Chapter 1

1

Not to brag, but I’m famous. Maybe infamous to some. Most people’ve heard of me even if they haven’t seen me on streaming media or TV. I’m Adam de Leon, the “brilliant young gay chef” who swept the Millennium Cook-Off, then capped that win with the Gift to the Gods Challenge five years later.

What being gay had to do with my cooking ability beats me. I’m the product of hard work and luck. A killer gigolo, my version of the better-known cocotte, propelled me to stardom.

There’ve been a lot of rumors about what happened to me afterward, whether I tried to off myself like the celebrity media brayed or if I plotted to poison Anthony Bourdain, Emeril Lagasse, and a dozen other celebrity chefs. Life should be so fucking dramatic, right?

Yeah, I thought about killing myself, but it had nothing to do with cooking. The chefs? Didn’t even occur to me to try to take them out. Hey, I get it. I know I look like a thug. It’s the scar across my eyebrow and on my cheek, right? Maybe my size. People say I have RTF, resting thug face.

My good friend Guy Stone and I might appear out to destroy ourselves while dragging the world down with us, but reality doesn’t match up to our looks. He owns and runs Stonewall Saloon and is tight with barista and coffee shop owner Jimmy Patterson. How middle class can you get?

Me? After the turmoil of the previous ten years, I got out of the celebrity-chef business, out of the San Francisco Bay Area’s seven point four million people, and started cooking locally grown food for people in a small town of twenty-five hundred, not counting tourists from the city and Lake Tahoe. I fix what I want for the people who show up to eat at my Sierra Nevada Mountains Bistro. I create one prix fixe meal three nights a week, sometimes two on Saturdays, from May until the snow starts in the fall. I cook for friends, acquaintances, and strangers, and host galas. For the past five years, my bistro has been a part of Lake Tahoe’s destination wedding scene

The tabloids had a field day when I first moved here, saying stuff like “Gourmet Chef Cuts Out Lover” with smaller headlines like “Celebrity Chef Bets It All in Tahoe.” Yeah, yeah. Haven’t lost a dime yet, baby, but they’ve had me bottom out ever since I left Jason and the Bay Area.

Unlike Stone and Jimmy, Fredi and Max, and a bunch of my other friends, I’m not looking for love or to settle down. I’m perfectly okay as I am. I’ve got money, food, and friends. What more can a thug want?

* * * *

The day was shaping up to be one of those a guy’d like to eat slowly and savor. The air was crisp, cool, and clear, like the first bite out of a ripe Fuji right off the tree. Even in the dark of six thirty in the morning, before the sun and the birds rose, I hoped it was going to be another great day worth living.

I ran my hand over my face. I could use a shave. The area around my scar was feeling bristly. Was I starting to look like a pirate? People would be wincing more than usual when they saw the gash surrounded by jet-black facial hair. I’d tried growing a beard once, but the way the hair came in around the scar seemed to emphasize it rather than hide it. Fuck. No shaving today. Naw. I could live with being a pirate.

My sous chef arrived whistling. Tonight was going to be our last meal at the Bistro until next spring. I could smell the promise of snow in the air.

“Boss,” Little John greeted me, his voice cracking in the early morning. “Chef, there’s a man sitting outside the front door. He wants to talk to you. Now.”

I let out a sigh. Damn. I ached to savor this pristine morning and watch it turn into a gorgeous, life-affirming day. I needed to wash my soul in sunshine and feel my spirits lift. I didn’t feel like butting heads with some idiot who was up too early or stayed out too late.

“You deal with him. I think we have some of the salmon left over from last night,” I said. “Make him a takeout with it and the rice, a couple of rolls, and whatever else we’ve got in the little fridge.”

“No, I don’t think he’s a panhandler. He wants to talk to you. He looks like someone I used to know, only I can’t place him.” LJ shrugged.

“Yeah, yeah. Okay. I’ll get it. We’re doing the crab mignon with winter soup tonight, so you know the drill.” Every meal started fresh with us.