Spooning Leads to Forking: Hot in the Kitchen, #2

By Kilby Blades

From USA Today bestselling author Kilby Blades, the first installment in the multi-award-winning Hot in the Kitchen series...

 

Leaving her name—and her job as a top food critic—behind in New York, Shea Summers seeks respite in Sapling. Her borrowed mountain getaway seems perfect for writing her opus. It's also perfect for riding out a messy divorce and hiding the roomful of cash she kind-of-sort-of stole from her ex.

Too bad Sapling is a remote, three-restaurant logging town with food that leaves much to be desired. Sexy grocer, Dev Kingston, may be Shea's saving grace. The way he looks at her with his aspen-green eyes shows her everything her marriage was missing; and he can special-order every culinary delicacy she craves. 

But Shea's not the only one who isn't what she seems. Dev moonlights as a sheriff's deputy, a fact she finds out too late; a spate of suspicious crimes finds the town crawling with investigators; and her ex is going to extremes to find out where she is. Taking the money might have been on the right side of wrong, but trifling with Dev is a dangerous game. She's still running and he's still the law.

 

"Hot and fresh and exciting. I had a good time reading this and would give it a five star recommend."
-Katrina Kitchen, Amazon reviewer

"A clever setup with two characters whose attraction was nothing but trouble (at first), ample amounts of humor, and a twisty suspense. Like a multi-course meal, it was filling and delicious."
- P. Kavanaugh, Amazon reviewer

 

"The ending was great."
-Blingsupreme, Amazon reviewer

 

"This book kept me guessing and hoping until the end that was beautifully written."
-Travina, Amazon reviewer

 

"Great characters. I really love Dev, he is so sweet and strong and caring and full of love."
-LisaGK, Amazon reviewer"

 

Accolades for Spooning Leads to Forking

• 1st Place Winner - Golden Leaf Award, Romantic Suspense

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kilby Blades
• Release date: Feb 7, 2021
• ISBN: 9781733867498

Book preview

Part I

The Hot Grocer

1

The House

Shea

God, this air is clean.

Shea had been hit with the same blunt thought that first morning when she’d pushed open the patio doors, two ribless panes of glass that refused to interrupt the view. The wide, green valley below and distant mountains that really were majestically purple still failed to trump her enjoyment of the air.

This never gets old, she thought as she took a deep inhale, cool forest aromas and just a hint of the coffee in her hand filling her senses. In the six weeks since she’d arrived, reality about all the other things she was missing had set in. But did she mourn the smells of the streets of New York? That was a big hell, no.

Shea had tried to stop comparing—tried to quit making New York her measuring stick—tried to love everything about Sapling, Colorado. And if love was too strong a word, to at least be grateful for a place to lay low. Things could be a lot worse. Things had been a lot worse. And most women in her situation didn’t have friends in high places.

Speaking of Kendrick…

Still in socked feet and pajama pants, Shea strode from the doors to the edge of the partially covered deck, no short distance since the deck had enough square footage to contain a full living space. Outdoor sofas with canvas cushions and inbuilt frames of reclaimed wood formed a U-shape around a grand fireplace. Stonework matched the ashen color of the wood. A different wood had been used for an outdoor table that was as much for dining as it was for a nice space to work.

Fishing in the pocket of the bathrobe that had become more of a staple in her wardrobe than she cared to admit, she pulled out her ever-present phone. Even without all the texting and the phone calls and the constant stream of social media alerts, going anywhere without it still seemed wrong.

Call Kendrick, she commanded Siri, quite a bit louder than necessary. Loud-voicing her commands was another habit that had proven hard to kick. This, from being accustomed to so much noise. It freaked her out—how quiet everything was out here. Her first week there, she’d shouted into the sprawling wilderness and descending valley. The echo of her own voice had shouted back.

Hey, gorgeous. She could hear the smile in Kendrick’s voice when he picked up. He was one of her go-tos when her mood needed a lift. She’d gotten in the habit of calling a different friend every other morning to stave off loneliness. Only, few friends knew where she was.

Hey, hot stuff, she returned.

She and Kendrick had dated for about five minutes before realizing they were better off as friends. He was one of the first people she’d met when she’d arrived in Manhattan. He’d taught her some street-smarts, shown her the city and helped her find a better job when the one she’d moved there for hadn’t panned out. He was also one of the smartest people she’d ever met.

Still liking the cabin? You need anything? Kendrick wanted to know.

Only you would call it a cabin. What is this place, like, 6,000 square feet?

