Mr. Chef & Ms. Librarian

By Melissa Yin

Ivy Appleford is not a diva. Most librarians aren't.
But for once in her life, she's breaking all the rules.
Take Tariq Zahid. In fact, that's the main problem: she wants to take him. He's tall, dark, and handsome, but off-limits in so many ways. First of all, she just broke up with her professor boyfriend. Everyone knows you shouldn't scoop a new guy up on the rebound. Someone's bound to get hurt.
But she literally falls at Tariq's feet during his Mediterranean cooking class, thanks to borrowed shoes and a little mutt named Jerry, and they can't keep their hands off each other.
Tariq's got problems of his own. His catering business is on its last loan. What's more, the loan is from his parents, who immigrated to Canada from Pakistan and devoted their lives to him. Shouldn't Tariq retreat to the safe world of computer programming, marry a good Muslim gal, and set up an RRSP?
Instead, he falls in love with Ivy.
Will Tariq and Ivy live--and eat--happily ever after?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olo Books
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781927341186

Melissa Yin

Melissa Yin is a doctor, writer, and free spirit who lives east of Montreal with her family.

Book preview

Chapter 1

COOKING CLASSES AT GLENBURNIE MANOR

Tariq Zahid, 32, a Montreal chef, will offer cooking classes at the Glenburnie Manor, starting October 3rd. Although his own background is Pakistani, he will teach a variety of cuisines and flavors. He guarantees the food won't be too hot. These are hands-on classes. Add the spice yourself. The first class is Mediterranean. He charges $50 per person, per class, Mondays at 6:30 p.m.

***

Tariq laid out the ingredients on the faux granite countertop. Phyllo pastry. Spinach. Feta cheese. Fresh dill. Parsley. Scallions. Eggs. Olives. Olive oil. Butter. Everything as fresh, delicious, yet cheap as possible. He needed to hook every one of these ten students and add two more. A dozen to make a good-sized cooking class.

A dozen to save his business.

Don't think about that now. Concentrate.

He counted up the last of his ingredients and ran through the checklist of all the utensils he needed, especially his knives. The couple who owned the Manor had offered to share their hardware in this fully-stocked basement kitchen, but Tariq wanted to be self-sufficient. It was even more crucial at a venue in the country, over an hour away from any decent-sized grocery store in the metropolis of Montreal. Glenburnie seemed to consist of a few houses and a church. Tariq was gambling that he could carve a niche for himself in this tiny village.

Tariq's fists knotted up. He forced them to relax while taking a deep breath. He could smell the dough, the oils, and the faint tang of the olives. Food always relaxed him and made him feel whole.

A car crunched along the frozen gravel driveway. Seconds later, through the basement window, Tariq spotted a pair of red Mary Janes marching under the lights of the walkway, heading straight for the front steps.

Tariq checked his watch. It wasn't even 5:45 p.m. His class started at 6:30. Either the Manor’s owners had a guest, or the natives were hungry.

The doorbell gonged. Jerry, the Manor's ancient black mutt, yapped as ferociously as his pipsqueak body would allow.

Tariq washed his hands, but before he'd dried them, he heard one of the owners, Roy, pull open the heavy oak door. Come on in. You're here for the cooking class, right?

Tariq chopped the tomatoes double-time. Now he was going to have to babysit while he did the last of his prep.

That's right. My name is Ivy Appleford. She had a beautiful voice, low and sweet.

Tariq stopped for a second. He was a sucker for gorgeous voices.

I thought I recognized you. You're the librarian.

A librarian could be good. Someone attentive, quick to take notes and to sign up for every class. Or she could be a giant, picky pain in the ass. He hoped for the former as he shucked the onions.

***

Ivy Appleford hesitated in the doorway, clutching her purse. I'm sorry I'm early. I wanted to leave extra time in case I got lost. I'm new to the area. She took a step inside, even though she felt ridiculous in borrowed shoes and eye shadow. Two weeks ago, Ivy’s boyfriend dumped her at Glenburnie’s one fancy restaurant. The waitress had taken pity on her, warped into Ivy’s new best friend, and played What Not to Wear with her tonight.

