Love On The Line

LOVE ON THE LINE

By Kimberly Kincaid

Copyright © 2013 by Kimberly Kincaid

All rights reserved.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writing is truly a collaborative effort, and this story simply wouldn’t exist without the following people, to whom I owe infinite gratitude and cookies for life. Maureen Walters and
Elizabeth Radin, at Curtis Brown, who came up with the original game plan and cheered me on from start to finish. Alyssa Alexander, Tracy Brogan and Jennifer McQuiston, your fast reads, steadfast friendship and unwavering belief in happily ever after carry me through every project. Robin Covington and Avery Flynn, you make every day feel like Friday with your encouragement and feedback (and man candy). Amanda Usen and Kieran Kramer, your willingness to give this newbie advice is appreciated far more than you know. Chris Kulak, Jeff Romeo, and Dana Carroll, who never, ever blink when I say things like, “I need to shoot my hero”, your medical guidance and expertise made this story possible. Any mistakes are purely mine, while all the knowledge is purely yours. Robin Gansle, of Robin Gansle Photography, who patiently and brilliantly came up with the cover, I am also forever in your debt.

             
To my daughters, who put up with my weird hours and spotty appearances at the dinner table while this story was being written, and my amazing husband, who is my real-life happily ever after. I couldn’t have written a single word without your love and support. You guys are stuck with me.

             
And lastly, to you, dear reader. Without you, none of this would be possible.

CHAPTER ONE

“Somebody needs to call the police, because that looks so good, it’s got to be against the law.”

The accusation was accompanied by the sharp click of a six-burner Viking range being snapped to silence and the clatter of professional-grade cutlery on Italian marble countertops.             

“I guess I don’t need to ask whether or not you think your guests will approve.” Violet Morgan leaned in toward the oversized pan of paella her client Tessa had just helped finish preparing, inhaling the exotic scents of saffron and smoked paprika steaming up through Tessa’s  kitchen. Okay, so it was a bit of a departure from the average, stuffy business dinner menu. But then again, if Violet had wanted average, she’d have stayed on the restaurant circuit.

              And if she’d wanted stuffy, she’d have stayed with her last boyfriend.

             
“Are you kidding?” Tessa said, her heels clacking an elegant riot on the kitchen tile as she moved through the well-appointed space. “It smells like sin on a dish, and I’ll bet it tastes even better. Forget approval. They are going to lose their minds.”

             
Violet shook her head, grinning as she adjusted the brightly patterned scarf holding her mop of light brown hair at bay. “I would say thank you, but I really can’t take any credit for this. You did all the cooking.”

She looped a kitchen towel around each palm, the muscles in her arms squeezing tight as she moved the pan to the warming tray in front of her before starting to tidy the work space on the island. Part of the deal as a personal chef was leaving the client’s kitchen exactly the way you found it when the cooking was done, no matter how hands-on said client had been during preparations. Not that Violet minded the cleanup. It was more than a fair trade for actually
having clients who wanted to cook with her rather than swap a bunch of boxed-up meals for a check and a thanks-have-a-nice-night.

Plus, having a work space to clean up translated to actually having a client, and Violet had been rocking way too many holes in her day planner for comfort lately.

Tessa scoffed, yanking Violet back to the here-and-now of the lavish kitchen as her friend wiped her hands on the food-smudged dish towel looped through her apron. “Oh please. Four months ago, I didn’t even know rice from rutabagas, and tonight you coached me through making dinner for eight. You’re the one with the magic, darling.”

             
“Ah, but I’m just the messenger. It’s the food that’s magic.” Violet returned her attention to the paella, and God, it really had turned out gorgeous. “See the satiny yellow the saffron gives the rice? It’s so lush and beautiful, it’s practically lunar. When you put it against the savory pops of dark red from the chorizo and the more delicate touches from the seafood, the whole thing just comes together like a culinary tapestry. It’s perfect.”

Tessa laughed, unthreading the apron from around her waist. “Only you would say it like that, my friend.”

Confusion made Violet blink. “Say it like what?”

“Like it’s poetry, not dinner.”

“But a really good meal is both,” Violet said, scooping up two tasting forks from their spot on the honey-colored butcher block. She passed one to Tessa, using the other to dip into the paella. “Think of it this way. They’re both personal and intimate. And if they’re done right, both of them can make you feel good enough to swoon.”

She took one last look at the forkful of scallops and rice before closing her lips over the tines, not even bothering to pull up on her sigh as the flavors sizzled and popped on her tongue.

Oh yeah. This was poetry.

Tessa leaned an elbow on the counter, taking a taste for herself. After a blissful moan, she conceded. “Okay, you win. Now what kind of wine goes with poetry…I mean paella? I need to loosen up these prospective clients so we can work out the deal of the year, here.”

Violet finished her bite, pushing up the sleeves of her bright orange chef’s jacket as she followed Tessa toward the wine rack on the far wall of the kitchen. “Deal of the year, huh? Sounds major.”

“I’m the only interior designer in
Brentsville who specializes in high-end commercial jobs. According to my clients, every deal is major.” Tessa’s call-it-like-you-see-it moxie clipped the words nice and tight, even over her wry smile. “So red or white? What do you think?”

