Sideways Read online

  Esme had attacked her brother’s values. Had Thomas told her about their family secret?

  She had so many questions.

  She hadn’t like Esme from the get-go. There had been a calculated hardness in her gaze when they’d first met. But Tracy had let her reservations slide—she was naturally suspicious—because Fairy Tale Beginnings had matched them. And she had complete faith in her app.

  She paced the uneven dirt area, her Tiffany bracelet sliding over her arm, charms tinkling against each other as she fought the urge to run her fingers through her hair.

  “Can I have them call you back at this number?” A note in Ashley’s voice set Tracy’s alarm sensors blaring. Leaks weren’t unheard of and while this was only the beginnings of a scandal, a dumb one at that, Ashley wouldn’t be the first aide to try to cash in with the tabloids. Her father vetted his staff very carefully but sometimes his employees couldn’t resist the lure of making money by selling Thayer family details.

  Her family had been a subject of media interest for years. It was tiring—but an inexorable fact of her life.

  A Help Wanted sign in fancy script rested in the front window. Waitressing in rural Vermont. She sighed. That would certainly be an easier life than her complicated tangle right now.

  “I’ll call back later.”

  She jabbed the button on her phone to hang up and then swore creatively. “Dammit. You should have known this would happen. You big dummy.”

  She mentally took it back. That wasn’t her. She was always positive and upbeat, even when the world was on fire.

  2

  Colt

  Colton Vega shifted uncomfortably in the booth at the Speakeasy Taproom and wished he were anyplace else on earth.

  Nope, he took that back. He never wanted to work in a kitchen again—which is what his two old friends from culinary school were trying to convince him to do.

  He was an asshole.

  “Come on, Colt,” Phoebe Stevens wheedled. She had recently relocated to Colebury and was the current head chef at the Speakeasy.

  “We need you,” Audrey Shipley chimed in. She’d come here a few years ago after finishing culinary school, met a local farmer and cider maker, and left Boston for the boonies of Vermont.

  He leaned back in the rustic booth and raised an eyebrow at the two of them with a mixture of disbelief, annoyance, and yes, affection. “This town is lousy with high-quality chefs. You don’t need me.”

  “I’m already swamped,” Phoebe said. “And now that we’re planning to expand and use the upstairs for events, we need a catering chef.”

  His stomach grinded. He hadn’t stepped foot back in a kitchen since he’d had a complete meltdown on live television almost a year ago.

  They really didn’t know what they were asking. Or maybe they did…but still.

  “Alec is hiring a catering manager. You won’t have to interact with anyone. You just need to come in on event day and cook.”

  Alec Rossi, Audrey’s brother-in-law, was part owner and a stand-up guy. On the surface it sounded easy. Just cook.

  But there were so many emotions mixed in with going back into the kitchen. Feelings he never wanted to have again. Stress and addiction and hurting people he loved were all tangled up in the simple act of going back into the kitchen and cooking.

  “I can’t.”

  He hated the look of disappointment on their faces. Phoebe and Audrey wore similar expressions both determined and sweet.

  “I really do appreciate everything you’ve done for me.” He didn’t want either of them to think he was ungrateful. He wasn’t.

  “Good friends look out for each other,” Audrey said. “You would do the same for me.”

  But he knew that wasn’t true. Colt’s gaze shot around the renovated old mill building. The rough-hewn wood floors, brick walls, and old post and beam ceilings had a casual charm that was homey and eclectic.

  The menu mimicked the atmosphere. Casual, hip, and not trendy but full of interesting and unusual flavor combinations. Phoebe had outdone herself but he expected nothing less than perfection from her. She’d been a successful chef in New York, working toward opening her own restaurant until her boyfriend and business partner had taken her idea and dumped her in public. The entire horrible moment had been caught on someone’s phone, been posted on social media, and went viral.

  Her situation was embarrassing, no question. But she hadn’t hurt anyone. Not like Colt.

