Fed Up Page 2

  “Le Cordon Bleu.”

  One of his eyebrows lifted in surprise.

  “In Paris?”

  “I lived in France for a few years after college graduation. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of my idol, Julia Child.”

  “And yet here you are in this…” He cleared his throat before continuing in a spot-on southern drawl. “This charmin’ backwater Virginia town, of all places, cookin’ for a bad-tempered television actor.”

  The corners of my mouth ticked upward at his self-description. Our eyes met for an instant, and the sudden surge of energy that passed between us caught me off guard. He probably has the same effect on most of the women he meets, I concluded. Certainly, I was not in the category of most women, even though I found that shadow of a beard downright sexy. I was immune to the attention of good-looking men, most of whom were arrogant and self-absorbed. I’d bet he couldn’t pass a reflective surface without glancing at himself. Besides, I was broken, and my heart was sealed shut.

  In only a few minutes my new client had polished off every morsel on his dinner plate.

  I served dessert in a tall-stemmed glass with a sprig of fresh basil for garnish. My granita also received a rave review. In fact, Ian swore tonight’s dinner was the best meal he’d enjoyed in years. I offered myself an imaginary pat on the back as my brain surged with recipe ideas. When it came to my cooking, he hadn’t seen anything yet.

  While I cleaned up and loaded the dishwasher, he sat at the table, nursing another glass of wine and looking over what appeared to be a script.

  “Homework?” I asked innocently.

  A scowl crossed his perfectly symmetrical features.

  “The writing is so miserably bad that we’re getting daily revisions. I have several pages of dialog to learn before tomorrow morning, so I must get back to work.”

  Standing up from the table, he made a formal, sweeping bow.

  “Thank ya kindly, Chef Shelby, for your delicious dinner.” The southern drawl had returned. “Y’all have a good evenin’.”

  He grabbed the script and began walking away.

  “Ian?”

  He turned toward me at the sound of his name, smiling. I wondered how many women would gladly have dropped their panties to be the recipient of that smile.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it. If you need anything in the way of food or drink, write it on the blackboard wall. I’ll also leave my phone number, just in case.”

  He nodded before wandering off to study his lines, taking all the energy in the room with him. My head spun a little, probably from drinking wine on an empty stomach, I assured myself. Everything about my new client was larger than life—his looks, his demeanor and his appetite—but nothing I couldn’t handle.

  ***

  Although the rain had stopped, I took a back-road home to be on the safe side, since I was still a little buzzed. My house was dark when I climbed the back steps because I forgot to leave the outside light on. Once inside, I was greeted by two pair of feline eyes, one bottle green and the other burnished gold. Except for their different eye colors, the cats were identical, both covered in thick, charcoal-gray fur. A few years ago, Jean-Pierre had discovered two kittens shivering and starving underneath a dumpster behind the restaurant. He brought them home, fed them, and made an appointment with the vet for neutering, the required shots, and ear mite treatments. He used to joke that when he wasn’t at the restaurant, his second job was serving as staff for two cats.

  Francoise let out an anguished wail before running into the kitchen ahead of me, where he sat in front of his food bowl, staring at the contents. The bowl was three-quarters full of dry food, but that was not what mattered. Because I had not replenished his food at the prescribed time, I would pay for it by hearing him complain. His brother, Henri, who was quiet and laid-back, pressed himself against my legs, purring so loudly he vibrated.

  Once the cats were fed, I walked back through the open kitchen into the sunroom, where I dropped into Jean-Pierre’s favorite reading chair. The back and seat cushions still carried his body impression, as if he had stepped away and would be returning momentarily. On his rare days off, he used to enjoy sitting and reading, usually a mystery or thriller if he wasn’t poring over a new cookbook. The now-familiar feeling of loss and unspeakable sadness washed over me as I curled up in his seat, resting my head against the well-worn leather.

