Francesca surveyed the bottles of wine in the cellar of the Chateau Felicity wine cellar. She had no idea which to select, given she had no clue what Aidan intended for the menu. They were closed on Monday, so by the end of the day, he’d have to produce his selections so that the menu could be printed and wine pairings selected prior to dinner service tomorrow.
She supposed she should seek him out and discuss a plan, but she was giving herself a moment of childish avoidance. She was still embarrassed that he overheard her statement about him yesterday.
Felicity had given her a stern talking to and a warning to be nice to their savior. Francesca didn’t quite see it that way. To her, he was a roadblock to her goals. Surely, her sister could have found some other chef—any other chef—to fill in for a few weeks. Someone straight out of culinary school was preferable to Aidan. Someone who would defer to her suggestions rather than want to showboat his own menu choices.
Footsteps on the stairs caught her attention, and she turned to find the man in question standing at the bottom of the steps as if she’d summoned him with her thoughts. If only she were that powerful. He was dressed casually in black chef pants and a gray chef shirt. Simple, yet striking on him. Aidan’s bicep muscles bulged from the short sleeves and his broad shoulders stretched the fabric across his chest. For a moment, Francesca forgot how to breathe. The room certainly had gotten smaller since he’d entered.
“Here you are,” Aidan said. He approached her in long strides. “I have some notes for you about wine preferences.”
Francesca stiffened. Aidan had notes for her?
The momentary attraction fizzled like a puff of smoke and was replaced by irritation. She’d spent months planning her selections based on the previous menu and now he was not only changing the food, but wanted to tell her which wine to serve? No way that was happening.
“I usually select the wine,” she replied smoothly.
Aidan sighed as if he was talking to a child. “Yes, but I have notes for you about what type of wine will work best with the meal I’m planning.”
He came to stand next to her at the small bistro table where she had her tablet and wine tasting materials laid out. The restaurant’s tasting cellar was small as it was mostly used by her and family. It wasn’t meant to be public space. Aidan’s large frame seemed to take up the entire room and suck the air out of it. That must be why she was struggling to breathe right. His scent, earthy with a hint of chocolate, wrapped around her until she was surrounded by Aidan.
Francesca took a step back to create space between them. Her back bumped into the floor-to-ceiling wine racks behind her. Aidan smirked. The jerk. He knew the effect he was having on her and liked it.
“What notes do you have?” she said, moving to sit at the high-backed barstool. Her pulse skittered but she forced her movements to be careful and measured.
Aidan pulled out the other stool and sat down, his knees bumping hers. No matter how she adjusted herself, her leg was still touching his. The space was too small for both of them. Aidan leaned back a bit and laid a piece of paper on the table in front of them. It had notes scrawled in illegible script.
Francesca picked up the paper and tilted it under the pendant lighting over the table. She turned it this way and that, but the words didn’t transform into any she recognized. She glanced up at Aidan, who chuckled.
“Chefs are notorious for their terrible handwriting,” he said. “Doctors get all the shade, but we’re just as bad.”
Francesca studied a dark brown stain on the corner of the document. “What’s this? Blood?” she asked wryly. It certainly looked like dried blood.
Aidan laughed for real now. The sound was melodic and wrapped around her like a warm hug. She shook her head. It wasn’t like her to have fanciful notions about anything, least of all an arrogant man.
“No, it’s my signature mole sauce. It’s what made me famous.”
Francesca noticed he was matter-of-fact about using the term famous. Most people would be modest about their accomplishments, but Aidan was anything but. The only word to describe him was brash. Francesca didn’t like brash. She liked refined, polished, subtle.
“Hmm” was all she said as she placed his notes back on the table. “I’m going to need you to translate this into words I understand,” she said. “Then I can pick out some wines for us to taste.” She’d accepted the fact the man intended to stay and taste wine with her. May as well get this over with quickly.
Aidan tilted the sheet towards him and read it aloud. “Chicken mole with mexican rice and swiss chard, carnitas tacos, carne asada, fish tacos, and queso fundido.”
Francesca’s stomach growled. “Those sound amazing,” she admitted. Having grown up in Southern California, she was well acquainted with Latin flavors. “It just doesn’t sound very fancy.” She didn’t want to offend Aidan, but diners would be used to something a bit more complex.
Aidan frowned. “My recipes are family recipes that I’ve honed into fine dining,” he replied. “The flavors are layered carefully. There’s nothing simple about anything I make.”
Francesca flushed. “I wasn’t trying to be dismissive. Latin flavors are my favorite. I’m trying to figure out how to fit your vision into the Chateau Felicity experience.”
“There’s no need for my food to fit in,” Aidan responded. “The whole point of me being here is to be different. That’s why Felicity hired me.”
Francesca didn’t miss the emphasis on her sister’s name. A not so subtle reminder that she had no say in any of this. Felicity paid the bills, so she made the decisions.
“Even so, I’m up for an award. Sometime in the next three weeks, the judges will dine here anonymously. I want to put my best foot forward. It’s kind of a big deal that I’m nominated at all.” Francesca had never said that out loud before. She’d been polite and appropriately humbled at her finalist status. Borrowing a fraction of Aidan’s hubris, she admitted that she had achieved an impressive accomplishment. An important thing for young women sommeliers. For young women in general. She’d garnered a nomination for a prestigious award usually given to men twenty years or more her senior.
For the first time it occurred to her—why hadn’t anyone else made a big deal about this?
Aidan cocked his head. “Felicity hadn’t mentioned this when she hired me. Your nomination is an incredible honor. I’m looking forward to collaborating with such an esteemed sommelier.”
He sounded sincere. “Thank you. I’ve worked very hard to get to this point. The next few weeks are critical to my success. Understandably, I’m worried about starting from scratch.”
Aidan pursed his lips slightly. Just enough to make Francesca unconsciously lick her own in anticipation of kissing the dissatisfaction away. This man was a distraction. She’d never thought about kissing as much as she had in the past five minutes.
He studied her before responding. “I didn’t know. Felicity invited me here and gave me carte blanche to recreate the entire menu. She wanted something completely different. She said there were no limits or considerations beyond my own creativity.”
His eyes were sympathetic and Francesca hated him for being so nice. In some ways it would be easier if he’d be the arrogant jerk the media portrayed him to be.
“I’d had an entire menu planned with Matthew…” Francesca started, unable to finish. What was the point? Her sister had unknowingly sabotaged any plans she had to win the award. She and Aidan were locked in an impossible situation. For him to do his job, her goals would be sacrificed.
“I wasn’t told,” Aidan repeated. He didn’t seem to know where to go from here and Francesca didn’t either. Her inclination was to shrug, take the high road, and do what was best for the family business. Except she couldn’t bring herself to do the right thing. Not this time.