It had felt good when Lola fussed over her. Good enough to put up with plum eye shadow, a curling iron singeing her right ear, and slightly too-large red shoes and matching lipstick. Ivy refused to change out of her simple white blouse and black slacks, even though Lola rolled her eyes and waved various outfits that probably wouldn't fit over Ivy's curves anyway. So now Ivy probably looked like a cabaret singer slumming as a caterer, but maybe that wasn’t such a bad look for a cooking class.

Roy showed off the dining room, dominated by a 16-place solid wood dining table. It's originally from a convent—

Yap! Yap! Yap!

Ivy whipped around to stare into the eyes of a miniature, shaggy black dog with a grizzled white muzzle. Its determined eyes belied its size.

Roy laughed. That's Jerry. He can do no wrong, at least according to my wife. You don't mind dogs, do you?

Ivy tried to smile. Her family had never had pets, and she liked cats' tidy paws better than yapping canines. He looks friendly, she lied. Jerry bared his teeth at her.

I'll keep him away from you. He's a bit old and set in his ways. Jerry, come here.

Jerry pattered two inches closer to Roy, but his canine eyes fixed on Ivy.

Ivy's stomach rumbled. She covered it with her hands, cheeks flaring.

Roy laughed. I'll get you down to the kitchen. We're so proud of this place, I could go on about it forever. The other students should arrive soon.

As they walked down to the basement, Ivy tried to step quietly. The soles of Lola's shoes seemed to slap the floor too loud. She felt a draft from the front door. She wished she'd brought a sweater. Maybe the oven would warm up the kitchen.

The smell of ripe olives and fresh herbs distracted her a little. The two upper floors of the Manor were lovely, but so vast and empty for two people, it looked and smelled like a museum instead of a home. She followed Roy down toward the food and the yellow light spilling into the hallway. He called, Tariq? Your first customer is here. He pronounced the chef's name like, Ta, Rick. Since British people said Ta as thank you or thanks awfully, she took it as a good omen.

Ivy lifted her shoulders and dressed a smile on her face. First, she'd apologize for being early. Then she'd take a good look at the chef. She pictured a rotund little man in a chef's hat, sort of the Pillsbury dough boy made flesh.

Instead, a slim, brown-skinned guy in a denim shirt and black pants whirled around the island and caught her with the sharpest brown eyes she'd seen in her life. While her own eyes widened, taking in his defined cheekbones and handsome, unsmiling face, she nearly tripped over a stool and glanced down just in time to see Jerry yip, jump up from under said stool, and bowl her over backwards.

Chapter 2

Tariq dashed to her side.

Just what he needed, his first student in Strathcona breaking her butt.

His cousin Zaki had once asked him about lawsuits, as in, What if you let someone chop broccoli and she lops off her finger instead? At the time, Tariq had just laughed. His students had handled the broccoli fine, and most Canadians weren't ambulance-chasers. Still, Tariq didn't need bad publicity, especially here and now. At this rate, New Caledonia would forget the spanakopita and gossip about this girl going to the emergency room.

The little dog's yaps echoed off the kitchen walls. Roy kept asking, Are you all right, Ivy? The woman stared right at Tariq and said, I'm fine.

He paused again at her low and lovely voice. She wasn't classically beautiful, but he was drawn to her eyes, a deep, mysterious brown shade that contrasted with her wavy blond bob and fair skin. He even liked the bow of her lip and the little bump in her nose. Too bad she was wearing too much makeup.

Wait a minute. She was a customer, not a date. He caught himself, said, Hi. Sorry about the wildlife, and held out his hand.

She took it. The bones in her hand were very fine.

Roy danced around her. We'll keep Jerry out of here. Carmen was supposed to keep an eye on him. I'll make sure she takes him and closes the door.

Roy was as worried about bad press as Tariq was. In fact, more so, because right now, Tariq couldn't remember why he'd been so bothered. After a long moment, Ivy withdrew her hand and brushed the seat of her pants. Don't worry. It's these shoes I borrowed.

Tariq glanced down at the bright red shoes. They matched her lipstick. He suppressed a laugh.

But your clothes— Roy seemed all too eager to help dust off her back end. Tariq couldn't help noticing that she had a very nice rear view.

I'll live, she said, moving away from Roy. Sorry I came so early.

Hey, the more, the merrier, said Tariq. He grinned at her and pulled out a stool at the central island. You want to sit down?

Sure. Less chance I'll trip over Jerry again that way.