  Francoise regarded me suspiciously from the rug as he cleaned his paws. Occasionally, he would allow himself to be petted, but for the most part he avoided contact. Jean-Pierre was the only human he cared for.

  Henri jumped into my lap and stared at my face before closing his eyes as he pushed his head into my palm. I stroked his lush coat and rubbed his ears, causing him to purr again.

  I guess I’m a crazy old cat lady now.

  Although I didn’t feel hungry, I knew I needed to eat something. I’d lost weight during the past several months, and if the trend continued, I would acquire the gaunt, hungry-dog look of an underfed supermodel. I moved Henri off my lap, padded into the kitchen, and retrieved a pint of locally made vanilla bean ice cream from the refrigerator. Carrying the small carton of calorie-laden decadence back to J-P’s chair, I dug in with a spoon, pausing long enough to turn on the wall-mounted TV with a remote and setting my cable system to record the current season of Sutherland’s Ghosts. I would look for the first season on Netflix tomorrow.

  Having never been a personal chef, especially not for a celebrity, I wasn’t sure what to make of Ian. He almost seemed more comfortable playing a character than being himself. I was surprised to hear him talk so disparagingly about his TV show, but then I’d never watched it. Could it have been as bad as he claimed?

  Much later, I awakened, slumped in the chair and blinking in the darkness. The empty ice cream carton lay on the floor, where it had been licked clean by the cats. Suppressing a loud yawn, I checked my phone messages one last time before heading upstairs to bed. There were none, so I logged onto Facebook to find out if my daughter had posted anything new. Instead, there was a friend request from Ian James.

  This could be trouble.

  Chapter Two

  Ian

  I had been transported into culinary nirvana for the next few weeks. Having a French-trained chef was a pleasant surprise, far exceeding my expectations. The young man who cooked for me last season was talented, but his food didn’t compare with what I ate last night. If Chef Shelby maintained the quality of her cuisine, I could become quite pudgy by the time we wrapped up location shooting.

  Sitting in the makeup chair this morning while Tasha fussed over my face, my thoughts returned to the delectable meal that Chef had prepared, a far cry from the fried chicken and tasteless potato salad that southerners seem to relish. My mouth watered at the memory of those scallops and butter sauce. In fact, everything about dinner was sheer perfection, including her wine choice, which I stupidly questioned. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  As a man who had spent his professional career pretending to be someone else, I’d made it a lifelong habit to study how people moved and spoke. The way Shelby conducted herself in the kitchen caught my attention. There was an economy of movement in her preparations that suggested both artistry and confidence. Apart from dropping a spoon, which was my fault, every graceful motion that she made had purpose.

  What would bring a chef with her level of talent to this sleepy part of a southern state?

  I guessed her to be around my age, 50-ish, perhaps. The fact that she was exceptionally attractive, with beautiful bone structure and eyes the color of a clear California sky, presented an unexpected bonus. Someone nice to come home to, even if my temporary “home” was nothing more than a bland, antiseptically clean condo.

  I liked her little cat-like smile that appeared when she found something to be amusing. I believed that smile might hide a multitude of secrets, including an undercurrent of sadness I detected in her expression.

  Did we have a moment whe
n our eyes met, or was it merely my imagination? She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, which didn’t necessarily mean anything. Slow down, man, and don’t be such a dolt. You just met her. Besides, you are damaged goods and unfit for any respectable woman.

  “Were you out late last night, Ian?”

  Tasha’s girlish voice transported me back to the moment. She applied compresses to my puffy eyelids, the result of staying up past midnight and finishing the rest of that silky Pinot Noir, which only made my insomnia worse. Every overindulgence, it seemed—including too much wine or not enough sleep—was reflected in my face, one of the many negative side effects of growing older.

  “No, I was a good boy. I stayed home and snuggled in bed.”

  My young colleague moistened her lips with her tongue. She shot me a look that indicated she would have no problem sharing a snuggle, while I pretended not to notice.

  “You’ll have to work a little harder to make this old man camera-ready.”

