Getting Rich (A Chef Landry Mystery) by Monique Domovitch Page A

sported a lid that covered the burners when not in use. I’d found the relic on eBay and had it shipped all the way from Winnipeg at a cost of over twice the purchase price. I didn’t care. There was something oddly comforting about that old cast-iron cooker. Maybe because it reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen and all the hours she and I spent together baking oatmeal cookies and chocolate cakes. That stove now held center stage in mine, alongside a decades-old refrigerator I’d had refinished to match at a local body shop.
    My love for everything retro didn’t stop there. There were the antique high cupboards with glass panes I’d salvaged and lovingly stripped and repainted, the old wood floor I’d sanded and lacquered, and the open shelves on which I displayed all my Blue Willow dishes. I liked to think of it as French country—charming and romantic in a non-fussy sort of way.
    Mitchell’s kitchen was as masculine as mine was not—charmless yellowed-oak cabinets from three decades ago, a white fridge with faded decals, inherited no doubt from somebody’s basement or garage. The stove was harvest gold, which I might not have minded so much had it worked. On the other hand, as Mitchell pointed out, he owned a microwave. So why would he even need a stove? And he was happy with any fridge as long as it kept his beer cold and his frozen dinners frozen.
    So what if my man wasn’t exactly sophisticated. I didn’t care. In fact, that was something I rather liked about Mitchell. Unlike his predecessor, I didn’t have to do somersaults to impress him. It was a refreshing change.
    He brushed a lock of hair from my forehead, anchoring it behind my ear, his eyes holding mine. He leaned in and kissed me, making me almost swoon. “A few minutes to spare, you say?” He smiled wickedly. “Does that mean you’ll only have a half cup instead of a mug? And I suppose I’ll have to forget about nibbling on your neck, and your shoulders and your—”
    I put a hand to his mouth. Considering his lack of ability in the kitchen—something he more than made up for with his talent for kissing—he could make a mean cup of coffee. I smiled back, holding his gaze. “Well, let’s not exaggerate. Pour me a mug by all means.”
    I climbed onto a bar stool and planted my elbows on the counter, wondering what he wanted to talk about. And then I noticed the way he seemed so very concentrated on pouring the coffee, and I guessed that whatever he wanted to tell me was probably not good news.
    He handed me the quart of milk.
    “Thanks.” I poured a few drops in my coffee and took a sip, “Mmm, good.”
    He cleared his throat. “Sorry if I haven’t had much time for you lately, Nicky. I’ve been working like mad on the edits.”
    “And how’s it going?”
    He shrugged, looking miserable. “Not great. My deadline is coming up fast, and if I don’t finish in time, I’ll break contract.” He scowled. “And if that happens, not only could they back out of it, but I’d have to reimburse them my advance.” He gave me an apologetic smile. “Which is why...” Long pregnant pause. My mouth dried. “I’ve decided to take her suggestion,” he continued, “and go to New York to work on the editing with her in person.”
    I managed to keep the whine from my tone. “And when are you leaving?”
    “Tomorrow.”
    I had not once thought of wondering how old this editor was, or what she looked like. Now, I pictured her as some lithesome blonde with sultry eyes. I had a sudden vision of Mitchell dining at some dimly lit restaurant, having a whispered conversation with his sexy editor, who just so happened to be enamored with her hot new author. I swallowed hard. “How long will you be away?”
    “No more than two weeks.”
    “Oh, two weeks isn’t that long.” Hopefully not long enough for some gorgeous babe to work her magic on you. “You can get it all done in that time?”
    “If it takes longer, I’ll be in deep