I'll get him out of here, said Roy, scooping the dog up, and finally the kitchen fell silent.

They'd just met, but Tariq already liked the animation in her face and her honesty and wry humor. He found himself staring at her.

She stared right back.

He broke the gaze first, turning back to his onions. What was he doing? He was here to teach and build up his career. The last thing he needed was a woman. I was just chopping, which is pretty boring.

Can I help? Even though you probably think I'm a klutz? She raised her eyebrows ruefully.

A cute klutz. Nah. If anyone's going to cry over the onions, I'll do it. You should relax. Could I get you a glass of water? He rummaged through the cupboards above the sink. He should check where all the dishware was anyway.

She made a face. I'm fine, just surprised. It's not like I need a disabled parking space.

He laughed. Witty, too. He poured her a clear tumbler of water. That's good, because I can't get you a disabled sticker. I'm all about the water, though.

Only if you have one, too.

Okay. He poured himself one and sat beside her.

She held up her glass. Cheers. To good food.

And good people. They clinked and drank. Her thigh lay inches away from his. To stop himself from dwelling on that, he said, Your name's Ivy, right? I'm Tariq Zahid.

I know. She smiled at him over the rim of her glass.

He finished the onions and stood to rinse out the parsley for tabbouleh. It was fiddly work, but it was a good reason to move away from her and clear his head. He could not figure out why she was affecting him so much. She hadn't even said or done anything provocative. He concentrated on the tiny leaves of parsley.

I could do that, she said. She spoke more precisely than the average Canadian. Did he detect a faint British accent?

I'm doing it. Are you from Strathcona originally? He was curious, but also, a local might bring friends to his next class.

She laughed. God, no. I just moved here a few months ago. Before that, I lived in Montreal. Before that, Edmonton. And originally, Chester, England.

Where's that?

Near Liverpool.

He nodded. So that's where you get your accent.

I didn't think I still had one.

Just a little. Was she offended? He glanced up from the running water.

She was smiling. The other kids used to tease me about it. You should have heard me when I was ten. This is nothing.

Does it come back when you visit England?

She shrugged. I wouldn't know.

You don't go back? He'd been to Pakistan three times. His parents were always talking about how he had to visit more often.

She shook her head and reached for the parsley. Please let me do it. I insist.

Since she obviously wanted to change the subject, he handed her the soggy bunch and dried his hands on a tea towel. She handled the small, curly leaves like they were precious. He could only imagine how she would stroke a lover in bed.

She smiled down at her hands and he caught himself, backing away from her. Are you interested in Mediterranean cooking?

Any cooking, as long as it's good. But there was this Greek restaurant we used to go to... Her voice trailed off. Another dead end.

Yeah? Which one?

It's in Montreal. You may not know it.

I'm from Montreal.

Really? Where? Her shoulders relaxed. This woman did not like talking about herself. Pretty unusual.

Born and raised in Pointe Claire. But I live in Montreal West now. Which restaurant was it?

"Le Jardin de Panos. On Duluth."

I know it. I like their filet mignon brochettes.

So does—I mean, so do I.

The spark in her eye died a little, so he kept on. Duluth is great. Those cobblestone streets where people walk up and down in the summer, eating gelato and checking out the little jewelry stands...

Right! And there are tons of great restaurants. Like Mazurka, the Polish place where you can get a meal for five or ten bucks. She began to glow again. She obviously liked food. His kind of woman.

Yeah. I like Mazurka. I'm amazed they charge those prices, serve on real dishes and tablecloths, and still turn a profit. But that's volume for you. Whoops. Boring restaurant talk. What about that Portuguese place, B? You ever been? I had some terrific grilled octopus.

She wrinkled her nose. I've never tried it.

You should. They have this oil with red pepper flakes, gives it a little zing.

Yeah. She hesitated, shrugged, went back to rinsing the parsley with extra care. I might not be getting back to Montreal any time soon. But still, I'd like to hear about all the great places to eat.

Hmm. There was a story in there. Ten to one, an ex-boyfriend. He hoped she wasn't stuck for money, too. Then he'd feel guilty taking her fifty dollars for the class.

He shook his head. That was half his trouble. He was too soft-hearted and it broke his bottom line. Sure, no problem, he said, as if nothing was wrong, as if the back of his brain wasn't saying, Forget your ex. I know all the best places. What night is good for you?

