In the wake of Nigel Hitchens’ article, Athena kept a low profile, spending most of her time at the inn or the farm. She kept expecting somebody else to pop out of the woodwork to interrupt her life, set her back again. Though, she’d ultimately handled the whole critic situation with more resilience than she’d have managed without Logan to lean on. He’d been right. She didn’t really want to be a part of the haute cuisine world anymore. She hated the needless pretension and the automatic assumption of classism that went along with it. Cooking for real people, normal people had given her more pleasure than she’d expected. Since she’d taken over the breakfast service at the inn, it had become something of a personal challenge to elevate humble ingredients to something more, something memorable. The end result had delighted guests and generated some good reviews for the inn. She’d contributed little enough to the family business since they’d started it last year, so it felt good to manage that much.
And yet that little voice calling her a failure, a nobody, still lingered in the back of her mind. She’d meant every word of what she’d said to Logan that night. That desperate desire for redemption ate up huge chunks of her days and dark hours of the night. She loved that he had faith that she’d figure out how to do that without capitulating and playing the game she’d been navigating for more years than she wanted to remember. She just wished she had that kind of confidence in herself.
“How’s that béchamel coming, kiddo?”
“Nearly done,” Ari reported.
Athena peered over her shoulder and made a few mental estimations on how much time she had, then began filling the crepes for their last guest of the morning. Some fresh bacon from the farm, crisped and crumbled with a nice melty brie and some apricot preserves. She folded and plated the crepes and held them out for Ari to ladle sauce over.
“Just a touch more than a drizzle. We don’t want to drown them. Good. Now toss on some of those scallions you chopped earlier.”
“These smell awesome.”
“I’ll plate up some for us while you take these out to our guest. Once we’re done cleaning up, I’ll take you on out to the farm.”
“Awesome!” Ari slipped off her apron and scooped up the plate, taking it through the swinging door and on into the dining room.
Athena made up a second set of crepes for each of them, finishing the dishes off with Ari’s béchamel—it was a damned fine effort—then perching on one of the barstools at the counter to cut in. She closed her eyes, savoring each distinct flavor on her tongue. The sweet of the preserves perfectly balanced the salt from the bacon, and the whole thing was mellowed out by the brie. The subtle afternotes of scallion and creamy béchamel were just enough to leave a hint of interest that made her want more. This. This was lovely. Simple and unexpected. She’d have to add this one to the recipe development file she’d started.
Ari hadn’t come back by the time she finished her crepe. Athena figured she was either chatting up the guest, as she often did being the consummate innkeepers’ daughter, or she’d headed upstairs to change. Popping the remaining crepe into the oven on warm, she began the cleanup. Some people hated dishes. Certainly, she’d been through a stretch where she had. But washing up, putting things to rights, had become its own form of moving meditation. At least so long as it wasn’t in the middle of service. It was mindless and easy and gave her time to think.
No matter what horrible stuff had driven her back to Tennessee, had kept her here, Athena couldn’t regret it. Logan had been right about that, too. She had found something more valuable than what she’d left behind. She’d found her love of food again. Reconnected with the joy of cooking. And in all truth, she couldn’t have done that anywhere else. She had a feeling Logan was very much at the center of that. He was another of those valuable things she’d found. Alone in the kitchen, she could admit to herself that her reluctance to put herself out there, to figure out the next big thing, was as much to do with him as with fear of having her fall from grace in the foodie community confirmed.
Ari swung back through the door.
“Your crepe is in the oven.”
The girl’s hands were knit together and she wouldn’t quite meet Athena’s eyes.
“What is it?”
“The guest would like to talk to you.”
Athena tensed but kept her tone even. “Is there a problem with the food?”
The big, dark eyes darted up, hopeful. “I don’t think so. He’s really excited.” Then her gaze skittered away again.
Cursing herself for giving Ari any reason to worry about backlash from her, Athena squeezed her shoulder. “I’ll go see what he wants.”
She left her apron on, most comfortable with at least some of the armor of her trade. And it was armor. She strode into the dining room braced for battle, wondering who’d snuck into her quiet world now.
“I’m Chef Reynolds. You wanted to see me?”
The guy was all smiles, white teeth flashing in a tanned, curiously unlined face, though she pegged his age as older than he actually looked. Botox probably. Or maybe a face lift. He had California written all over him. That didn’t put her at ease.
Mr. California held out a hand. “I’m Brock Archer. I just had to meet the chef behind these fantastic crepes.”
Accepting his enthusiastic handshake, she relaxed just a fraction. “I’m glad you enjoyed them, Mr. Archer.”
“Sit for a minute. And please, call me Brock.”
She didn’t want to sit. She wanted to go back to her kitchen, but no matter what kind of a douchecanoe Jayson had been, he hadn’t been wrong about being nice to the customers. So she slid into the chair across from him.
Brock beamed. “I ate at Olympus the year it opened. Absolutely life-altering. You are a seriously talented woman, Chef Reynolds. I was delighted to find out you were still here.”