  Tasha emitted a high-pitched laugh.

  “You’re not old, Ian,” she claimed. “Besides, you’re one of those men who get better looking with age.”

  Ah, the less-than-subtle flattery. There was a time when I would’ve been delighted with her comments. Safe to say I probably would have taken her home for a quick one, but now it didn’t seem worth the effort.

  She could say whatever she liked, but I saw myself aging every time I bothered to glance in a mirror. The lines at the corners of my eyes were more pronounced, I was beginning to get jowly, and my skin was losing firmness. It was suggested that I try Botox, but who wants an actor with no facial expression, and the thought of cosmetic surgery frightened me. I had seen too many Hollywood faces ruined by a botched facelift. Instead, I consoled myself with the fact that I was not yet losing my hair.

  Tasha removed the drape protecting my linen dress shirt and tie. I pushed myself out of the chair and slipped into a deep green frock coat, leaving my hat off until I was needed on set.

  While I waited, I checked phone messages, finding one from my divorce attorney informing me that in another few weeks I would be a free man. Although the relationship was over, the emotional damage Monica inflicted was still a gaping wound. I wasn’t the one who ended our two-year marriage with a public, humiliating affair.

  “Why?” I asked her tearfully when she confessed her infidelity. True, we’d both been working long hours and not spending much time together, but all of that was supposed to change once we wrapped up shooting of our respective shows for the season. Instead, she ditched me and moved in with her Boy Toy after incriminating nude photos of them together appeared online.

  “You’re not exciting enough,” she told me the night she left. “You’re old and stodgy.”

  The tabloid headlines were brutal.

  Dumped!

  Marital Meltdown in Malibu

  Ian James “Gutted” by Wife’s Betrayal

  When I finally extricated myself from the mess, I had vowed I was finished with marriage and emotional commitment.

  I wasted a few more minutes on Twitter before logging onto Facebook, where I found a little something that brightened my morning, despite its bleak beginning.

  Shelby Faith Durand has accepted your friend request. Write on Shelby’s timeline.

  I opted not to write on Shelby’s timeline. Instead, I send her an instant message: What’s on tonight’s menu?

  ***

  This morning, the cast of Sutherland’s Ghosts was on location at Ashland Plantation, an historic-mansion-turned-museum. My first scene was a throw-away. I was required to walk out of the home’s front entrance to meet an approaching horse-drawn carriage, whose passenger was my intended love interest this season. As the widowed patriarch of a fictional TV family, my character had seen his share of girlfriends, although none of them lasted for more than a few episodes. The most recent was killed in a tragic horseback riding accident, forcing me to emote in a scene so badly written that it took every shred of my acting skills to make it sound plausible.

  All I was required to do in this scene was help her out of the carriage. My wool coat was already making me sweat.

  On the first take, Jennifer stumbled while getting out. Take two was ruined when one of the horses urinated, leaving an enormous puddle underneath the carriage that had to be cleaned up before we could continue. The third time truly was a charm, and we completed the brief scene without further mishap. I retreated to my trailer to await my next appearance on camera, where I would meet my youngest “son” in the barn to talk privately about our latest paranormal investigation. My character, John Sutherland, was a respected attorney by day and a subversive ghost hunter at night.

  What a ridiculous way for a grown man to make a living.

  Checking my phone again, I saw a response to my message.

  Braised short ribs, creamy polenta, and tender green beans, served with a full-bodied Syrah, followed by chocolate pot de crème.

  I texted back: I am salivating at the prospect of another excellent dinner.

  The rest of my workday went smoothly enough. After lunch I did a quick read-through of the barn scene with my TV son, played by Tyler Chance, a former Navy SEAL turned actor/hunk du jour, who negotiated top billing. He had muscular shoulders and chiseled abs, not to mention firm skin. I knew this because I had seen most of his body in every episode. Rumor had it that his agent added a clause to his contract that required Tyler to literally lose his shirt each week. Since location shooting began, a steady stream of young, beautiful women had been spotted going in and out of his trailer. He was getting laid so often that I was surprised he could stand up and recite dialog.

