Brad balked. “Sweet, hardworking Paige? Really? Not that I know her well, but I find that hard to imagine.”
Lindsay didn’t want to get into a conversation about personal stuff, even if it wasn’therpersonal stuff, so she just waved her hand. “It was a personal thing, not work-related.”
“Is it because Paige is engaged to Lauren’s brother?”
“In part. See, it really is a family here.”
Brad laughed. “I guess so!”
Lindsay had forgotten how fond she was of his laugh. It had a booming quality that tended to soar over everything else in the room.
She decided to plow forward. “So, do you just bake, or do you work up front, too? Because my boss said you’ve gained something of a reputation.”
“What kind of reputation?”
“As the hot baker. I asked around a little and heard a rumor that you are singularly responsible for more women, and a few men, stopping by here for their morning coffee now.”
Brad’s eyebrows shot up. “Are you kidding?”
“Unfortunately, no.”
“I’ve been filling in when people call in sick, if that’s what you mean. Otherwise, I just stick to the kitchen. They’re really saying that about me?”
Lindsay enjoyed that Brad looked a little uncomfortable. “My boss’s angle for this story was a profile on the hunky baker who makes treats for cats. Some people go crazy for that sort of thing.”
Brad shifted in his seat. “Um. Did you know this space used to be an Italian restaurant?”
“Yeah, Lauren has mentioned that.” Lindsay swallowed a giggle and glanced at her notes. “What’s the kitchen like?”
“It’s nice. Very clean. Clearly calibrated for a restaurant and not a bakery. Depending on how profits go this quarter, Lauren might let me make some upgrades, but it’s adequate. I can show you.”
The bubble popped. Being in a kitchen with Brad was too much like the past. Lindsay had almost forgotten how sad and frustrated he made her feel. All the magic seeped out of the moment.
“No, that’s okay. I’ll take your word for it.”
She was also running out of questions, so her escape was imminent. The issue was that the last question was a little more personal, intended to help the reader get to know the chef. Erica had wanted her to ask if he was single, so that they could either dangle an eligible bachelor in front of the audience or wrap up the story with a “Sorry, ladies…” Lindsay hated that kind of thing in an interview with a chef and usually just said something inane like, “Do you draw inspiration from your family?” She crossed out the question she had written and said instead, “What was the best meal you’ve ever eaten?”
“Is that a standard question?”
“I’m thinking about making it one. I think you can tell a lot about a chef by that.”
Brad leaned back and thought for a moment. “Atlanta,” he said. “That trip we made to that food and wine festival shortly before graduation. You remember that?”
Lindsay did, because of course she did. And that trip had been about two weeks before they broke up. “Yes.”
“That place where we ate after going down the wrong Peachtree Street, the one that looked like the inside of a shed. Remember that?”
Lindsay did. They’d gotten a restaurant recommendation from someone they met at the festival, and they made a wrong turn because for some reason, almost every street in downtown Atlanta was called Peachtree. By the time they realized their mistake, they were far off course and also very hungry, so they decided to eat at the next restaurant they walked by that looked halfway decent. Coincidentally, they’d wandered into the restaurant owned by a formerTop Chefwinner who made elevated southern cuisine—genuine southern food, not whatever they sold at Pepper. It was a rich meal, and everything had been delicious.
“Thatwasa great meal,” said Lindsay.
“Sometimes, when you’re really hungry, a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich tastes like ambrosia, and I would have eaten you if it had taken us any longer to find a place to eat, but that food was amazing. So was the company. That was my favorite meal.” He gave her a meaningful look.
Lindsay sighed. She’d been happy then, totally head over heels in love with Brad, and had envisioned a future for herself in which she and Brad traveled the world and ate meals like that. They’d talked about doing just that when they’d been in Atlanta together. And then it all blew up in her face. Shemissedhim, more than she thought. Or maybe more than she’d let herself feel. And him sitting here reminiscing and smiling and being very much himself was a reminder both of how great he’d been and how much he’d hurt her.
But she swallowed and said, “Why do you have to be so sweet about it?”
Brad crossed his arms. “I’m telling the truth.”