Headlights swept across the yard.

Ivy's face cleared. Funny, she was nervous about being alone with him, too. I think more students are arriving. She set the parsley on a towel beside the sink. Do you need to wash it more?

He examined them. Perfect. Thanks.

My pleasure. She rested her hands on the counter.

He liked her attention and care with the parsley. It meant she respected the ingredients and his work. His gaze fell to her hands. Small-boned but strong. Fingernails free of polish and just the right length, not too long or too short. She had a thin, silver scar at the base of her right index finger. He pointed at it. What happened there?

She blinked at it, then at him. Oh. When I was thirteen, I broke the glass on a picture frame and cut myself.

What was the picture?

She laughed. The space shuttle, actually. I've always been a nerd.

Nothing wrong with that. Without thinking, he traced the scar with the tip of his own index finger, skimming across her delicate skin. She caught her breath and he realized that her eyes were the color of espresso.

Chapter 3

The class was wonderful, but Ivy found herself extra self-conscious. Or maybe just hyper-conscious of Tariq.

He wasn't like her ex at all. Stephen didn't like getting his hands dirty, literally or figuratively. He'd open a can of chili or slap together roast beef sandwiches, but his heart wasn't in it. He would have been happy to live off beer, nachos, and frozen dinners for the rest of his life.

Tariq's fingers were long and tapered with short, clean nails. She watched him demonstrate how to mince garlic and then press it with the flat of the knife, smashing it to release the flavor. While the other women and one man nodded, thrilled at this bit of culinary wisdom, Ivy imagined those fingertips on her breasts.

No.

She was on the rebound. Everyone knew you shouldn't have sex right after breaking up. The worst was hooking up with your ex, but the next most cardinal sin was ruining a nice guy for someone else.

Tariq ground some fresh pepper over the tabbouleh. You can smell the difference compared to the stuff in boxes.

Jane, the woman on Ivy's left, inhaled deeply. You sure can.

Ivy cast her a sharp look. Okay, Tariq was out of bounds, but she didn't need anyone else honing in on her fantasy material. Jane was a tanned woman in her 40's with a trim body and a lot of makeup, which meant she was probably addicted to Aquafit and would enjoy teaching Tariq a thing or two in bed.

Then Jane sighed and twisted the enormous diamond ring on her left hand. Ivy could have slapped herself. At this rate, she'd pay $50 and have nothing to show for it but a bruised bum and some hopeless fantasies about a handsome chef.

Come to think of it, that didn't sound so bad. Pretty X-rated and a big step up from grinding her teeth over Stephen.

Tariq stared at her. His eyes caught the light and his irises reflected gold for a second. Ivy?

She straightened her shoulders. Yes?

You might want to start rolling your spanakopita.

She glanced around. The other students were hard at work, brushing olive oil on their phyllo pastry while hers was drying out on its bed of washcloth.

Right. Sorry.

Did you need some help?

A guy helping you with your golf swing or batting practice was classic romance: standing too close, arms around you, cheeks touching. But remedial lessons in spanakopita sounded downright humiliating. I'll figure it out.

Sure. If you want, you can spray olive oil instead of brushing it. It's a low-fat trick.

Did he think she was fat? She paused in reaching for the stainless steel mini-spray can.

He said, Personally, I think olive oil is part of the taste and it's supposed to be good for your heart. But whatever floats your boat.

The one male student, a retired gentleman with grey hair named Godfrey, took the spray can. I just like gadgets, he explained, spraying liberally.

Ivy decided to follow his lead. This was supposed to be about fun and good food. She sprayed with a generous hand. Then she shook a spoonful of spinach mixture on one end of the phyllo and started rolling it up, triangle-shaped, trying to be neat. Jane and another over-achiever were already finishing their second spanakopitas.

Jane asked about tzatziki. I had some at the most divine Greek restaurant in Athens.

World-traveller alert. Jane started droning on—Of course Athens is overrated. I much preferred the smaller islands. Fewer tourists. We were invited to participate in a wedding—

Ivy crossed her eyes at her first spanakopita.

Tariq cut in smoothly. You're lucky, being able to travel so much. I haven't been as many places as I'd like. But I feel lucky because I can take a book off the shelf, read the recipes, prepare the food, and pretend I'm there.