  “Which is why we,” Audrey and Phoebe glanced at each other, then Audrey continued, “think getting back into the kitchen would be good for you.”

  He hated to let his friends down but going back into the kitchen was a bad idea.

  “Hell, no.” Just thinking about working in a kitchen again made him crave a hit of nicotine and a shot of Lagavulin 16.

  He couldn’t go back to the way he was in his past. He’d hurt everyone he loved.

  “This wouldn’t be like before.”

  He snorted. “You don’t know that.”

  “I know you. You are a brilliant chef.” Audrey patted his hand.

  Some days he wasn’t even sure he knew himself. So he wasn’t sure how Audrey could be so sure.

  She’d said “you are a brilliant chef.” Maybe at one time he had been, but not now.

  “Maybe I was.” He no longer cooked anything other than scrambled eggs. It was safer for everyone if it stayed that way.

  “You could do this in your sleep,” Audrey said. “I found a permanent home here and I just want you to do the same.”

  His only goal right now was to stay healthy. Beyond that his life’s desire involved not having goals. He never wanted to get back on that treadmill of long days and blind ambition.

  “Today we’ll just enjoy a yummy lunch with friends. Take a few days to think about it.” Phoebe smiled. “I want you guys to try this new grilled cheese on the menu. The duck confit really makes it.”

  He might not cook anymore, but he still loved to eat. “Bring it on.”

  They let their pleas drop. Thank God.

  A woman who looked like she’d come straight from shopping on Newbury Street made her way into the Speakeasy and sat at the high-top table behind them. Her clothes were the city version of casual and nowhere near what people in the country considered appropriate. Her blond hair was styled into a perfect shiny bob that framed her heart-shaped face, with high aristocratic cheekbones and plump lips that were pressed into a flat line.

  Her nails matched the lipstick on her unsmiling mouth as she perused the menu. A tiny frown crinkled her perfectly crimped dark blond eyebrows.

  Colt was unaccountably annoyed by the rich woman. He’d heard her on the way in, swearing at someone on the phone. Although it had been PG rated, her tone had been one of pure disgust. She was every white girl with an entitled attitude.

  “What’s wrong?” Phoebe studied him.

  “The customer behind you annoys me.” He didn’t keep his voice down and the woman’s startled gaze lifted to his. Her eyes were a brilliant cobalt blue. Dark like the perfect Maine blueberries that he’d used in his seared pork loin with a blueberry and mustard barbeque sauce. That dish had catapulted him into a James Beard award winner.

  Her perfect pink lips formed an O and her brows lifted. She gave him a sunny smile. For a moment her warmth spread over him and he wanted to bask in her approval.

  But he shoved away that desire for acceptance.

  Heading down that path, looking for validation from others, would only lead to misery and disaster. She represented every wealthy patron he’d curried favor from in his quest to become a world-renowned premier chef. And he was self-aware enough to realize that when he lashed out at her he was really lashing out at himself—at least, his former self.

  Besides, he didn’t want or need her approval.

  He studied her slender form and perfect appearance. She was probably like every constantly-on-a-diet woman who came into his restaurant and wanted to change his creatio
ns. Back then he’d been considered amusingly temperamental, so patrons put up with his mini rants about changing the flavors and composition of a dish and destroying the chef’s vision.

  Why go to a gourmet restaurant if you weren’t going to eat the food the way the chef intended it to be eaten?

  He could feel his temper rising, but he forced himself to relax and let it go.

  Then he said to Audrey and Phoebe, “See, I’d be terrible at it. I’m already getting annoyed with customers and having to hold back from berating them.” But that wasn’t the only reason. The hoppy scent of Phoebe’s Goldenpour IPA hit his nose. His mouth watered and he eyed the caramel liquid.

  “You want a taste?” Phoebe had noticed his interest. “The Giltmaker family brews this.” They were among the partners who owned the Speakeasy along with Griff, Audrey’s husband, Alec Rossi, and Alec’s uncle, Otto.