“I think if you want to loosen them up, you need to slow down,” Violet said over a laugh. She loved her job too, but getting so serious and go-go-go about it? It couldn’t be healthy. “Why don’t you try red
and
white, so it’s more personal. Then your guests can choose their favorite.”

“Brilliant, as usual. I assume you have a suggestion for each?”

“Of course.” She let her eyes skim the wine rack, cruising first for the red. “Pinot noir is nice and supple, but not so full-bodied it will overpower the food. Definitely a good pick.”

Tessa nodded, plucking two bottles from the shelf. “How about the white, then?” she asked, gesturing to the adjacent section that housed the lighter wines.

“Mmm, I may be biased here, but I’d go with a Napa Valley Chardonnay.” She slid a green-gold bottle from the shelf and handed it over. “This one is full-fleshed and not too sweet, with a succulent mouth-feel. It’s really well-balanced, yet there’s this hint of decadence to it. It’s one of my favorites.”

The Chardonnay was a little ballsy with paella, sure, but wasn’t that the point? No sense in taking half-measures with something as personal as food.

Violet released a tiny sigh at how the wine and the meal would surely come together with success, realizing just a breath too late that Tessa was staring at her with a catlike smile. 

“What?” Violet surreptitiously pressed her lips together, swiping her tongue over her teeth. Nope, nothing there. She brushed a hand over her cheek. “Do I have paella stuck to my face or something?” God, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d gotten so caught up in the food that it landed on her face. How embarrassing.

“Oh, no.” Tessa reached into the wine rack to gather one more bottle of Chardonnay, but Violet could feel her friend’s focus still on the conversation rather than the task at hand. “It’s just that now I get the feeling we’ve moved from poetry to sex.”

Violet fiddled with the bottom hem of her jacket, twisting an errant orange thread around her finger before pulling it free with an efficient snap. “That would require actually having sex, Tess. An area in which I am sadly deficient at the moment.”

After her last debacle in the dating department, it didn’t really seem worth it. Especially since it felt like every guy on the market wanted to rush through the bedroom like most potential clients wanted to rush through the kitchen.

“Tell me about it. I swear good men are at a massive premium these days.” Tessa’s eyes flashed in thought, and she headed back through the kitchen to the eight-bottle wine fridge standing sentry on her counter. “Maybe you should stick around for this dinner meeting. Two of my clients are young and single. Very ambitious.”

Violet tamped down her wince, but barely. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass. The last thing I need is some guy who’s drowning in his career, especially when I’m having a hard enough time trying to drown in my own.”

The flash in Tessa’s eyes morphed into concern. “You’re kidding. With how incredible you are with food, I can’t believe your schedule isn’t slammed.”

Violet’s kitchen clogs squeaked to a stop in front of the sink, and she pulled in the kind of deep breath that would make her yoga instructor beam with pride. Although she had a handful of clients who wanted the full experience like Tessa, most people looking for a personal chef just wanted someone to drop everything off, pre-made and labeled so all they had to do was warm it up and scarf it down. No muss, no fuss, and nothing
personal
about it, thank you very much.

“Thanks, Tess. I wish every client wanted to take the same time with it as you.” Violet ran the water, testing the warm stream with the back of one wrist before filling the sink with a wistful smile. “But until more people do, you’re stuck with me.”

The muffled chime of Violet’s cell phone sounded off from her bag by the door, cutting off whatever smart response Tessa had almost certainly been working up, and Violet’s brow punched down in confusion. She only had the thing because her brother Jason had made such relentless fun of her for being a dinosaur, and even though she’d bought it just to hush him up, half the time she forgot to bring it with her. The other half, she ignored its existence in her bag, and usually, it returned the favor by ignoring her right back.

So who on earth would be calling her on it?

Tessa’s eyes flicked over Violet’s belongings, which continued to make an unholy racket from across the room. “Do you need to get that?” she asked, but Violet shook the question off.

“It’s probably a wrong number. And anyway, I’m working.” This was exactly why she hadn’t wanted a cell phone in the first place. Too many people glued to their various gadgets when they should be having real conversations instead.

But still the phone kept ringing, the sound burrowing in Violet’s ears.

“That is one insistent wrong number. Why don’t I grab it for you?” Tessa tipped her head at the sink, where Violet was currently up her elbows in a spray of bubbles, scrubbing a wooden spoon.

“Suit yourself. But if it’s a vacuum salesman, I’m going to say I told you so.”

Tessa crossed the room, unearthing the still-ringing phone from the side pocket of Violet’s bright blue hobo bag, and was it her imagination, or did the stupid thing actually sound pissed? “It’s a
Brentsville number. Are you sure you don’t have a local guy on the side you’re not giving me the dish on?”

Before Violet could pop off a deserving reply, Tessa had the phone between her shoulder and her ear, grinning all the way. “Violet Morgan’s phone.”

For a minute, the only sound in the kitchen was the soft swish of water, and it brought with it the sense of even, soothing calm that Violet always found around food.

And then Tessa shattered everything Violet knew about calm as she held out the phone and said in a shaky voice, “Violet, it’s your brother. He’s at
Brentsville Memorial. You need to get there right away.”