But that wasn’t the chef’s version. According to the manager, the chef claimed our encounter was “consensual.” That I’d wanted a promotion. That I’d asked him to meet me there so we could discuss it and “get to know each other better.” When he refused to give me the promotion I was angling for, I hit him with the can.

  I stared at the guy. He’d seen me the night before when I came stumbling out of the pantry. He knew how dazed and upset I’d been. He’d seen the state of my clothes, my face, my hair. He couldn’t believe this crap he was spouting. He knew, dammit!

  But as I took in his blank expression, the way he wouldn’t really look at me, I knew he wasn’t going to back down. I wasn’t the first woman he’d pressured into giving up her claims. In the food world, the chef was a giant, and I was a flea. A flea that could be flicked off.

  And right then, I decided the hell with it. I could stick around Denver and argue. I could make a police report. I could go to the press. Some people would believe me. A lot wouldn’t. And after I went through the hell of reliving the attack over and over again, I was pretty sure the chef would still be a big deal in the Denver restaurant scene. And I’d still be a flea. An unemployed flea, at that.

  All I wanted to do was go home. Not to my apartment—to Shavano. My real home.

  I packed up all my stuff that afternoon. I almost threw away my chef’s coat and beanie and my knives, but I put them in a box and sealed them up. I thought someday I might want them again, although right then I couldn’t bear to look at them. I still had the old truck Uncle Mike had bought for me when I was in high school. I loaded it up and turned west.

  Was it a brave thing to do? Nope. It let the chef and the restaurant off the hook, and it left him free to attack other women. I felt guilty about that then, and I still do. I wish I’d been gutsier, but at the time I just couldn’t face it.

  More importantly, was leaving Denver a smart thing to do? Probably not, since it meant I was giving up on my dream of being a head chef. But it was the only thing I felt up to doing. I think I was suffering from a kind of PTSD, and all I wanted to do was get to the farm and hide until I felt whole again.

  Uncle Mike was shocked to see me, but he figured out pretty quickly I was in no shape to explain myself when I finally rolled in after midnight. He let me sleep for most of the next day, and then he sat me down with a cup of tea and got me to tell him the whole story.

  Of course after I’d finished telling him, I had to talk him out of heading to Denver to punch out the chef and the manager. He was also pretty upset about my not going to the police, but once he realized he couldn’t convince me to fight, he left me alone for a while. Until he got tired of seeing me moping around the farm.

  Then he sat me down again and told me I needed to figure out what I wanted to do next and how to go about doing it. He said I was the best cook he’d ever known, and that it was a sin and a shame to let that talent go to waste. If I didn’t want to cook in a restaurant anymore, so be it. But I needed to figure out some alternatives, and then I needed to get on with it.

  Fortunately, I was pretty sick of sitting around by then. What he said made a lot of sense. I experimented with a few other kinds of cooking—making cookies and salsa and even baking bread. But it wasn’t until I started working with the fruit that came from Constantine Farms that I knew I’d found my niche. And thus Luscious Delights was born.

  If I was a glass-half-full type, I might claim that everything worked out for the best. I’ve got a business I love and that I’m good at. I’m in Shavano, and I really prefer being here to being in Denver. And I’m poised to be a lot more successful here than I would have been as a line cook at a trendy restaurant.

  But life doesn’t really work that way, does it?

  My Denver experience stole something from me—a chance to be what I’d dreamed about for years, a professional cook. What’s more, the chef spread rumors about me after I left. Apparently he was still pissed at me for hitting him with that can of tomatoes. Brett Holmes wasn’t the only one who’d implied I’d had sex with the chef willingly and gotten burned, although Brett was the most obnoxious about it. He’d come to Shavano a few months ago, and now he amused himself by propositioning me every chance he got.

  Deep down I resented the fact that I’d been forced into my alternative career rather than finding it on my own.

  So yes, I’m better at making jam than I had been at cooking on the line. But I’d have preferred to discover that myself after a couple of years of experience at restaurants and to have moved on because I wanted to, not because I had to.