  Maybe he could just have a sip.

  And maybe he’d be headed to rehab.

  Besides, his drink of choice had been Lagavulin. It had started with one glass at the end of the night to rewind after a sixteen-hour day.

  But a few years in, he’d been starting the evening dinner shift with a glass of wine that turned into a bottle or two by the time the night was over. Then he’d move on to scotch. At that point, he’d be too hammered to appreciate the gorgeous amber color and the smoky peat flavor.

  “Nah, I’m good.” His friends had no idea that he’d been abusing alcohol. He’d had a strict no-drugs policy at his restaurants. Cocaine was common among the restaurant crowd, but he’d known enough people who had drug problems to ban it. That truth had been a crutch he’d used to justify his drinking—at least I’m not doing cocaine.

  That intense pressure had decimated his life. His quest to achieve perfection had almost killed him and destroyed not only his career, but his life and family.

  He never wanted to go back into the kitchen and risk his family and friends again.

  Tracy

  What a quaint little place.

  Tracy sat at a high-top table on a tall stool and admired the brick walls, the twinkly lights and the mismatched antique lamps hanging from the ceiling. It was a far cry from Ostra, where she ate last Friday night with friends, with its throngs of waitstaff and artistic food presented with a theatrical flourish in an avant-garde atmosphere.

  The rustic interior of the Speakeasy had a certain charm.

  Except for the grumpy guy at the next table, who for some unknown reason didn’t seem to like her, everyone had been friendly.

  Tracy studied the three people at the table in front of her. Speculating about strangers was better than worrying about her own problems.

  Two women and a man. She watched their body language, unable to turn off the neuroscience analytics that convinced her to develop a dating app. Their body language was all wrong. Definitely not lovers. Or even wanna-be lovers. No romantic vibes from them at all.

  Friends?

  Their friendly demeanor with the waitress indicated locals.

  The two women had their backs to her. The guy was directly in her field of vision.

  He was gorgeous in that hot Latino way with an innate sensuality in his movements, but an unexpected guardedness surrounded him like a shroud. His dark brown hair, swept away from his face revealing cheekbones to die for and heavy-lashed dark brown eyes, brushed the back of his neck. Even in jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt, he looked like he belonged on the set of a romantic comedy or a movie with deep emotion and an everlasting love rather than in the rustic bar at the end of the world or, you know, the back of woods Vermont.

  If she wasn’t mistaken, he’d recently quit smoking. She recognized the signs. Every time the women spoke, he patted his pocket. Looking for a cigarette, she’d bet.

  She was so caught up in her study she didn’t even hear the waitress arrive.

  “Hi, I’m Anne. What can I get you?”

  “Oh!” Tracy skimmed over the menu again. “I’ll take the pulled pork grilled cheese, but without the bread. Oh, and does that cherry barbeque sauce have flour in it? I know typically they don’t, but can you check? And if it does then just leave it off.”

  The waitress scribbled furiously on one of those little order pads that flipped pages. Tracy hadn’t seen an order pad like that in years. Except when she went to the diner in Cambridge with her business pals, the Billionaire Breakfast Club.

  “Anything else?” She was practically rolling her eyes at Tracy.

  She wasn’t about to explain her dietary issues to the girl so she smiled tightly. “That’ll do it.” She handed the printed menu paper back to the girl.

  Tracy could feel the server’s frustration with her. Didn’t people here have food allergies?

  “Is that a Tiffany bracelet?” The waitress’s eyes lit up, a turquoise glow close to the signature color of a Tiffany box and nearly the same color as the yin and yang charm on her platinum bracelet.

  “Umm, yes.”

  “Oh. Em. Gee.”

  Not a common thing around here?

  “I’ve only seen pictures on the internet,” the waitress said wistfully. She reached out a finger as if to touch and then pulled it back. “Oops sorry!”

