Free And He Cooks Too by Barbara Barrett

in chef’s garb, but I doubt that’s the reason you took up the culinary arts. Doesn’t sound like you.” He leaned forward and pointed an index finger at her. “On the other hand, for someone who’s so big on telling the truth, you’ve already fibbed.”
    A vapid expression appeared on her face. “I simply asked ‘would you believe?’”
    “Try again.”
    She finished nursing her drink, then set it neatly to the side of her water glass. “Short version. I was an awkward teen struggling to deal with my parents’ divorce until I discovered cooking. My dad was a country singer with one big mega-hit. After his death, I used my inheritance from his royalties to pay for cooking school.”
    “Would I recognize him?”
    “My dad was Jerry Dunbar. He wrote ‘Make My Future.’ And that’s Question Two.”
    It just kept getting better. “I love that song.” The irony hit him. “What poetic justice.”
    She narrowed her eyes, not following.
    “You said his big hit was ‘Make My Future.’ It certainly made yours.”
    Releasing what sounded like a sigh, she said, “True, but I wish it had been his future that benefited instead of mine. He came so close.” She looked away, but before she did, he caught sight of the moisture pooling in her eyes.
    Well, hell. He hadn’t intended for this conversation to get serious, but now that they were there, he wanted to know more. Since he never knew his own father, this was all new territory for him.”
    She turned back to him, any evidence of tears gone. “I saw him three days before he dropped over from an aneurism in the middle of rehearsal. Even if I’d been there, he died immediately, without a chance to say good-bye.”
    Fortunately, their dinner arrived at that moment, dispelling the somber tone that had taken over. They ate in silence for a while, each sampling, savoring their meal. At last, having finished over a third of his, Nick licked his lips and said, “Not bad.”
    “Mine too. Quite tasty for arroz con pollo . The chicken is moist, the rice done right. But there’s no excitement to it, nothing different that shouts unique, the kind of fare that draws rave reviews.”
    Tough lady to please. He sampled more of his entree. “You’re right. No A-plus here either. So much for Ocho’s.”
    A puzzled expression came over her face. “Are you ready to leave already?”
    “Not yet. I get one more question.”
    She blinked. “You’re kidding. I thought you were just playing me.”
    Was she playing him with that comment? “No way. You’ll know when I’m playing you.” He raised his brows and dipped his head slightly to emphasize his claim.
    She stared back at him, a question in her eyes. Maybe she did get into that dare part.
    “Question three: why did you really take this job?”
    “Uh—”
    A female voice just beyond their table gushed, “Aren’t you Nick Coltrane?”
    Damn! He assumed his best celebrity smile and turned toward the questioner. “Guilty.” Autograph seekers. He recognized the look. Plaintive, hopeful. But they were his bread and butter. Couldn’t turn them away. He reached inside his jacket for a pen.
    Two fortyish women came up to the table, a taller female friend behind the woman who’d spoken. “I saw you on Broadway a few years ago in that drawing room mystery…”
    Damn again. He’d assumed they were fans of the show. The last thing he needed was for Reese to find out he was an actor. Too late now. And he couldn’t afford to offend his audience. “Blood on the Piazza,” he supplied. “But that was at least seven years ago. I’m surprised you remembered.”
    “How could I forget?” the woman cooed. She nodded toward her friend. “Della and I saw it together. Isn’t that something that we’d be having dinner together tonight and see you again?”
    “Amazing.”
    “Where have you been keeping yourself? We’d like to see you on stage again,” Della, the friend, put in.
    “I’m afraid I’ve moved on to a new