“Sweetheart, I told you on the phone. Mr. Morrison is my daddy.” He took my hand and led me to the booth. “You can call me Hutch.”
“Alright, Hutch. It’s nice to meet you in person.”
“Likewise. Let me take a look at you.” He gave my hand a little tug before I could sit on the cushioned seat. “Black.” He grinned at me. “My favorite color. I hope you have that tight little body from working out and not starving yourself. I intend to feed you, Catherine.”
“I”…” I wasn’t quite sure how to answer that. I should probably have been offended, but I found myself smiling. “I’m not really hungry, but I wouldn’t mind some coffee.”
His smile turned mischievous. “Oh, that’s sacrilege. You can’t come into a chef’s signature restaurant without an appetite.”
I flushed, embarrassed I’d been so careless with my words. He was right, of course. I didn’t mean to offend him before our meeting even began. I started to apologize. “I’m sorry. That’s not what I—”
“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. I know you’re hungry. You just don’t know it yet. But you will.” He winked at me. “Wait until you try my cooking.” Before I could answer, he tugged me toward him. I realized he hadn’t ever released my hand. He did now, moving a hand to the small of my back and holding me against him as we made our way into the kitchen. We were so close that I felt like we were long-lost friends.
I also felt his body against mine. It wasn’t only his arms that were muscled and defined. I was pretty sure he hid hard washboard abs and a tight chest under that t-shirt. And there was something so intoxicating about the way he smelled—woodsy and smoky.
The kitchen was just a few steps away, and it was seriously awe-inspiring, even for a novice like me. It was big, much bigger than the kitchen at Willowgrass. It was completely open too, so diners could see just about everything that was going on. Cooking as theater. It was bright and spotless, the stainless steel appliances gleaming, the white surfaces immaculate. It looked meticulously organized and like a perfect stage for Hutch’s brand of elegant, refined cuisine. A chef in a white coat and black trousers nodded when we entered. He was at the other end of a long, gleaming, stainless steel center table finely chopping vegetables, likely the mise en place for the night’s service. Above the table, cylindrical light bulbs hung in glass cases, reflecting softly off the steel.
“This is majorly impressive,” I said.
Hutch smiled at me. “This is home.” But for someone who was home, he looked a lot more serious than he had in the restaurant’s seating area. He moved confidently around the counter where food was expedited and toward the ovens and stove tops. He looked completely at ease and also completely focused. I could tell he was a man who was intensely passionate and dedicated to his art.
At the other end of the prep table, Hutch began to mix ingredients, and while I sort of paid attention to what he was doing, mainly I watched the way the muscles in his arms flexed and released.
“What are you making?” I asked.
“A little sampling from our upcoming menu. Brown sugar and cinnamon beignets with a simple blueberry compote and café au lait with chicory. Sound good?”
“It sounds fantastic. Now I understand why it’s so hard to get reservations here.”
He glanced up at me. “We don’t take reservations, honey,” he said. “We sell tickets.” He moved toward the stoves, heating the oil to cook the beignet dough he’d just prepared.
“My friend Beckett mentioned something about tickets. He’s a food stylist and a big fan of yours.”
Hutch looked over his shoulder, a knowing grin on his face. “I bet. So you haven’t eaten here?”
“No.”
He turned toward me. “For shame, Miss Catherine. We’ll have to change that.” He moved to the prep table again and began doing something with blueberries. “The way Morrison Hotel works,” he said, never taking his attention from the food, “is that you buy a ticket to one of my food events. Right now the theme is ‘London Calling.’”
“So what kind of food is that?”
“It’s my kind of food. I was really interested in exploring the French influences in Marrakech and I also love London pub fare. You know, fish and chips, bangers and mash, mussels, roast beef. Really hearty, traditional English food. I explored the different flavor profiles and textures and came up with some of my own techniques for combining them, then I made it all work. That’s what I do.”