Pride, Prejudice, and Other Flavors (The Rajes #1)(25)

He turned into the back alley that led to the deliveries entrance of Curried Dreams. Ashna stood at the top of the half flight of stairs, leaning against the service door, beaming at him in jeans and a T-shirt that proclaimed the name of her restaurant. It had been over a decade since they had attended Le Cordon Bleu in Paris together before starting their careers under Andre Renoir, but time hadn’t touched Ashna.

They had barely kept in touch after she had moved back to the States. Fortunately, another thing time hadn’t touched was the easy friendship they’d developed as Andre’s fresh and eager assistants. When DJ had moved here a month ago, lost and unable to come to terms with the prospect of losing Emma, Ashna had taken him under her wing and made everything fall into place.

“Hullo there, love!” he said, then laughed as Ashna tried to take the bags from his hands. When he refused to release them, she kissed him on the cheek. “Hello yourself, Chef!”

Ashna had to be one of the dearest people DJ knew. Andre had tried hard to play matchmaker between them, but it had only made them laugh. There was a melancholy air about Ashna, as if tragedy fluttered like a cape behind her. She took herself a tad too seriously, something DJ too was accused of often enough. For all their shared somberness and the comfort of their connection, their friendship had never been touched by attraction.

DJ had always believed that when he met the person he was meant to be with, he’d know. It would be the way it was with food, a moment of truth when he tasted a dish and knew it was perfectly as it should be. It would just feel right. He couldn’t imagine getting into a relationship until that happened. Without that connection, he was just wasting his time and he certainly hadn’t been born with the privilege of time to waste on playing the field.

He followed Ashna into the sunny kitchen and put the bags on her spotless stainless-steel countertop.

“These mangoes look great.” Picking one plump orange-gold fruit out of a bag, she gave it a sniff. And scrunched up her nose. “You should smell the mangoes in India. They smell like sugar melting in the summer heat. How do these have no aroma at all?” Then she smiled. “Yikes, I sound just like my aunt.”

They started emptying out the bags, laying out the okra, spinach, and cilantro in little heaps across the countertop, each shade of green as distinct as each vegetable’s identity.

“Oh, and speaking of my aunt”—her eyes turned positively smug—“I think you have a fan. Everyone’s been asking who catered the dinner last night and she called to let me know that I was not to give anyone your contact information unless she personally okayed it, which, by the way, is the highest praise you can receive from her. You are now one of Mina Raje’s favors to be handed out.”

He touched his heart and beamed at her. “I’m flattered. And grateful.” Mina Raje’s contacts had meant his phone hadn’t stopped buzzing with bookings. He removed the colander hanging from a hook over the sink and started rinsing things one by one.

Ashna’s kitchen was perfect, well designed and spacious enough to make up for the equipment from two decades ago. She spread a towel on the countertop and nudged him playfully with her elbow. “So, I believe Mina Kaki offered you ‘the job’ last night! How are you feeling about catering the event of the year—our future governor’s first official fund-raiser?”

His smile widened until his cheeks hurt. If his hands weren’t wet, he’d have hugged her. “You have no idea! I’ve already started working on the menu. There’s some new recipes I’m thinking of.” He’d woken up at four this morning in Emma’s hospital room to write down an eggplant roulade with tandoori paneer. The magic was in the Indian thyme and garlic chive foam infused into the paneer.

“It’s funny how excited you get,” she teased fondly, and having this, an old friend in a new and foreign place, nudged some of the despondence out of him.

“Are you still okay with me doing the prep work for the dinner here?” He started patting dry the okra so it wouldn’t string when they cooked it.

“Of course. Quit acting like you’re taking advantage of me. You’re already helping me with the Curried Dreams menu in return. You know I suck at that sort of thing. You can use my kitchen during off-hours for as long as you need it.” Suddenly exhaustion flashed in her eyes. He almost asked what was wrong. But she put it away fast enough that it was obvious she didn’t want him to see it.

“Are you sure?” Even though she’d said repeatedly that he wasn’t taking advantage of their friendship, it felt a little bit like he was. But not too many gift horses had been smiling at him lately and he also was just exhausted enough to not inspect this one’s mouth too closely. Renting a kitchen in this town would mean burying himself in debt.

Ashna nodded and her worried gaze swept the room. She had left Paris after just a couple of years with Andre and returned to California to run the restaurant that was her dead father’s legacy. She’d never said it in so many words, but DJ had gathered that all these years later she was struggling to save that legacy. Although how financial troubles could touch someone with a family as influential as hers, he had no idea.

“We’ll come up with a spectacular menu for you. I swear. We’ll pack them in.” He’d repay her in every which way he could.

The smile reached her eyes again. “I’m counting on it.”