadied her movement.

Now approaching mile three, Kara could still remember the moment he touched her, the minute her heart jumped in her chest like that of a child running to the window for a better look.

People rarely got close enough to touch Kara—certainly not some guy she had just met. She didn’t know what to do back then, so she let go of the knife and it clanked loudly against the steel workstation. Logan laughed and returned his eyes to the handout propped up in front of them.

“Have you taken French for a while now?”

“Since junior high,” Kara answered, leaving out the part that she also had a nanny growing up who spoke French and tutored her. “I don’t speak it much anymore, but it does come in handy here.” She smiled at him.

“Yeah, I’m sure it does, it being Paris and all.” Logan’s mouth curved into a grin she recognized as both sarcastic and sexy.

Their conversations continued like that—simple and uncomplicated—for a few days. They became partners, learned to work well together, and Kara found herself relaxed around him. Paris became this place where she could be someone else. She grew to love Winnie Parker, until—

Sweat dripped past her cap and into her face. Kara turned up her music, pushed through mile four, and kept going. The track was only 3.2 miles and she would normally be past done by now, but today she was running it twice. She could feel her breath control slipping, and her calves burned. This, she thought, was the reason she ran. The harder she pushed, the more she gave, and the fainter the memory. All she had to do was push and the feelings would disappear, too. If she focused on her feet hitting the pavement, she would forget about the other memories now clamoring to the top, all because she allowed one in. The day they spent in Montmartre, falafel, and the absolute unexpected freedom of kissing a boy at sunset. She had loved herself in Paris and was certain she had fallen in love with Logan. Everything made sense there . . . but then suddenly nothing made sense at all. Nothing seemed fair. That’s when Kara became an adult and realized the limits of her life: what she could and couldn’t have.