Something like that… he replied.

If it were less, he would have defended its modesty. Kendrick had that freakish kind of recall some people had for numbers. His vague response proved that the house was larger than she’d guessed.

It’s amazing—seriously. I can’t thank you enough for offering it to me, let alone for a whole year.

Longer if you need it, he cut in. And stop thanking me—I’m getting embarrassed. Just name a character in your movie after me.

At the mention of the screenplay Shea was supposed to be writing, she glanced to her right toward the set glass walls that delineated the spacious office in the corner of the house. The screenplay wasn’t exactly a fake cover. She was writing it, and selling said script got her closer to claiming her rightful career as a filmmaker. It just also happened to be her alibi.

The small handful of friends who knew she’d gone away knew she’d retreated to an undisclosed location to write her opus. Everyone knew she had a film degree from Tisch. What would come out soon enough was that her abrupt departure was caught up in the tangled web of her unannounced divorce.

And what sort of character would fictional Kendrick be? Shea quipped, wanting to revel in the only contact she was likely to have with a real friend all day. The people in town were neighborly. But she was still new, and they were still strangers. Living under a false identity meant she needed to lay low.

Handsome, rich, benevolent… Kendrick began.

Shea smiled even as she rolled her eyes. Obviously.

But with a dark side, you know—maybe like a modern-day Robin Hood or a superhero assassin?

Shea blinked. Wow. I didn’t see that coming.

He chuckled. They never do.

Kendrick was handsome and rich, not so much a badass as he was a bleeding-heart humanitarian type. Her best friend, Carrie, who always forgot names, called him the hot computer geek. Kendrick wouldn’t hurt a fly.

After picking up her coffee mug from where she’d set it on the wooden railing, Shea took a long, creamy sip before walking left. Where she’d first stood had given the head-on view of the mountains but her favorite place to stand was at the corner of the deck, where the aspen trees began. She was kind of in love with their spade leaves and their silver bark.

Seriously, though ... how do you like the town? I know there’s not a whole lot there, but—I don’t know. There’s something about it.

She didn’t want to complain. There was nothing wrong with Sapling. Sapling was exactly what it was supposed to be. It was she who was out of place; she who was used to a different cadence of life; she who had thought it a brilliant idea to fall off the map; she who hadn’t thought through what it would mean for a hot-shit food critic to move to a tiny town in the mountains with absolutely nothing to eat.

It’s really clean, she said, a positive note lifting her voice. And the hiking is amazing. For the first time in a long time, I can breathe.

She’d been thinking about that—about how, once you got used to a dirty place, it didn’t seem so dirty. Just like once you got used to a bad marriage, it didn’t seem so bad. Her marriage to Ethan had been bad enough for her to leave like she did. Attempting a normal existence over the last six weeks proved that her marriage had been worse than she thought.

But cryptic metaphors about clean air would have to do for now. Kendrick had never liked Ethan and she had yet to tell her friend about the divorce. The omission was one of her current half-truths. At least most of her half-truths nowadays didn’t involve dodging her closest friends. They were all about avoiding suspicion among people in town.

Sticking to her story about borrowing a house from a friend to write a script was easy. The tricky part was staying off the grid. Using her born name was Shea’s best shot at keeping her old self—Elle West—back in New York. Elle Winters was the name she’d chosen at eighteen when she’d moved there with dreams of cinematic fame. Here, she’d reverted to Shea Summers, her born name.

I’m gonna make it up there, Kendrick promised. "Someone has to make sure you don’t go crazy from the isolation. It’s a vacation house, not The Shining."

Shea usually liked a good movie reference. The promise of a friendly face evoked enough sentimental emotion to head off what might have been a smile.

I’d love that, she replied only after she’d modulated her voice to sound normal.

It won’t be for another month or two… Kendrick warned.

It’s your house. Shea tried to make light. Come whenever you want.

Only after Kendrick promised that he would, and Shea promised to name a badass character after him did they hang up. Only then did she let herself wonder whether she could survive that long. She would have been crazy not to meticulously orchestrate her divorce from a man like Ethan. But had it really been better to move 1,800 miles away than to hide in plain sight?

Ten-minute limit, she scolded herself. That had been the deal. She’d wallow in self-pity for a maximum of ten minutes a day, then remind herself: Sapling was just a way station—her gateway to all the things she wanted. She’d be happy here because happiness was a choice and her joy didn’t belong to him. She’d be happy if she stuck to the plan.

