“Something special going on this week?”
He pulled the second stool closer and leaned on it—tall and easy with his own body. “You could say that. We’ve got a big foodie coming in for dinner tonight. He came last night, too, in fact, but this time he wants the chef’s table. That’s eighteen courses, plus wine pairings. If it goes well, he could put us on the map.”
“Not the local restaurant critic, huh?”
“Nope.” He grinned a little. “You’ll never guess who he is.”
“Okay, tell me. Who’s your important guest?”
“Dooce.”
“Dooce? Wait—you mean, Dooce, the rock star?”
“The very one.” Flynn borrowed my fork to sample the omelet.
“He’s in town for a concert?” I remembered Zack Cleary saying something about working a concert. I hadn’t realized Dooce was the headliner.
“Yep.”
Suddenly Stony’s phone call took on a whole new meaning.
Flynn said, “Dooce came to town early for the concert because he’s got relatives here. And he collects stuff. Those big stars are always looking for stuff on tour—antiques and crap. But while he’s on tour, he’s taking a whole entourage around with him. Including a food writer.”
“And they’re eating here? Wow, pretty cool.”
Flynn took a look at me and saw that I was being sincere for once. “It takes a lot to impress you, Roxy. I guess you must be a big fan.”
Okay, yeah, I liked Dooce’s music. Classic rock with a workingman’s sensibility. He wrote songs about steelworkers and waitresses, and they were good songs, too. I could see why Stony hadn’t mentioned Dooce’s name, though. Dooce was too pop for Stony’s taste. Not hairy enough.
“What’s he like?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I cooked, he ate. We didn’t meet. He has an assistant, Jeremy, who does his bidding. Jeremy jumps through hoops if Dooce tells him to. Tonight, though, I’ll have to do the whole routine for the man himself.”
Flynn had learned to cook in a French restaurant after his military service. Then he’d bumped around the world, refining his skills and his palate. Also doing incredible amounts of smack, which he claimed he’d kicked. I liked the animation in his face when he talked about cooking. And he seemed to devote every muscle when he worked at the stove, which was nice to watch. Most of all, though, I was glad he’d found a passion that didn’t require needles.
“Eighteen courses? What will you make?”
“A little of everything. We’re known for meat—pork belly and steaks. But I’ve got some sushi-grade calamari to play with. Jeremy says his boss is very big on sushi. Plus lamb—I’ve experimented with a way of braising a leg of lamb that’s pretty incredible. It’ll all be good.”
“Dooce likes that fancy stuff?”
“You think otherwise?”
“Hey, his songs are not exactly the work of a gourmet, you know?”
Flynn leaned against the counter and smiled down at me. “You really go for Dooce, huh?”
“He’s a little old for me,” I said lightly.
“Oh, yeah? You have limits?”
“What, you’re jealous?”
“I’ve been over you for a long time now.”
I grinned with him. “You’ll never be over me, mister. What does Marla say about Dooce? She excited for you?”
Flynn got busy cleaning his knife with a towel. “I haven’t told her about tonight.”
“Huh? Why not?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. It didn’t come up. I don’t know why I’m telling you. I guess I knew you’d get it.”
“I get a lot of things.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He looked at me again, then shook his head, blue eyes alight in a way that made something in my chest feel funny. But then he mastered his face and said, “Look, the real reason I called you this morning is Sage.”
Seventeen years ago, when Flynn and I were a couple of wild teenagers and doing it like bunnies when we weren’t raising hell in the neighborhood, we conceived our daughter, Sage. But as soon as the bun started growing in my oven, Flynn
He pulled the second stool closer and leaned on it—tall and easy with his own body. “You could say that. We’ve got a big foodie coming in for dinner tonight. He came last night, too, in fact, but this time he wants the chef’s table. That’s eighteen courses, plus wine pairings. If it goes well, he could put us on the map.”
“Not the local restaurant critic, huh?”
“Nope.” He grinned a little. “You’ll never guess who he is.”
“Okay, tell me. Who’s your important guest?”
“Dooce.”
“Dooce? Wait—you mean, Dooce, the rock star?”
“The very one.” Flynn borrowed my fork to sample the omelet.
“He’s in town for a concert?” I remembered Zack Cleary saying something about working a concert. I hadn’t realized Dooce was the headliner.
“Yep.”
Suddenly Stony’s phone call took on a whole new meaning.
Flynn said, “Dooce came to town early for the concert because he’s got relatives here. And he collects stuff. Those big stars are always looking for stuff on tour—antiques and crap. But while he’s on tour, he’s taking a whole entourage around with him. Including a food writer.”
“And they’re eating here? Wow, pretty cool.”
Flynn took a look at me and saw that I was being sincere for once. “It takes a lot to impress you, Roxy. I guess you must be a big fan.”
Okay, yeah, I liked Dooce’s music. Classic rock with a workingman’s sensibility. He wrote songs about steelworkers and waitresses, and they were good songs, too. I could see why Stony hadn’t mentioned Dooce’s name, though. Dooce was too pop for Stony’s taste. Not hairy enough.
“What’s he like?” I asked.
“I have no idea. I cooked, he ate. We didn’t meet. He has an assistant, Jeremy, who does his bidding. Jeremy jumps through hoops if Dooce tells him to. Tonight, though, I’ll have to do the whole routine for the man himself.”
Flynn had learned to cook in a French restaurant after his military service. Then he’d bumped around the world, refining his skills and his palate. Also doing incredible amounts of smack, which he claimed he’d kicked. I liked the animation in his face when he talked about cooking. And he seemed to devote every muscle when he worked at the stove, which was nice to watch. Most of all, though, I was glad he’d found a passion that didn’t require needles.
“Eighteen courses? What will you make?”
“A little of everything. We’re known for meat—pork belly and steaks. But I’ve got some sushi-grade calamari to play with. Jeremy says his boss is very big on sushi. Plus lamb—I’ve experimented with a way of braising a leg of lamb that’s pretty incredible. It’ll all be good.”
“Dooce likes that fancy stuff?”
“You think otherwise?”
“Hey, his songs are not exactly the work of a gourmet, you know?”
Flynn leaned against the counter and smiled down at me. “You really go for Dooce, huh?”
“He’s a little old for me,” I said lightly.
“Oh, yeah? You have limits?”
“What, you’re jealous?”
“I’ve been over you for a long time now.”
I grinned with him. “You’ll never be over me, mister. What does Marla say about Dooce? She excited for you?”
Flynn got busy cleaning his knife with a towel. “I haven’t told her about tonight.”
“Huh? Why not?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. It didn’t come up. I don’t know why I’m telling you. I guess I knew you’d get it.”
“I get a lot of things.”
“Yeah, maybe.” He looked at me again, then shook his head, blue eyes alight in a way that made something in my chest feel funny. But then he mastered his face and said, “Look, the real reason I called you this morning is Sage.”
Seventeen years ago, when Flynn and I were a couple of wild teenagers and doing it like bunnies when we weren’t raising hell in the neighborhood, we conceived our daughter, Sage. But as soon as the bun started growing in my oven, Flynn
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