Read Online The Chef's Choice by Kristin Hardy - Free Book Online Page B

beds she’d spent the morning clearing out over at the Chasan place. She didn’t need to be thinking about Damon Hurst.
    Feet crunched on the gravel walk outside and, as though she’d conjured him by thinking, Damon opened the door across the room from her.
    And serenity flew out the window.
    â€œI thought I might find you out here,” he said, stepping inside. “Hiding out?”
    â€œWorking,” she said.
    â€œLot of that going around.”
    Calm had disappeared. Sanctuary was no more. She was uneasy, more than a little tongue-tied and, dammit, had butterflies. It didn’t matter that she was on the other side of the room from him. Suddenly, the greenhouse seemed very small.
    Damon strolled around, still in his checks and chef’s whites. He should have looked ludicrously out of place and awkward. Instead, he seemed right at home. She was the one who was tense.
    He turned to her. “Nice place.”
    Cady tried to see it through his eyes: the four long wooden tables covered with flats of pansies and snapdragons or trays of potted marigolds, the hanging baskets of geraniums and petunias, still waiting for their first blossoms. On the far side stood her workbench and the tables with pots of evening primrose, forsythia, bleeding heart. The air smelled rich and green and fertile.
    â€œWhat’s all this stuff?” he asked, fingering the velvety green leaf of a petunia.
    â€œThe flats are annuals—pansies, marigolds, snapdragons. The plant you’re about to take a leaf off of is a petunia,” she added. “It’s cheaper to grow them than to buy them.”
    He nodded and began to wander again. Having him in her territory felt strangely intimate. The walls were opaque, the door closed, the only sound the occasional drip of water. For the first time, they were truly alone. There were no distractions, just the two of them amid the green.
    â€œThese go in the ground now?” he asked, watching her as she went back to transplanting the petunias.
    â€œI’m starting to set some of them out in the yards I’m working on. I probably shouldn’t before Mother’s Day—you never know if you’re going to get a frost up here—but I’m taking my chances.”
    â€œCady McBain, extreme gardener.”
    â€œI like to live life on the edge.”
    â€œReally?” He studied her. “That’s good to know.”
    Her skin warmed. “That wasn’t an invitation.”
    â€œDo I look like I need one?”
    No, he looked like the kind of guy who just went after what he wanted, she thought uneasily. She just couldn’t figure out why it happened to be her.
    â€œIf you plant all this, you’ll have a lot of space afterward. You could probably find a corner for a commissioned job, couldn’t you?”
    And there was the answer. Her eyes narrowed. “If this is about growing ramps for you, no. My hands still smell.”
    â€œNot ramps, microgreens.”
    â€œIf they grow in the forest, I’m not interested.”
    â€œThey don’t grow in the forest.”
    â€œI’m still not interested.”
    He tapped his knuckles on one of the wooden tables. “They don’t take much room,” he offered. “Just a little dirt and water and a week or two of growing time.”
    â€œTwo weeks? You know what you’re going to get from two weeks of growth? Grass. Micrograss.”
    â€œStrongly flavored micrograss. They taste phenomenal, trust me. Makes all the difference in a dish.”
    â€œThen I suggest you tap into your underground chef network and find out where you can get some. In case you haven’t noticed, this greenhouse is full, and when I’ve planted the annuals I’ll be filling it up with perennials.”
    â€œThe microgreens don’t take a lot of space. And I need them,” he said simply. “The restaurant needs them.”
    The thing she couldn’t say