1 Chapter 1: Tim

BOOK ONE: SWEET DISTRACTION

I’m not sure why I keep trying to get things accomplished in the office. When I'm here, I'm interrupted constantly. Everyone has questions and apparently I'm the only one with any answers. I'm trying to review the notes from our top clients, but my email chimes every few seconds and I've already had to put my cell on silent because my family evidently needs me to manage them, too.

When my intercom buzzes, I'm in the middle of re-reading a sentence I've started about ten times, so I'm impatient with my admin. "What, Donna? What??"

"I apologize, Mr. Stag. It can wait."

I exhale. Inhale again, exhale. What did that corporate meditation expert tell me I should do? Three long deep breaths before speaking? Who has time?? "No, I'm the one who should apologize for my tone, Donna. What's up?"

"It's just that Ms. Peterson is here to meet with you."

"Peterson?" A glance at my calendar shows only "busy" for the next half hour. It's not like Donna to be vague when scheduling. Who the hell is Ms. Peterson?

I hate feeling caught off guard. This never happens, and I don't tolerate it. But I have no idea what Donna is talking about, and that makes me nervous. I'm always prepared for meetings. That's what I do. I prepare for things, explore every possible avenue, make a plan for each contingency. That's how I steered my family through crisis and how I managed to run my own multi-million dollar company before I hit 30.

"Remember, Mr. Stag?" Donna's voice is calm. "Your grandmother suggested we bring on a chef and when I asked at the culinary school, they said--"

"Oh! The chef! Ms. Peterson is the chef. Right." As usual, my grandmother has been inserting herself into my affairs and, as usual, she's probably right. But I can't have her interfering with my work. I make a mental note to speak with my grandmother about making arrangements with Donna without my consent. "Donna, can you take her for some coffee or something while I prepare for our discussion?"

"She says that she's already had coffee today and that--"

"Give me five minutes, Donna. Then send her in."

"Yes, sir."

What kinds of questions should I even be asking a chef? I should have just left this interview up to Donna. My grandmother took one look at me last weekend and decided I'm pale because I don't eat properly. She's not wrong--I work 18-hour days and usually don't remember to eat until every place is closed. When I get here in the morning, nothing is open yet. I know my staff works hard for me, too, and I actually really like my grandmother's idea to have a chef come in so they can feel appreciated at lunch and maybe eat something good in the afternoon. I click through my research. A lot of big companies are bringing in a chef, having lunch together as a team every day. My competitors aren't--it's mostly tech companies. But the research seems sound. A small investment toward food and the chef's salary for greater retention and improved morale. Who says you can't buy loyalty with pie?

When Donna knocks at my office door, I look up from my monitor and, for the second time today, I'm caught totally off guard.

Standing beside my secretary is the most striking woman I've ever seen in my life. In an office full of power suits and smooth hair, Ms. Peterson stands out like a star in the night sky. Her blonde curls are unruly, messily held back with what looks like a pen. Maybe it's a chopstick? She can't be more than 5'2", even in black clogs, which she wears with chef whites and a hot pink scarf. The shapeless jacket pulls taut across what I can tell is a full bust, and suddenly all I can think about is peeling her out of that double-breasted coat so I can massage the creamy, white globes it hides.

"And this is Mr. Stag, of course, head of the company. Mr. Stag, this is Alice Peterson." She sticks out a hand and I meet her eyes, pleasantly surprised by her firm grasp as she pumps my hand.

"It's a pleasure to be here, Mr. Stag," she says, and smiles. She has one of those smiles that reaches her entire face, and I'm mesmerized by her violet eyes as Donna excuses herself and backs from the room. The click of the closing door shakes me back to the present and I gesture for her to take a seat.

Suddenly my mahogany desk is too big and too wide; the space between us seems too far. This isn't going to work at all, I decide. I can't have someone like this distracting me at work. I sigh, thinking of how I'll explain to Donna that she has to find someone less…tempting. I realize as I'm thinking these thoughts that I absolutely cannot not hire her because she turns me on. I should know. I'm a lawyer and we specialize in injury and wrongful termination cases.

I realize the silence has become uncomfortably long when she asks me, hesitantly, "So…what would you like to ask me?"

I meet those violet eyes again and tell myself to go into work mode. This is just another puzzle for me to solve. How to overcome the lust I'm feeling for this woman. Just another obstacle. "Well, I've never hired a chef before, to be honest, but it's something a lot of companies are doing these days."

She nods. "Oh for sure. It's definitely something companies are using to differentiate themselves and attract top talent. Everyone seems to have a 'thing,' you know? Fancy milkshakes or an all-day cereal buffet…"

When I don't say anything, she continues, rambling a bit. "I took a look around your lunch room before I signed in with your admin. You don't have a ton of space down there, but I was definitely thinking we can work on power bowls. Protein packed, quick meals. Nothing heavy on the garlic."

My wit fails me and I can't think of a response, so I say nothing. She must think I'm an idiot or an asshole, I tell myself as I sit there, speechless. I sigh. "It sounds like you have the right idea. Hiring a chef was actually suggested to me by someone who noticed we work long hours. My attorneys are very dedicated and by the time they remember they haven't refueled, most delivery places are closed. None of us wants to rely on fast food."

She nods. "Quick, nutritious meals, ready to eat. You guys need protein and fat if you're cranking out hours like that. Lots of fresh fruit. Nothing that will stain your dress shirt." And then she winks, causing me to glance at my chest. I'm relieved to discover there is no stain.

I clear my throat. "So Donna tells me you did very well in culinary school?"

Alice Peterson perks right up at this. I can tell she's proud of her accomplishments. "I finished top of my class," she says. "My family worked really hard to get me there, so I wanted to honor that by doing my best. I've always wanted to be a chef!" She beams. "I even got to intern with Kevin Souza before he closed Salt of the Earth," she says, referencing what had been my favorite restaurant to take clients before the chef/owner closed it to focus on a new concept a few towns over.

"Well," I say, impressed, "Why don't you tell me what I should be asking you."

She nods and stands. "I think we should go look at the space and talk about what's missing."

"Oh," I say, rising. "I hadn't considered that you might need different equipment." My firm occupies the top two floors of one of the skyscrapers in downtown Pittsburgh. When we leased the space five years ago, I knew the former occupants had also been a law firm. As we walk toward the break room, I realize that of course she would need ovens and stoves and an industrial refrigerator if she's going to prepare multiple meals for us every day.

Alice begins talking about her favorite appliance vendor and I lose myself in her speech, which seems to come so easily to her. Her words aren't measured or calculated. When she tells me that Don's is the best appliance dealer for a Viking range, I can tell she really feels this way, and not because she has a reciprocal deal with him.

"What would your ideal meal look like here at work, Mr. Stag," she asks, frowning and pulling out a notebook from the pocket of that bulky coat.

I squint, looking around the small break room. Right now, it's got a standard fridge and sink and electric range. It resembles the kitchen of a college dorm…with a few circular tables scattered around. "I really liked what I read about one of the tech companies in East Liberty," I say. "They have a large space where they all eat lunch together every day, even the CEO. The chef rings a dinner bell when it's time to eat." I remember reading that and thinking of family dinners at my childhood home, before everything turned sour.

My mother used to ring an old ship's bell to summon my brothers and me in from the back yard as soon as she saw my father's car approaching our driveway. Lost in the memory, I'm jolted again when Alice touches my arm.