Recipes never capture the true spirit. They aren't authentic, Jane said.

Ivy had to jump in. This was one of her pet peeves. That's what I love about a good book, whether it's a cookbook or a novel. A good book can be more authentic than visiting the place.

Jane shook her head and forgot to roll her next spanakopita. That does not make sense.

This wasn't like her, but Ivy was not about to back down with Tariq looking on, even if she made a fool of herself. Well, when you visit, you may end up seeing ten countries in a week while sandwiched on a tour bus, eating buffets with the same twenty people over and over again—

Jane talked right over her. You must go and explore. No, of course not tour buses, but you could buy a good tour book or hire a tour guide and strike out on your own. You'd miss the tastes, the smells, meeting the people.

A good book can tell you all that, for a lot less money. I just think books are underrated, said Ivy, feeling lame.

Godfrey patted her hand. They certainly are.

Does anyone even read anymore? Jane said. I, myself, read only the newspaper.

That was Ivy's number one sore spot. People who acted like reading was obsolete, and reading fiction, in particular, was a sin like eating jelly doughnuts or sporting visible panty lines. She opened her mouth, but Tariq beat her to it.

This is a terrific debate. We should continue at dinner, when we get to eat all our magnificent creations. In the meantime, please finish your spanakopitas, ladies and gentleman, so you can have a snack now and the rest of the feast later.

I can't wait, said Jane, smiling at him.

Neither can I. Ivy glared at Jane, who seemed impervious.

It turned out Jane and Godfrey had both moved from Montreal, same as Ivy, and it drove her mad to think they had something in common. Instead, she rolled up her second spanakopita.

She was really losing it. First, she lost Stephen and had to figure out how to manage the rent single-handed starting in November. Then she was having erotic fantasies about the chef, closely followed by the desire to shove a book down the throat of the woman on the next stool.

Tariq winked at her and she felt a little better.

She cheered up while munching the spanakopita. Who would have thought spinach and feta cheese could taste so good? These are better than the ones at the Jardin de Panos, she murmured.

Jane began to sing her ode to Mykonos, but Tariq distracted her by saying, I do have quite a nice tzatziki recipe, but I wasn't planning on teaching it today. I have to leave something for my next class. If any of you are interested, though, send me an e-mail and I'll type up the recipe.

Hmm. E-mailing Tariq under the guise of tzatziki. Very tempting. She'd better not chance it.

In the end, they sat down to tabbouleh salad, homemade hummus, pita bread, and beef kebabs. Carmen and Roy joined them. Ivy kept a sharp eye out for their dog.

He's locked in our room, Roy muttered at her.

Oh, you don't have to do that for me. I'll just keep a better eye out. She felt guilty imprisoning their pet.

We didn't want to take any chances, he said, digging into the hummus. This is terrific.

Carmen, a plump woman with dyed red hair, sat next to Jane and asked about her children.

Ivy poked the beef off her kebab, half-dreading and half-looking forward to debating Jane on the merits of literacy afterward.

Tariq dropped in the seat beside her like a man from heaven. Are you enjoying the food?

Yes, thanks. Even more now. Ivy nibbled on her hummus. I've only ever eaten this out of a plastic tub before. But now that I know how easy it is to put chick peas in a blender, I'm going to try it.

Good. Let me propose a toast. Tariq held up his water glass. To the first cooking class in Glenburnie. May it be the first of many.

And to the chef, said Godfrey, clinking his glass.

And our hosts at the Manor, Roy and Carmen, said Tariq.

And Jerry, Ivy felt obliged to add.

To Greek food! Jane chimed in.

To reading! Ivy called out, then blushed scarlet as everyone else fell silent.

And to good food in general, said Godfrey. I'll bring a bottle of wine next time, if that's all right. Tariq, what were you thinking of teaching next time?

Indian food, he said.

Oh, my goodness. That was from one of the quiet, middle-aged women. Ivy had already forgotten her name. Everyone laughed and started talking at once.

Ivy could feel Tariq tense beside her. I know it may seem a little exotic, but it's really not. I was thinking of a chicken dish, an appetizer like samosas. Has anyone here ever had samosas?

Of course, Jane had, and was more than eager to talk about it.

For the first time, Ivy realized how stressful this must be for Tariq. It was his livelihood.