2

The Plan

Shea

The plan was ambitious—audacious, some would say. Others might call it crazy and complex for all she was trying to achieve. Some people left bad marriages first and figured out the rest of their lives second, but Shea didn’t need all the Eat, Pray, Love . Living every day with what she didn’t want had her clear on what she did. The plan was her roadmap to get all of that and more.

Step one was reprogramming: breaking bad habits, getting his voice out of her head, building new muscle memory that reminded her she was autonomous and free, navigating the mundanities of life organically rather than orbiting him—remembering she was a grown-ass woman who could do whatever the hell she pleased.

Today’s whatever the hell she pleased would involve driving into town to get her morning bun from Delilah’s and taking another crack at her script. Then, she’d see a matinee of the new action flick a second time at the Grand Lake. She would smuggle in a flask of red wine, eat too much buttered popcorn and maybe some of those little ice cream bites. But none of that before she hit The Freshery. Sure, she’d pick up a few things to stock her cupboards if it would make her seem less creepy about her real purpose: to get an eyeful of the hot grocer.

That related to step two: Shea wanted to feel like a woman again, even if dating was out of the question. Getting too close to anyone ran the risk that she’d reveal too much about who she was. But she needed something just a little sweet and sinful to tide her over until things could be different. It didn’t seem like a terrible idea to dip her toes in by flirting a little.

She plucked her keys off of the kitchen counter, walked to the staircase next to the front hall and descended to the garage. The living spaces, office and bedrooms were all on the ground floor. An enormous rec room, a guest bedroom, utility rooms and a three-car garage were below. Passing the hidden-away bedroom that sat empty and waiting reminded her she needed to move the money.

Shea didn’t know trucks, but Kendrick kept a pristine one in the garage. It was off to one side and Shea’s own vehicle straddled the two spaces in the middle. Also in the spirit of whatever the hell she pleased, Shea had bought herself her first new car. She’d dreamt of owning a crimson Mustang since she was sixteen.

Just as Shea didn’t think she would ever get tired of the clean, Colorado air, she knew she would never get tired of the deep, reverberating growl of her engine. Twelve years in New York had done nothing to cure her of her love for the road. At first the Town Cars and limos and even the yellow taxis had felt exotic. But whatever the hell she pleased had already begun to involve long drives around Grand Lake and through the mountains with Lucille. Because of course Shea had named her car.

The drive down the hill was pleasant, a meandering descent to the valley, through forests of evergreens and aspen trees down to Sapling proper. Even the wooden bridge that crossed high over Elk River had a certain beauty. You could see on its legs how high the water rose after the snow melt, but it flowed like a creek at this late stage of summer.

The road she came in on became halting with stop signs as soon as she reached downtown. Her eyes scanned for a parking spot after the turn on to Oliver Street. The Freshery stood on that first block in a building that had been spruced up—the same old-western style of architecture shared by the other buildings on the street, only newer and in better repair.

Act natural, Shea instructed herself after she’d parked, slammed shut her car door and taken measured steps toward the entrance. People go to the market every day in a lot of cultures.

Only, Shea doubted that most people who went to the market every day cared so much about looking cute. She liked looking put together, regardless of where she was going, but hoping to see him made it different.

Oh, hey, Dev, she said breezily, casting him a slightly lingering smile after grabbing a cart from near the front of the door. He was almost always near the front behind a computer at the customer service desk. Stevie Wonder songs floated over the sound system whenever he was working. The large, semicircular area was on a raised platform that reminded her of an open DJ booth. It sat adjacent to the leftmost register.

Weekend mornings aside, the place stayed pretty dead. It wasn’t uncommon for her and Dev to be the only ones in the store. Frankly, she didn’t know how the place stayed afloat. But being alone with him was A-Okay with her. Sapling was a place where people stopped to greet one another. When it came to Shea, Dev’s prevalent emotion seemed to be amusement. And far be it from her to disown her own quirks.

Mornin’ Shea.

Dev’s warm baritone made her as melty as Nutella on oven-fresh brioche. She’d come to crave it like sugar. As expected, he sat in front of his laptop and the desk was littered with papers. Apart from Tuesdays and Thursdays—when the deliveries came—he tended to be glued to his seat, unless he was helping a customer.

Half the fun for Shea was being that customer. Seeking his guidance had become addictive. At the beginning, it had been legitimate to confirm whether he carried things like prepared guacamole, MCT-enhanced cold brew coffee and manuka honey. But she knew the store so well by then, most new requests were pure theater.