  Ironically, the chef himself had been taken down a few months later by some women who were braver than me. He’d attacked one woman line cook in another restaurant and she’d called the cops on him. And after she had, several other women came forward to tell stories of other assaults. He’d been forced out of his restaurant partnerships and ended up in retirement in Provence. He was supposed to be working on a cookbook. I wished him writer’s block.

  There was still one more after-effect I was living with. I’d been out with a few guys over the two years I’d been back in Shavano. But I hadn’t gotten serious with any of them. Whenever we got close to having a physical relationship, I found myself backing away. I just wasn’t ready to be touched.

  Being attacked sticks with you, or anyway, it had with me. I kept telling myself I’d get over it, but I hadn’t yet. And until I did, I was staying single. It seemed easier that way.

  Still, it really annoyed me that the chef and his buddies had taken that away from me, too. I might not be able to go into a restaurant kitchen, but maybe I could take a few steps toward getting into a relationship again. Assuming anyone ever came along I felt like getting involved with.

  Somehow it didn’t seem like a coincidence that I found myself thinking about Nate Robicheaux when I considered that possibility.

  Chapter 5

  By the next farmers market, I’d worked up a couple of new jams. I did a few jars of the grapefruit marmalade, although it was more a novelty than something I was going to do regularly. I prefer working with fruit from somewhere in the state at least, and given my choice, I stick with Uncle Mike’s produce when it’s available. Still, it was fun to do something a little out of my comfort zone, and the grapefruit marmalade was definitely unique.

  I also did bourbon peach preserves. I usually put some up during the summer, but I decided to try a batch with frozen peaches. It was good, but not great. I was still trying to find a way around the frozen texture.

  There were a lot more customers that week. School was almost out, and we were heading toward Memorial Day, which would be the real opening of the summer tourist season and the first big weekend for the market. I planned on selling a lot of pepper peach to the tourists.

  My assistant, Dolce, had returned from her 4-H adventure, which meant things weren’t quite as hectic around the booth. Dolce was friendly, bouncy, and a natural charmer. Unfortunately, the teenage boys she attracted didn’t buy a lot of jam, although they ate a lot of samples.

  We sold out of raspberry by eleven. We also sold out of the grapefruit marmalade, but I’d expected that. There wasn’t much of it, and it had the exotic factor going for it. The bourbon peach also moved well, although not as well as the straight peach and the apricot. I even sold a few jars of pepper peach, one to a guy hanging around Dolce. I suspected he was trying to impress her by buying it. Fine with me.

  Around eleven thirty, I looked up to find Nate Robicheaux scooping up some bourbon peach with a cracker. “New stuff?” he asked.

  “Sort of. I usually make it later in the year, but I was doing some experimenting.”

  “Tastes great.” He licked his fingers. “Looks good, too.”

  He looked pretty good himself, in his low-slung jeans and black T-shirt. The sun brought out the reddish highlights in his auburn hair. “What did you demo today?”

  “Sliders. Supposed to be small versions of our usual burger. I saved you one.”

  “Great.” I hadn’t had much breakfast, and hunger was catching up with me.

  I told Dolce to keep track of things for five minutes, then followed him to the demo booth where Harry Potter was handing out flautas.

  I gave him a quick smile. “Hey, Harry. Dirty Pete’s got you cooking?”

  He shrugged. “I split my time between the kitchen and the bar. They needed me out here today.”

  “Do you know Nate?”

  Harry raised a bushy red eyebrow. “Nope.”

  “Nate Robicheaux, this is Harry Potter. He’s the bartender at Dirty Pete’s.” I gave Nate a smile that was meant to suggest he not mention the name.

  Nate got the hint. “Pleased to meet you, Harry.”

  “Likewise. I know your mom.” Harry returned to his flautas.

  Nate picked up a paper plate with a single slider from a table at the rear of the booth. “Here you go. Especially for you. I had to hide it.”

  My cheeks warmed slightly. I wasn’t used to having a good-looking guy do things for me. “Thanks.” I turned my attention to his burger.