Her back went up again. What was she supposed to say to that? Apparently nothing because he leaned back in his chair and continued.
“I’m just gonna be a little nosy and ask: What is it you plan to do next? Are you opening a restaurant here? Will your family be expanding the inn?”
Ah, here was the trap. Was he a critic? He didn’t have the vibe and seemed far too full of praise to fit that mold. So what was his angle? Realizing she had to give some kind of response, she hedged, “I’m still evaluating my options.”
“Excellent! Then let me offer you another one. I’ve already been on the phone with my colleagues in L.A. and they’re completely on board.”
“On board with what?”
“We want to offer you a show.”
Athena blinked, sure she hadn’t heard him right. “Excuse me?”
“We want to put you on SizzleTV.”
SizzleTV. One of the big competitors to the Food Network and Cooking Channel. Their hallmark was cooking competitions, showing the best of the best sweating it out, Thunderdome-style.
“As a competitor?”
“No—although that could be absolutely awesome and would be a good way to introduce you—” He whipped out his phone and typed something into it. “No, we want to offer you your own show.”
“My own show,” she repeated. Was she being punked? Was there a camera crew out in the hall waiting for the Gotcha! moment?
“Yes! We think you’d be fabulous. We want you to fly out to L.A.—our expense—to shoot a pilot episode. If the powers that be like it—and we have no doubt that they will—you will be the next SizzleTV star.”
Athena’s brain felt like congealed polenta. “I’m sorry, I know I’m a little slow here, but…you want to put me on TV?”
“We do.” He rambled on about timing and production schedules and a lot of details Athena didn’t catch.
She’d never even considered television. In truth, she had no idea whether she’d be any good at it. She wasn’t what anyone could call congenial. But the idea of her own show, of something that could finally, truly focus on the food—food that would, hopefully, be stuff normal people would want to and be able to cook—that was exactly what she was looking for.
“What do you say?”
She’d wanted a new direction, some way to use her skills and earn back her reputation. Logan had said to think of something outside the box. This definitely fit the bill.
Mom, what was it you used to say? When one door closes, somebody opens a window?
Sucking in a breath, Athena offered Brock a tentative smile. “I guess I’m going to Los Angeles.”
The sight of Athena’s little car coming down the drive pulled Logan in from the fields. Bo and Peep streaked across the field in front of the ATV, black and white blurs through the green. They were already dancing around the front of the car as he parked by the house. Athena and Ari climbed out.
“Well, there are my two favorite girls.” He sensed the tension between them before the words even made it out of his mouth. “Y’all want some tea or lemonade?” Maybe if he got them inside, he could get to the bottom of whatever that was and diffuse the situation.
Ari glanced from Athena to him, a frown tugging the corners of her mouth. “I’m gonna head on to the stable.”
Well, all right then.
The taciturn routine wasn’t like her. Worry draped over her like a wet blanket, squelching her usual bubbly nature. Did that mean there was something he needed to worry about too or was this some lingering awkwardness between her and Athena from the incident on game night?
If Athena registered Ari’s mood, she gave no indication. Striding over, she rose to her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to his in a smacking kiss. “Hey, handsome. Got a little time? I want to talk to you about something.”
With another glance at her niece’s retreating back, he nodded. “I can make some.”
Grateful for a break from the rising heat of the day, he led her back to the kitchen.
“Do I want to know what all that was about?”
Athena shrugged. “Moody teenager is moody.”
“Did y’all have a falling out?”
“Not exactly. That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about. Let’s get something to drink, and I’ll tell you about it.”
While he poured a couple glasses of lemonade, she grabbed dog biscuits from the jar on the counter—biscuits she’d baked herself—and put Bo and Peep through their paces. Sit. Stay. Shake. Lay down. Roll over. At the end of it, the pair of them gobbled up the biscuits and pressed against her legs in adoration.
“Okay, okay. I love y’all, too. Let me sit.”
Curling into a chair at the table, she wrapped her hands around the glass, trailing one finger through the condensation. One leg bounced and her eyes fairly sparkled. Something was definitely up.
“Okay, spill it. What’s going on?”
Her lips curved into a grin. “You said if I waited long enough, something would work itself out. You were right.”
The smile invited him to join in the good news, but dread began to curl in his gut instead. He blanked his face, retreating to clinical distance for the discussion because he had a feeling he was gonna hate where this was going. “Oh?”
“This wasn’t even on my radar as a possibility, but I got contacted by an exec with SizzleTV today. They want to give me my own cooking show.”
It wasn’t what he’d been expecting. He’d thought it would be maybe a job offer taking her to New York or Boston or some other big metropolis as head chef to…somewhere. But he wasn’t sure this was any better. “A cooking show?”
He listened. Thanks to his clinical training he was a hell of a good listener. But his mind spun with implications and questions as she told him what she knew, which, by his estimation, wasn’t nearly enough.