The exception were her special orders, which Shea could admit must seem bizarre. She was certain Dev thought she was a little weird. She didn’t dress like anyone else in Sapling; though, by New York standards, she was quite toned down. If not for Dallas Eaton—the guy who wore 80s track suits and walked with his macaw on his shoulder—Shea could win an award for most unusual fashion sense in town.

Dev pushed back in his rolling chair in a single, smooth motion and rose to his feet to stand. Shea was ridiculously charmed by the gesture. Men who walked on the outside and who rose when a lady walked into the room were a dying breed. Sure, she could chalk it up to attentive customer service, but her intuition told her Devon Kingston was a real gentleman.

Looking for anything special? She caught the bemused smirk that played at his lips a second before said lips captured his straw. He drank dark green juice from the same clear cup every day. Whatever he put in there was working. Dev was the picture of vitality—tall and lean and built like a cyclist, or a swimmer or a player of any endurance sport. A healthy tan proved he found time to be outdoors.

His beard was lustrous and dark—in her fantasies she had touched it and it was impossibly soft. It matched silky hair that was shaven on the sides and grown in on the top and tousled just right. Spiked up at the roots somehow with ends that fell into form without looking stiff, it managed to achieve a frightening shine. But his eyes—God, his eyes—they were the real stars of her fantasies; not dull green like his juice—bright and vibrant like aspen leaves. Even his skin seemed to glow.

Any chance my order is in? Shea asked, knowing full well today was Monday.

Sorry. You’re a day early, he said.

Oh. She pouted a little, then appeared to recover from feigned disappointment.

Dev leaned his hip against the counter and his lips eased into a slow smile. The rumble of his voice gave her a shiver. Guess you’ll just have to come back tomorrow.

With that, she gave another little smile and continued inside, taking her time as she thought of items she really might need. It was a well-thought-out store, with plenty of fresh staples in the produce section and aisles full of dry goods fit for a health nut or a gourmand.

Shea made her leisurely way up and down the aisles.

Coffee. Honey. Probiotics. Dried currants and slivered almonds for tomorrow’s salad. A bottle of that Malbec I like...

The simple foods she limited herself to were the extent of what she was willing to cook herself. Shea hadn’t done any real cooking in a long time.

What she threw together in her own kitchen hardly rivaled the complex, carefully crafted dishes she was used to from the city. But simple dishes could be delicious if the quality of the ingredients was high and the food was fresh. She’d been living on things like roasted beets and goat cheese, heirloom tomato bruschetta, and good, hearty salads—the kind that had nuts and fruit and meat and dairy protein. They weren’t haute cuisine, but they sustained her. Prepared foods and hearty salads were what she’d been living on for weeks.

Hey—do you have any sumac? she asked, circling back to the front after picking up the other items and searching for the herb herself. She’d become convinced that a little bit of the tangy spice would be the perfect addition to the aioli they served with the calamari at The Big Spoon. It was one of only three restaurants in Sapling. Delilah’s served sweet and savory pastries and Gator’s Sports Bar had pub food and wings. The Big Spoon served breakfast, lunch and dinner and had the largest menu of them all.

Sumac is edible? Dev looked up from shuffling his papers, seeming a touch surprised.

She frowned. What else would it be?

Poisonous, Dev picked up his green juice cup again. Worse than poison ivy, but not as bad as poison oak. Poison sumac’ll give you a rash all over.

Huh, Shea tutted, wondering whether she’d ever come across it hiking the trails near Kendrick’s house. Well, people use it for cooking, too. Its berries are a deep red. I’ve never seen it in the wild, but the color of the ground spice is actually kind of beautiful.

Then Dev did that thing he did whenever they got to talking: he got quiet for a minute, but never broke their gaze. In moments like that, he had a way of looking at her that made her feel like he was right in her space.

Sounds like you want it? his lips settled into a half-smile. The full smile, she’d noticed, was for genuine amusement. The half-smile seemed to mean something else. It held a different sort of softness too intimate to name.

If you can get it… Her voice held shyness and hope and all the other complex tones she’d forgotten her voice could make. The thrill of possibility was a heady thing.

How much do you need? he wanted to know.

I guess a single jar is fine.

The warmth in his eyes lingered even as the set of his lips changed. I can get you sumac.

What else can you get me?

Shea looked forward to the day when she would feel at ease flirting out loud instead of only inside her mind. Acknowledging attraction to other men still felt weird. Nodding her thanks, she walked off before he could notice or read into her blush of embarrassment—more accurately, a flush of lust.

