a kid, had featured traditional food with fun, funky twists. These days the menu was more classical than classic, heavy with French influences that ran counter to the eclectic decor and irreverent name.
“Personally, I like Colombian and I look for organic beans harvested and sold under Fair Trade. Does that make me high maintenance or too trendy?” she wanted to know.
“Even if it did, at least it would be for a good cause.”
“So, it’s okay to be picky or demanding if you’re doing it for a good cause?”
Finn laughed. “Something like that.”
They arrived at the shop and he held open the door for her. At this hour of the day, the place wasn’t very busy. Most people already had reached their daily caffeine quota. A few professional types in business suits stood in line at the take-out window. In the dining room, trendily dressed girls whom he guessed to be high school age sat laughing at one table. Two other tables were taken by preoccupied twentysomethings tapping away on their laptop keyboards.
“Counter or table?” she asked.
“Your choice.”
Lara turned and started toward a table that was wedged against the window. It was the one he often sat at so he could watch the foot traffic file past. As he sat down, he could hear the slight buzzing of the neon Open sign overhead. A waitress was over almost immediately to take their orders.
Lara went with Colombian. He went with French roast. They both took their coffee black. Another reason to like her, he decided. Food required seasoning. But a good cup of coffee didn’t need to be doctored up with cream, whether flavored or plain. Nor did it need sweetener of any sort. Especially if one was going to be dunking cookies in it.
“I’ll have the macadamia-nut-and-dried-cranberry biscotto,” she told the waitress.
“Make that two.” It was what he always ordered, as well.
After the waitress left, Lara quipped, “We made her job easy.”
“We can always send the biscotti back and complain about the coffee to test her patience and make her earn the tip we leave.”
“I’m sure she’s already waited on more than a couple people like that today. I’ve worked in enough kitchens to know that some people make special requests or send back food just to be a pain in the rear.”
He cocked his head to one side and studied her. “I thought you were a food stylist.”
Lara pointed at his mouth. “Did you know that your lip curled when you said that?”
“It did not.”
She nodded. “Afraid so.”
“Okay, maybe a little. It just seems like a poor use of your talent.” And obviously she had talent or she wouldn’t have made it on to the show.
Tone dry as dust, she replied, “Says the man who pimps out his cooking to the highest bidder. What’s the story behind that?”
“We’re talking about you right now. We’ll get to my story later.” He wasn’t sure what he would share with her. But right now he wanted to know more about her, so he asked, “Do you enjoy styling other people’s food?”
“I’m very good at it.”
“But that’s not what I asked.”
The waitress returned with their coffees and biscotti. Lara picked up one of the hard Italian cookies and dunked it into her cup. Stalling?
Finn prompted, “Well?”
“Sure. I enjoy it. I wouldn’t do it otherwise. Appearances are important.”
“Appearances can be deceiving,” he shot back.
That was true both in the case of a roasted turkey that had been brushed with oil to make it look moist and a fresh-faced woman with secrets brimming in her eyes.
“Yes. And no. I’m willing to go out on a limb and bet that Ryder does not sing in a church choir.”
But did Ryder have something to hide? Finn didn’t think so. He was an in-your-face kind of guy. Lara Smith? The way she sometimes acted, Finn wondered.
“All right, I’ll come clean,” she said only to end with, “I like cooking more.”
Not exactly a revelation, but it was a start.
“Where did you go to culinary school?”
She named off the very institution that he had attended, although he’d graduated a few years ahead of her. When she mentioned training abroad under a couple of world-renowned chefs, Finn was duly impressed and whistled through his teeth.
“How did you manage that? As far as I know, neither of those guys hires anything but seasoned veterans to work in their kitchens. Even their prep chefs and line cooks have been around the block a time or two.”
Yet Lara had scored an internship.
“My father’s doing.”
“Your father?”
Rather than answer right away, she bit into the biscotto, leaving Finn with the impression that she was using the time it took to chew and swallow to formulate a response.
“He knows both men. I guess you could say he traded on friendship.”
“Lucky you.”
She glanced out the window. “Yeah. Lucky me.”
Now he was really curious. But he asked, “How did a chef with a degree from one of the best culinary schools in the country and who trained under a couple of Europe’s finest chefs wind up making food look pretty on a plate for the camera?”
Her gaze snapped back to his. Her tone was mild, but her eyes held a bit of heat when she told him, “That’s rather derogatory.”
“The phrasing might be a little harsh,” he allowed and took a sip of his coffee. “But it’s a fact.”
She was quiet a moment. Insulted? He didn’t think so. But he’d definitely struck a nerve.
“Okaaay,” she said slowly, drawing out the a as well as the suspense. He leaned forward slightly in his seat, drawn in and all but drowning in those green eyes. “Short answer?”
Finn found himself far more interested in the long version, but he nodded. He’d settle for that...for now.
“I sort of fell into it.” She picked up her coffee.
That was it?
“You weren’t kidding about offering a short answer.” He took a sip from his mug before continuing, “I feel a little cheated. Come on. You can share more than that.”
She made a humming noise. “I don’t know that I should.”
“Why not?”
“I’d rather be an enigma. A bit of mystery is good for...competition.”
Funny, but competition was barely a blip on Finn’s personal radar at the moment. He leaned forward. The neon sign wasn’t the only thing buzzing right now.
“I have a proposition,” he told her.
“Oh?” She appeared aloof, sitting there with her elbows on the table, both hands holding the coffee cup, which obscured his view of her mouth. But she leaned forward, too, bringing with her the appealing scent of vanilla and sweetness that he wasn’t sure could be attributed to the hard Italian cookie. “What kind of a proposition?”
“The kind that involves physical contact,” he replied. One of her elbows slipped off the tabletop, causing coffee to slosh over the rim of her mug. His ego fully stroked, he added, “I’m challenging you to another game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. Are you up for it?”
She sat back on