  Chance was cocky, brash, and utterly full of himself. When we first met last season to talk over our respective roles, he attempted to lecture me, saying, “Look at it this way, dude, you’re sort of like Gibbs on NCIS. You’re not the leading man and you don’t have the largest role, but all the action revolves around you.”

  Bollocks.

  By the time we finished shooting our pivotal scene, the afternoon light was fading, and our director called it a day. I was back in my trailer, out of makeup and freshly showered, waiting for my driver to deliver me to the condo, when I heard a faint knock at the door, followed by a female voice.

  “May I come in?”

  Jennifer Simmons, my new on-screen love, had shown an unusual interest in my well-being. Today was not the first time she’d asked to meet privately so we could run our lines together. I knew very well what she was after, and I had no interest in becoming her latest conquest, or her arm candy at a high-profile event.

  Reluctantly, I let her in. She was also out of makeup and wardrobe, having changed into tight jeans and a cropped t-shirt that stretched across a pair of large breasts. Honey-blonde hair fell loosely to her shoulders. No doubt she was an attractive woman, but I’d found most actresses to be shallow and self-absorbed. There had to be more than physical beauty to hold my attention. In any case, I had no desire to sleep with her.

  “If you’re not busy, I thought we might grab a bite to eat,” she said, looking me over with an intensity that suggested a predator stalking its prey.

  “Thanks, Jennifer, but I have plans.”

  Plans to go home and stuff my face with more of Chef Shelby’s epicurean delights before going to bed early, and alone.

  “A hot date?” she pouted. “Are you seeing someone?”

  “I’d never say. I’m not a man to kiss and tell.”

  She came nearer and stroked my forearm with one finger, sending an icy chill down my back.

  “You know why I like you, Ian? You’re so old-fashioned. You have manners.”

  “No, I’m just old, I’m afraid.”

  “I appreciate mature men,” she persisted, while staring at my crotch. “They have so much more…experience.”

  My phone vibrated with an alert. I checked my new texts to find that my driver had arrived to rescue me from this uncomfortable moment at precisely
the right time.

  “Got to run or else I’ll be late.”

  I ushered her out the door and climbed into the backseat of a waiting car for the 45-minute drive home, breathing a huge sigh of relief and feeling like a man who had just deflected a shark attack.

  ***

  The succulent aroma of cooked beef drew me into the kitchen of my rented condo, where Chef Shelby stirred something on the stove—her creamy polenta, I surmised, judging from its pale-yellow color and the cloud of steam rising from the pot.

  Not wishing to startle her again, I announced my arrival in a loud voice.

  “Hello there. I’m home from a hard day of pretend paranormal investigating.”

  She turned away from the cooktop, regarding me with an expression of confusion before removing her ear buds. Despite standing near the burner flame, my chef appeared calm and composed in her usual habitat. I, on the other hand, was damp and wilted from the oppressive heat, even in the air-conditioned room.

  “Oh, hi,” she said. “I forgot for a second. You’re not a ghost-chaser, but you play one on TV.”

  The feline smile returned. Pausing for a moment, I took in the sight of her, graceful and completely at ease in her natural environment. Chef Shelby’s silver hair was pulled back into a long, low ponytail. She wore a t-shirt and capris accessorized with a pair of blue plastic clogs. Her immaculate chef’s apron featured a whimsical pattern of multicolored kitchen whisks.

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  I lapsed into the southern accent I had cultivated for my current role.

  Shelby opened the oven door, removed a large covered pot, and placed it on a wooden cutting board.

  “Want to take a peek?” she asked.

  I moved closer and she lifted the lid off a Dutch oven. I looked inside, where meaty ribs simmered in a fragrant tomato and wine sauce. My mouth watered in anticipation.