Memphis came out of the bathroom with a can of glass cleaner and a rag. “Hey.”
“Hey.” Eloise smiled. “I just came to get Knox. There’s someone here to see you.”
“Who?”
Eloise shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t give me his name.”
Maybe it was a happy customer. Or a pissed-off one. “’Kay. Where is he?”
“The lobby. I’ll point him out.”
I nodded and glanced at Memphis, giving her a wink. “See ya.”
That wink made her cheeks flame brighter. “Bye.”
I chuckled and walked with Eloise out of the room, following her down the hallway to the stairway door. Behind me, Memphis was beside her cleaning cart, her eyes glued to my ass.
When she realized I’d caught her staring, she simply shrugged and smiled.
I grinned and hit the stairs, following my sister to the lobby.
Eloise pointed to the man standing beside the roaring fireplace, taking her seat at the front desk while I went over to introduce myself.
The guy stood with his back to me, his frame covered in a tweed blazer and his neck wrapped in a thick plaid scarf.
“Good morning,” I said, maneuvering around the couch to stand by his side. “Knox Eden.”
“Morning.” He pulled off his brown felt hat, revealing his dark, bald scalp. He clasped the hat by the brim as he turned, his hand extended. “Lester Novak.”
Lester Novak.
Fuck. Me.
I shook his hand, taking in the mustache above his lip. That mustache was the logo he used in his magazine articles and on his website.
Lester Novak, a wildly popular food critic, was standing in my family’s hotel. And he wanted to talk to me.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my steady voice betraying the racing of my heart.
“Same to you.” He motioned toward the couch. “May I have a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
Lester didn’t ask if I knew who he was either because he expected a chef to know his name or he’d seen the recognition on my face. Probably both.
We settled on the leather couch, twisting to face each other.
In the hearth, the fire roared, chasing away the late-fall chill that blew in whenever the lobby’s doors opened.
The scents of coffee and cedar and charred pine filled the room. Scents that would normally give me a sense of peace. But I was sitting across from Lester Novak and his dark eyes gave nothing away.
“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance,” he said. “Cleo Hillcrest.”
“We do. Cleo was a guest here a couple years ago. She, uh . . . well, she took over my kitchen one morning and made enough breakfast pastries to feed the entire county.”
He chuckled. “That sounds like Cleo. Her bakery is a favorite stop of mine whenever I’m in Los Angeles.”
“She’s damn talented.”
I’d wanted to strangle Cleo the day I’d found her in my kitchen. Matty had let her in to do a little baking. She’d used more flour and sugar in a morning than I did in a month. But one bite of a muffin and another of a cinnamon roll and I’d gotten over my irritation. Then I’d stood back and just let the woman bake. It was her gift.
In her latest email, she’d mentioned that she was trying to plan another visit to Quincy with her bodyguard turned husband. Cleo didn’t know it yet, but Austin had already arranged to bring her to Quincy after Christmas.
If Lester Novak gave me a positive critique, I’d comp Cleo and Austin’s entire holiday vacation at The Eloise.
Hell, I should anyway simply because she’d sent me Memphis.
“Cleo told me about this charming hotel in Montana,” he said. “I had a break in my schedule and decided to make a quick stop. As per usual, Cleo has exquisite taste.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying your visit.”
“That I am.” He grinned. “Knuckles. Interesting name for a restaurant. The atmosphere was . . . unexpected. It reminds me of something I’d find in a city, not a small, country town.”
Was that a good thing? I couldn’t tell from his tone. “I could have put cattle skulls on the walls and let people toss peanut shells on the floor, but I’ll let the bars on Main do what people expect.”
“Good.” His grin widened. “I had dinner at Knuckles last night.”
Shit. What had I cooked? It hadn’t been all that busy, and I’d rushed through the last hour because I’d been anxious to get home before Memphis fell asleep.
There’d been a few burger orders. Lester might have been one, but given that his reviews of anything with red meat were rare, I was guessing not. Maybe he’d been the grilled trout tacos. Or the sunny-side-up pizza.
“And?” I asked.
“I don’t eat a lot of burgers.”
Damn. He’d had a burger. They were good, all my food was good. But they were just burgers. It was hard to get truly creative—which was why my father, a lifelong cattle rancher, thought burgers were beautiful.
The burgers were a local favorite but I could do so much better with so many other things.
“It was . . .” He stroked his mustache. Plain. Repetitive. Ordinary. “Fantastic.”
Oh, thank fuck. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“The waitress mentioned that you source all of your beef from your family’s local ranch.”
“I do. My older brother runs the ranch. Every year he finishes a handful of his best steers for me.”
“I particularly enjoyed the ketchup. That’s not a condiment I’ve ever been able to compliment before.”
I laughed. “I’ll have to give credit for that recipe to my mother.”
“There’s a story there, isn’t there?”
“There is.” I grinned. “Growing up, there were six of us kids. We went through ketchup like crazy. One day we ran out. It was the middle of winter and Mom didn’t feel like driving into town on bad roads, so she decided to make some of her own with some tomatoes she’d canned from the garden the previous summer. I don’t think she’s bought a bottle of Heinz since.”
Lester laughed and pulled a notepad and pen from the pocket of his blazer. “Would you mind if I used that story in my review?”
“Not at all.”
He went about making a few notes, all while my mind reeled.
Quincy, Montana, was not known for its food scene. The locals didn’t give a shit about a critic’s review. They didn’t worry about presentation. They cared that the food was hot when it reached their table and the prices were fair. It was a bonus if I sourced items from local producers.
That was the fantastic part about living here. There was no posh. Food was to nourish hard-working bodies and if it tasted good, well . . . that was the goal.
A review from Lester wouldn’t drive foodies through Knuckles’ front doors. But it was an accomplishment for me. It was something I’d be proud of for years to come.
“I’ve just started writing a monthly piece for Travel and Leisure magazine.” Lester tucked his pen and notepad away. “I’d like to feature Quincy, The Eloise and, in particular, Knuckles.”
“I’d be honored.” I didn’t bother hiding my smile.