Typecast by Kim Carmichael Page A

“Wilson’s?”
    “It says it’s a bar.” Giselle pointed to the card.
    “The owner is Wilson. Don’t tell them who sent you.” She winked and returned to her computer.
    “I got my first juicy tidbit.” Wilson. The name hit a button in her memory bank. Her blood sped, and she tightened her hold on what could possibly be the key to her assignment. “Let’s go have lunch.”

“I started this last night.” Logan closed his eyes and pulled the foil off his masterpiece with the same flourish a magician made when making a rabbit appear out of a hat. Only with his work, there were no tricks or sleight of hand. In the kitchen, everything was out in the open. After marinating, grilling, and resting his flank steak, the meat had to be perfection. The aroma of garlic, wine, and the perfect amount of smoke melded together, and at last, he cut the thin, tender slices then arranged them on the plates over the mashed potatoes and topped them with crispy fried onions for the perfect balance. “I can train whoever we hire as a chef to make this if it works.”
    “Well, give it. I’m starving.” His brother, Wilson, held out his hand.
    “Hold on.” He wiped a bit of errant sauce off the edge of the plate. “Dig in.”
    “I’m so glad you took the time to make it presentable.” His brother picked a piece of meat up with his fingers and shoved it in his mouth.
    “Must you be a heathen?” He lifted up a fork. “My cuisine is art.”
    “It’s my bar, and I’ll eat with my fingers if I want to.” Wilson repeated his action, chomping down another piece of steak followed by a finger scoop of mashed potatoes. “I only allow you to cook here ’cause it’s good.” He swiped the fork away.
    “And for you.” Logan gave the second plate to his friend Isaac. “Ask for ketchup and you will be wearing it.”
    “I stopped putting ketchup on my food in high school. I opt for steak sauce now.” Isaac took his meal and utensils.
    “Hey, Mr. Scientist, anyone knows that steak sauce and ketchup are basically the same thing. My steak is perfect as is. I will not allow even a saltshaker near it. Your meal is chemically perfect.” Between Isaac and Miss Details, his world was abundant with the scholarly types. He turned to his plate and pierced a piece of his creation. Acting as a gentleman, he took in the food with his eyes first. With the ideal amount of char and pink juicy center, his meal should be the centerfold in a magazine.
    “So, what do we owe this impromptu menu tasting to?” Isaac asked.
    He chewed with his mouth closed like a civilian, taking the time to savor the flavor, the velvety meat balanced with a kick of spice. However, there was one thing missing . . .
    “He decided to make a piece when he didn’t get a piece with that chick. Since then, he’s been cooking.” Always the taller, larger one of the Alexander brothers, Wilson came closer, casting his shadow over the table. “You should have heard the pots and pans banging around. Once we open, the customers will be cramming in here when they find out our mystery chef makes more than chicken wings and fries. If he let me say who he was, we would draw twice the crowd.”
    “I don’t work here, and I don’t make guest appearances.” Yes, a woman was the only item missing, namely Ivy, which only made his conviction to stay away from her even stronger. Only it didn’t stop him from thinking about her. “If you want food for the bar I helped finance, I will remain behind the curtain training the staff.”
    After Wilson had given up a lot of his time to be with him on set, Logan had invested in his brother’s dream. It not only gave him an outlet for his creative cooking, it also gave them both the opportunity to leave their crammed apartments and move to the top floor of the building. The setup was easy and convenient with much more room. Everything would be great if only Wilson would give up on trying to push his ever-dimming star back into the