  “It’s all good.” One thing Tracy had gotten used to was strangers touching her. She’d been doing campaign appearances and other media junkets with her family for years. It was amazing how being in the public sphere seemed to embolden people to do things they would never do with an anonymous stranger.

  “I’m in love with high fashion. I’m a fashion design major at Moo U.” Then she laughed.

  Moo U?

  Tracy’s confusion must have been obvious. The fact that she wasn’t able to conceal her thoughts meant she was far more tired than she thought. She’d been trained since preschool to always have a pleasant expression on her face and never let her true feelings show.

  “Local university in Burlington,” the waitress said.

  “Ah.” Tracy had to wonder what kind of fashion jobs were in very farm-centric, sparsely populated, rural Vermont.

  The waitress seemed to read her mind again. “Right? I’ll probably just come back here and work. Maybe I’ll convince the Speakeasy owners to spruce up the waitstaff outfits.” She gestured to her jeans and black T-shirt with Speakeasy across the chest. “Let me get your order in to the kitchen.”

  She watched another waitress deliver plates to a couple a few tables over. The food looked appetizing and the smells coming from the kitchen were heavenly.

  Tracy smiled again and then tuned out the hot, angry guy and went online to read the news. Her stomach cramped at the negative headlines.

  Young political candidate blasted by former fiancée, she cites dating app for presenting false information. Heiress bilks singles with elitist dating app. Up and coming politician deemed liar by ex-fiancée.

  The verbiage got more and more vitriolic as she scrolled down the list. She was so intent on the articles that she barely noted as the waitress brought her non-sandwich and then walked away.

  But as soon as Tracy looked at the plate, she realized there was an issue.

  She raised her hand to get the girl’s attention. Tracy waved her down and smiled brilliantly. “I need to send this back.”

  “Oh, did I mess up?”

  Tracy said firmly, “I requested no bread.”

  The guy at the table behind her snorted.

  “Oh, right. You told me that. I’m so sorry. I’ll be right back.”

  Tracy’s stomach growled as she handed her plate back to the waitress. Fortunately the place wasn’t too busy. “You know, you should consider putting your Twitter and Instagram and Facebook social media handles on the menu. Or a QR code so people can easily access your profiles.”

  The girl blinked at her. “Uh, sure.”

  “So customers can document their time here. Share how fabulous the place is. It’s free advertising from your customers.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”r />
  Tracy kept the smile on her face. She was a Thayer, after all. But she wasn’t used to people ignoring her advice. Just in case, she repeated the no bread and no flour in the sauce request.

  The hot guy glared at her as she repeated the modification on her order. What the heck crawled up his butt?

  “I’ll get this fixed right away,” the waitress said.

  “Thanks so much.”

  The waitress scurried away, and Tracy caught his gaze again.

  Did he look familiar?

  Shit. She couldn’t afford to be recognized here. Based on the articles she’d been reading, the press was definitely looking for her. “Tracy Thayer, apparent designer of the app and default princess of the political family, could not be reached for comment. Multiple messages left for her were not returned.”

  Tracy chanced one more look at him. And he commented snidely, “Maybe you should just head to the kitchen and make your own.”

  The comment was not at all what she expected. The relief that rolled through her expelled in a laugh. She had no idea how to cook. She could scramble eggs and make sandwiches and cook burgers and toss a salad. But that was it. She ate out most of the time.

  “I’d be in there all day. And nothing would taste as good as what the chef makes.”

  He blinked as if her good humor had taken him aback. Likely he was expecting a different response. But dealing with animosity was Customer Service 101. She could be friendly and agreeable in her sleep.

  He nodded. “Enjoy your lunch. The chef here is fantastic.”

  “Aww, thanks, Colt,” one of the women at the table said. “That’s high praise coming from you.”

  So apparently his grumpiness didn’t extend to his friends. Just to strangers one table over. She wasn’t quite sure why he felt the need to be such a curmudgeon. Or why her order apparently offended him, but she shrugged off the weird hurt.

  And resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at him.