He probably isn’t even interested, the rational part of her brain pointed out—the part that knew she hadn’t read into a tiny flirtation like this since she was a teenager. These small gestures likely meant nothing to him. It was his job to smile at her. The Freshery must have attracted all sorts of flirters, with Dev looking the way he did. Hell, he might even have been laughing at her beneath it all, with all of her strange requests and thinly veiled loitering.

Not just that—she felt mildly creepy for stalking him at work, maybe even un-feminist for objectifying his fine behind so hard. If her life weren’t this messy, she might throw out speculation and make an actual move. But her life was this messy. And he was just the coincidentally hot grocer. And at the end of the day, a girl had to eat.

3

The Critic

Dev

Dev liked to be nice to the city folk—not just because he’d kind of turned into one himself—because not everyone in Sapling was. He could only half-blame people for the way they felt. All the people who had bought up the Hamren houses on Elk Mountain—second homes they barely used—made for strange local economics and a complicated relationship between tourists and locals.

He’d been back in Sapling for just over a year, though he’d traveled freely between California and Colorado in the six months before that. Delilah had worked on him those months, convincing him that Sapling was where his Midas touch for business was needed. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t torn about being back.

These were his people. He loved them. With the town struggling like it was, this was where he needed to be. His neighbors had a lot to do with who he had become. People invited him to their barbecues, told him their gossip, called him when they needed help fixing a fence or felling a tree and trusted him to help the town.

Still, some part of him had one foot out of this place. He loved his forests and his mountains. But he also loved the things beyond. He missed pickup basketball games and art exhibits and seeing live music. When he was in the city, he missed Sapling in all of its simplicity. When he was in Sapling, he missed the vivaciousness of the city. Maybe that was why he was so drawn to Shea.

There’s something different about her.

Dev pontificated for minutes after she left, trying again to pinpoint exactly what it might be. Her fashion sense was a clue. Bright toenail polish that always matched her eyeglass frames and changed with every visit was yet another quirk. That morning, both had been a dark electric blue to match a flattering color gradient she’d somehow gotten to fade onto the tips of her rich curls. She’d carried a gray bedazzled tote that read, Alright, patriarchy. You’ve had your turn.

But Dev was fairly certain the something special feeling he got about Shea went far beyond her appearance, though reflecting upon her visit in any way made him recall how amazing her ass had looked in those white jeans. He knew she stayed in one of the big, glass Hamren houses. Only, most people who owned up there never came except in the winter. Shea had arrived in June.

Word had it she was there to write some sort of novel, but she didn’t own the house itself. It belonged to some tech guy from Silicon Valley who’d sold his company for eight figures. From the clothes, to the house, to the privilege of retreating to the mountains to write, all of it smacked of big money. Only, Shea didn’t have the other telltale signs.

For one, she didn’t pay for everything with a Centurion card. She didn’t make inane remarks about how everything in Sapling was charming or quaint. She made a ton of special requests but was never demanding. She wasn’t glued to her phone, which Dev himself had been accused of in the early days of his return. She didn’t give off that hard-nosed city vibe. Something about her was soft.

Hey, Dev, came Hank Bowen’s unmistakable voice, scratchy from cigarettes and course with age. He owned the Ashbrook Motel. He’d owned it so long, Dev had distinct memories of being seventeen years old and taking his prom date there.

Can I help you find something?

The way Dev said it to Hank was a lot different from the way he’d said it to Shea. Hank wasn’t the oldest man in town, but he was the most curmudgeonly. Dev squared his shoulders and crossed his arms—a fitting posture, considering that Hank’s favorite thing to do was roll up, talk shit, and drop bombs.

Palisade peaches. Hank made no effort to not sound put out, even though he was the one doing the asking. I assume you’ve got ‘em but where do you keep ‘em? Doris needs six pounds to make her pies.

It was the tenth request for Palisade peaches Dev had gotten in two weeks. People asking for things he hadn’t seen extra demand for in months was how he found out. Systematically, Big Mart was doing what it had always been bound to do.

Imagine that… Dev smiled now, too, only his was smug. Your friendly neighborhood Big Mart has scaled back yet again.

That was how the big chain retailers operated: they lured customers away from mom-and-pop stores with low prices until they edged them out. Then, once they had everyone good and dependent, they raised prices and shifted inventory to the items most profitable for them. Most times, that meant cutting out local favorites.

Hank had been one of the hecklers—one of the ones to call Dev crazy for