  After I took a bite, I could see why they’d been a hit. It was a loose meat version, like the classics you get in the Midwest. And he’d seasoned it with something spicy that I couldn’t identify.

  “These are great,” I said.

  He smiled at me in a way that made my cheeks warm again. “Glad you like it.”

  “What’s the spice?”

  “Powdered Serrano. Just a touch. I thought they needed a little kick.”

  “You do loose meat hamburgers at Robicheaux’s?” So far as I knew, loose meats were pretty rare in Colorado.

  He shook his head. “That’s why I said they were ‘supposed to be’ small versions of our regular burgers. Small versions of the real regulars were sort of…bland. I thought loose meat worked better.” He looked a little guilty when he said that, but also a little defiant.

  I wasn’t about to criticize him for not being ordinary. “They’re delicious. And now I need to get back and relieve Dolce. It looks like we’re getting another wave of customers.”

  He turned as I moved toward my booth. “Have lunch with me?”

  I paused, my heart suddenly hammering. The last man who’d asked me to lunch had been Brett Holmes, and I was pretty sure lunch was a euphemism in his case. Nate wasn’t Brett, but what was he asking exactly?

  Some of my concern must have shown in my face. Nate shook his head quickly. “Nothing fancy. I was going to grab a sub from one of the food trucks.”

  Cool it. It’s just lunch, for Pete’s sake. “Sure, that sounds good. I’m not off until two, though.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you at two.” He gave me a cautious smile. I must have looked really freaked before because instead of flirting, he was treating me like a potential nutcase.

  “Great. I’ll be ready.” Which probably sounded even weirder because who gets that excited about food truck subs?

  The couple of hours left passed quickly. We sold out of the bourbon peach. We had strawberry, apricot, and pepper peach left and did a pretty good business in all of them. Yes, including pepper peach.

  Dolce’s fan club took off after she went back to the farm with her parents, who’d run Uncle Mike’s booth.

  Nate showed up promptly at ten before two. “I can go get the subs while you finish up if you’ll tell me what you want.”

  “Oh, sure.” I dug into my pocket for my billfold. “I usually go with a turkey club.”

  He held up his hand. “I’m paying. I asked you, after all.”

  I paused, a little embarrassed and a little wary. “Oh. Okay. Maybe I can get it next time.” And then I blushed bright pink because who knew if there would even be a next time?

  Nate grinned as if he was pleased we had a possible future. “Sure. I’ll be back in a few.”

  I packed away the remaining jars of jam. There weren’t many, which was a good thing, of course. I was loading the cases of jars into my truck when Nate came back. He placed the sack with the subs on the booth counter and grabbed a case. “Here, let me give you a hand.”

  “Thanks.” After we got all the jars loaded, I started to pull off the nylon roof for the booth, then paused. “Did you want to eat here? I can leave it up if you do.”

  He shook his head. “Let’s go down by the river. If we’re having a picnic, we might as well go for scenic.”

  He helped me break down the booth and load the truck. And then we walked to the river at the edge of the hiking and biking trail. Shavano is in the middle of prime river rafting country, and the town has taken advantage of that fact by building a course for kayakers that runs by the River Park. In the summer, people have picnics along the banks, watching the amateur kayakers and the rafters who come to shoot the rapids farther down.

  We were a little early in the year for that. The temperature was hovering in the low sixties, and the river was still pretty chilly. But the competitive kayakers were out in wet suits and helmets, running the river course with a kind of fierce determination.

  Nate found a park bench along the bank, and we unwrapped our subs. Fortunately, I was too hungry to feel nervous, and we ate in silence for a few minutes, watching the kayakers take their chances.

  Finally, I decided I needed to say something. “So your demo went well today?”

  He nodded. “All the samples got taken, and several people told me they like the loose meat. Of course, I’ve got a pretty staunch critic, too.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “A little girl named Sandy. She hated my grilled cheese, too. The only reason I know her name is that her mom usually comes with her and tries to get her to eat the sample. I think I’d just as soon she stopped trying.” He gave me a rueful smile.

