The Allure of Dean Harper (The Allure #2)(36)

“Did you have a productive day yesterday?” I asked as we hit the back entrance of the hotel.

“It wasn’t a total waste,” he replied as his fingers worked away on his phone.

“Zoe and I ran topless through the hotel yesterday,” I said, to see if he was paying attention. “It was really fun.”

His brown eyes sliced over to me without a trace of humor. “I hope you spent your time a little more productively than that.”

Oh my god. I wanted to strangle him. Where was his sense of humor? Where was his fun side?

“Well, well, look who it is.”

I turned toward the voice and found Antonio Acosta standing near the entrance of the ballroom. He was wearing a chef’s coat over black pants and flashed us a friendly smile as we approached. He was younger than I’d expected, maybe mid-thirties.

After shaking Dean’s hand, he turned his attention toward me and beamed. “Ah, I didn’t realize Dean would be bringing a beautiful woman as his date for the meeting.”

I smiled and held out my hand. “Lily Black. I’m consulting on the menu for Dean’s new restaurant.”

His bright, almost amber eyes lit up. “And she’s familiar with the arts? Where did you find this one, Dean?”

Dean smiled good-naturedly, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Come, come. The hotel has partitioned off a small section of this ballroom for us,” Antonio said, pressing his hand to the small of my back and ushering us into the room. The expansive ballroom was much too large for what we needed. The ceilings were nearly twenty feet high and long ornate curtains were drawn to keep out the afternoon sun. There was a small round table set up in the corner nearest the door. A row of tea candles lined the center and a white tablecloth draped over the sides. Antonio pulled one of the two chairs out for me and I smiled up at him in thanks.

“The hotel is allowing me to use the kitchen attached to this ballroom. I’ve spent the morning creating the dishes I had in mind for your restaurant.”

I smiled as he picked up my napkin from beside my plate. He popped it open with a flick of his wrist and then draped it across my lap. I could feel Dean’s eyes on us, but he held his tongue until Antonio had excused himself to get the first dish.

“Please don’t encourage him.”

I retrieved my notes from my tote bag and shook my head. “I’m not.”

He grunted and pocketed his phone. Apparently, this meeting was worthy of his undivided attention.

A moment later, Antonio backed out of the swinging door with two small plates in hand. A rich garlic flavor wafted through the room as he stepped closer and set down a plate in front of each of us. My smile fell as I registered the dish.

“I’m starting you two off with a simple dish called gambas al ajillo. It’s fresh shrimp sautéed in olive oil infused with garlic. I’ve also added a touch of Spanish paprika and brandy.”

Antonio Acosta was the most sought after Spanish chef in the United States and he was starting us off with this? Before Dean’s bite reached his mouth, I shook my head.

“I’m sorry, but I have to cut right to it. There’s nothing unique in this recipe.” I pointed to the plate where four limp shrimp sat in a bath of olive oil.

Dean’s gaze met mine and I could see the warning there. He wanted me to proceed with caution, but I couldn’t. I’d spent an entire semester on Spanish cuisine, and by the time I’d finished, I knew my tapas. For the ungodly sum of money Antonio was being paid for this tasting, he’d just opened with the tapas equivalent of PB&J. He should have known better.

Antonio swallowed and nodded slowly. “I see. As a chef, I like to honor culinary tradition while striving for measured amounts of uniqueness," he explained deftly. “But let’s not dwell on it, let’s move on to the next dish.”

He reached forward and yanked the plates from the table before Dean could set down his spoon. Clearly, I’d offended him.

Dean arched a brow at me after Antonio had disappeared back into the kitchen. “Next time let me taste the dish before you overstep your bounds and insult the chef.”

I narrowed my eyes quizzically at him. He’d brought me there as a consultant, so I was consulting.

We sat in silence until Antonio brought out the next dish. It was a slight alteration of another standard tapas dish: patatas bravas. Instead of using Tabasco sauce, he’d swapped in a chipotle mayo for us to dip the potatoes into. The dish was good. Was it worthy of being on our menu? No. Every food critic in New York would pan us.

And that’s how the tasting went. Antonio’s dishes fell flat every single time. The ingredients were expected. The flavors were standard. There was nothing unique about his presentation and I doubted Antonio had even spent more than five minutes coming up with recipes for our restaurant. Either he was lazy, or he was purposely sabotaging our menu.

I shook my head. “This dish is served in every tapas restaurant in America,” I said, pointing at the short ribs in front of me. “Where’s the creativity? Where’s the effort?”

“Excuse me?” Antonio asked, rearing back as if I’d struck him. For twenty minutes, he’d brought out dishes for us to sample, and for twenty minutes I’d held my tongue as best as possible.

“Lily that’s enough,” Dean spoke up with a sharp tongue.