Page 7 of Next Season

“Oh, my God, yes! Switch tables with me, please. I heard he was in town, but I haven’t seen him yet, and wow, he’s hotter in person.”

“He ordered tuna on rye. Gah! I love tuna on rye and…”

I tuned out the chatter and concentrated on my flour-to-fat ratio. I supposed I could have added salad to his plate or maybe stopped by his table to suggest another lunch idea because…tuna salad again? But no. I stayed put, ignoring the strong urge to check on him. Was he still wearing sunglasses and sitting away from the window? Was he feeling any better?

Mon Dieu, why should I care?

Riley was not a monkey in my zoo. I could not worry about him. It was bad enough that I saw or heard about him every day. In a town where I could rely on running into the same people in the same places, his ubiquitous presence was jarring.

Two interesting facts aboutmoi: Number one, as head chef and self-appointed culinary master of Elmwood, I spent ninety-five percent of my time in the kitchen. That meant I rarely saw customers unless I specifically made an effort to say hello. Number two, I hated saying hello. Or as Nolan called it…schmoozing.

Sure, I was a friendly guy, but I didn’t want tohaveto be nice—if that made sense. In spite of my admittedly heavy-handed approach with Riley and his burger the other day, it wasn’t my style to pump patrons for compliments. Either you liked your meal or you didn’t. I didn’t need a dissertation. If I made it, I knew it was delicious. If you didn’t like it, you probably had bad taste.

And I definitely didn’t inquire after the health and well-being of handsome strangers when I was vaguely concerned that my interest had something to do with his striking gray eyes and chiseled jaw. Steering clear of the dining room was wise and no doubt, he’d be off to Seattle by the weekend.

Friday, Riley was still here and still ordering tuna on rye.

Saturday…well, that was my limit.

I took one look at the order sheet and threw my hands in the air. I grumbled a stream of obscenities as I marched out of the kitchen, making a beeline for the hockey man hiding behind dark glasses, his face buried in his cell phone.

“Again with zee tuna. Why?”

Riley glanced up with a start. “Um…excuse me?”

“It’s not healthy to eat the same thing every day. It’s bad for your digestion.”

“Am I going to get mercury poisoning?” he asked, pulling his glasses off.

I scoffed. “From my kitchen? Never. You would have to eat three cans of tuna every day for months on end, and that isn’t going to happen. But you could die from the boredom of eating the same thing every day and if I am responsible for that, I will be very angry. So…choose something else.”

“I like tuna.”

“No one likes tuna that much.” I crossed my arms and glowered. “Allez, what else do you like?”

Riley’s lips twisted in amusement. “I like a lot of things. Turkey, ham, BLTs…”

“Okay. I’ll bring you my version of a club sandwich. You will love it.”

“Thanks, but I really just want the tuna,” he replied, grabbing my wrist as I turned.

I sighed theatrically. “Have it your way. One boring tuna on rye coming up.”

His eyes lit with humor. “It’s the least boring tuna I’ve ever had. It’s freaking amazing. Kudos to the chef.”

“Thank you,” I deadpanned. “I will be back. French fries and a salad, yes?”

“Just the fries, please.”

“Hmm. One more thing. How is the light in here?”

“Uh…what?”

I gestured to the Ray-Bans he was currently tapping against the table. “Are your eyes still sensitive?”

“Yeah.” He set the sunglasses onto his nose. “It’s getting better, but the headaches can be brutal and they’re worse in the morning for some reason. I’m slowly turning into a vampire.”

“Welcome to the club. I’ve been a vampire for years. I think I’m allergic to mornings now.”