“Anyway, I’m flying out to L.A. tomorrow. I’ll be meeting with execs and filming the pilot episode.” She all but vibrated with excitement, which made him feel like an asshole for bursting her bubble. But one of them had to be responsible here.
“Don’t you think this is awfully fast? What do you know about this guy? This company?”
“The guy checks out. Maggie’s heard of him. And I know SizzleTV is the biggest competition the Food Network has. A show with them would go a helluva long way to eradicating the damage from that video. This is my shot at redemption, Logan. At rebuilding my professional reputation. At being somebody again.”
Who did she think she was now?
He shook his head. “I thought you’d made so much progress since you got home, but ever since that asshole critic was here, you’ve been reverting to old patterns. This is just more regression.”
The excitement in her expression chilled and hardened. “Excuse me? Regression? Old patterns? Progress? Are you psychoanalyzing me, Logan?”
Was he? Damned straight. “Yeah. Because right now, you need it.”
He’d promised himself he wouldn’t do this with her, but he had to make her see reason. “If you go out there, if you do this show, it’s just gonna be a whole other set of pretentious assholes. Except instead of food critics and the like, it’ll be network execs and the money men and whoever the hell else who’s going to end up telling you what to do and how to do it. You won’t have control. It won’t be about the food, and you’ll hate it. Haven’t you learned anything these past few months?”
“This is for my own good, right? Because I wouldn’t know that, and never mind what I actually want, what I’m telling you I want.” She stared at him with a mix of disgust and fear that curdled his gut.
But she couldn’t mean what she was saying. She couldn’t have thought it through because that meant she was okay with leaving Tennessee, leaving her family. Leaving him.
Panic made the wheels of his brain slow and stutter as he tried to figure out how to deescalate the situation.
“Have you been trying to head shrink me this whole time?” she demanded.
No sense in lying now. “It’s part of my training. It’s not like I turn it off like a light switch. It doesn’t change anything.” The moment he said it, he knew he’d fucked up. The energy in the room seemed to suck toward her, gathering for what he knew would be an explosion. But hell, he was in it now.
“Doesn’t change anything?” The hiss of her voice was low and dangerous. “How can you say that? You’ve spent all this time watching and analyzing everything I say, everything I do and figuring out how to handle me.” Her voice rose in volume with every word, until the dogs flinched. A momentary flash of contrition crossed her features as she reached out a hand to soothe them both.
“It’s how I deal with everybody. It’s called getting to know you and being respectful of who you are.”
Her gray eyes went to slits. “Is that supposed to make this better?”
Yeah, he wasn’t even gonna get into that. “You’re veering off-topic here. We’re talking about L.A. and why this isn’t a good idea.”
“There’s not a ‘we’ here, Logan.” Her words struck him like bullets. “You’re the only one who doesn’t think it’s a good idea.”
Ari clearly didn’t think it was a good idea either, but he wasn’t going to bring her into the discussion. “Because it’s not going to make you happy.” Couldn’t she see that?
Athena crossed her arms, the picture of belligerence. “And you’re the expert on that?”
What the hell did she think he’d been doing since she came back to Eden’s Ridge? As his own temper rose, his grip on that careful impartiality began to slide. “I’d say I’ve done a pretty fucking good job of it up to now.”
Her nostrils flared. “I don’t have the luxury to make decisions purely around what makes me happy. I have a financial responsibility to take care of my father.”
“Stop using your dad as an excuse and own up to how much of this is about soothing your damaged ego.”
Her head kicked back as if he’d slapped her, but he couldn’t stop now. He had to make her see.
“You’ve said over and over again how you want to prove yourself. But who the hell are you proving yourself to, Athena? What does the adulation of a bunch of total strangers actually get you? What the hell good is it when everything and everybody else you care about, who cares about you, is here?”
Feeling the shift again, he braced for the explosion. It came in the form of her hands slapping the table. Then she gripped it, hard enough her knuckles pressed white against the skin of those scarred, capable hands. “Everybody who cares about me understands that I deserve this chance.” Her chair screeched across the wide-planked floors as she shoved up. “I was meant for bigger things than a small-town life. I’m not going to hold myself back because of fear—mine or yours.”
She started to walk out and panic blasted through his anger like lightning. If she went out to California, he’d lose her.
“You’ll hate it.” His words had her hesitating at the threshold, so he spit out the rest of it, fueled by frustration and fear. “You’ll hate it, and you’ll blame them, blame circumstances, blame anybody else but yourself for making that choice. Make a different one, Athena.”
He saw the barbs strike home in the way her spine snapped straight.
Sometimes the truth hurts. He hated to be the one to do it. But maybe now they could talk about this openly, honestly. Even if it was at top volume. He’d take a raging fight over nothing at all.
But Athena didn’t turn. She didn’t fire back with the fury he’d expected. Her words, when she spoke, were low and measured. “This is the only choice I’ve got.”
Without another word she walked out of his kitchen and, he suspected, out of his life.