  “Oh, that’s probably Sandy Grayson. Her mom has the jerky stand. Sandy never likes anything. It’s a protest. She hates having to sit in her mom’s booth.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Geez, do you know everybody who comes to the market?”

  “No, but Sandy usually goes for my samples, too. Or anyway, she goes for part of them. If I don’t keep an eye on her, she empties my cracker bowls.”

  “I haven’t tried any jerky yet. There are a lot of interesting cooks around this market.” He nodded toward Annabelle’s booth. “She’s got some interesting kimchi.”

  “You should try her pickled garlic. It curls hair.”

  He grinned. “Hot damn. I used to put pickled garlic on charred green beans. Now there was a dish.”

  “Something for the menu at Robicheaux’s?”

  His grin faded slightly. “Nope. I did the garlic and green beans when I worked in Vegas. Robicheaux’s is traditional. Our customers are more into green beans and bacon.”

  “I’m fond of green beans and bacon myself.” Although now he’d described it, pickled garlic and charred green beans sounded interesting. I considered asking him more about Vegas, but he didn’t seem eager to discuss it. “What about those loose meat sandwiches? They were great. And I’ll bet the customers at Robicheaux’s would love them.”

  He blew out a breath. “Except it’s not our usual hamburger recipe, and I’m not sure how my brother would feel about it.”

  “Your brother?”

  “My brother Bobby runs the kitchen. He and my mom put the menu together.”

  “Well, that loose meat was delicious. I’d think having a variety of hamburgers on the menu would be good for a café like Robicheaux’s. Plus my guess is you could do the loose meat in advance, even freeze it, and your cost per sandwich would probably drop.”

  Nate took a swallow from his water bottle. “You’ve worked in restaurants?”

  I nodded a little warily. It wasn’t a subject I discussed much since it could lead to questions about where I’d worked and why I’d left. “Yeah. I used to work in Denver before I came back to Shavano.”

  “Good foodie town.” He balled up the wrapper from his sandwich, stuffing it into the sack. “I didn’t grab any dessert. Sorry. If I’d been thinking, I would have snagged some of my sister’s pie this morning.”

  “Your sister works in the restaurant?”

  “Yeah. We all do. It’s a family thing.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said slowly. “Having family around in the kitchen. Better than a bunch of strangers trying to get ahead.” Or trying to run you down.

  “It is and it isn’t.” He rested his elbows on the bench. “It’s easier to get on each other’s nerves sometimes. You know too much about each other—where to stick the needle if you really want to make it sting.”

  “I can see that. Kitchens are pressure cookers. Especially when you’ve got a rush to take care of.” I still remembered the adrenaline hit that came with the rush hour.

  “Right. We love each other, but not necessarily when we’ve got eight orders to get out at the same time.” He flashed me a dry smile.

  I smiled back. “I should come eat at Robicheaux’s sometime. I like diner food.”

  “Let me know when. I’ll fix you something special.”

  “Like loose meat sliders?” I raised an eyebrow.

  He grimaced. “Probably not. Bobby’s not big on changes. Maybe I can slip you an order of onion rings or something.”

  “Onion rings would rock.” I gathered up my own sandwich wrapper, stuffing it into the sack. “I’d better get home. I’ve got stuff to do this afternoon.” I wanted to keep things a little slow with Nate Robicheaux. My mind needed time to catch up with my body, which seemed to be racing ahead, if the heat generated by an hour at his side was any indication.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a few chores myself.” He pushed himself to his feet. “You’ll be at the market next week?”

  “Oh, yeah. Next week and every week. Until fall.”

  “Me, too.” He gave me another of those grins that started a glow somewhere deep inside. “Maybe we can do a real lunch next time.”

  I started to freeze again, then gave myself a mental shake. Pull yourself together, Roxy. “Sounds good.”

  “Next week then.” His teeth flashed white against his tan. “See you, Roxy.”