Order Up: Assignment: Romance, #5

By Barbara Valentin

Nancy Braley is the Chicago Gazette's food editor with a taste for hot chefs and talent for replicating their "secret" recipes. But when she finally gets up the nerve to ask out a hot local café owner, Doug Johnston, she's crushed when he says she's not the "marriage material" he's looking for. Doug is perplexed by his attraction to Nancy whose take-no-prisoners personality reminds him way too much of his cheating ex. To keep Nancy and his conflicted feelings at bay, he throws out the only excuse he can come up with—she's just not marriage material. Not one to be deterred, Nancy becomes obsessed with figuring out what exactly that means—partly because she doesn't want to emulate her oft-married but divorce-settlement-wealthy mother, and partly because her attraction to Doug is driving her to distraction. So when a married and very pregnant colleague gets put on bed rest until her baby arrives, Nancy volunteers to feed her family, hoping to get a first-hand look at what marriage is all about. And when Doug's ex opens a new coffee shop nearby, stealing business from his café, it's Nancy who comes to his aid! Eager to call Doug's bluff, can she convince him she's the real deal?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Barbara Valentin
• Release date: Mar 31, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201223922

Barbara Valentin

Author of the bestselling Assignment: Romance series, Barbara is a corporate minion, over-scheduled parent, and connoisseur of fine chocolate. A second-generation journalist, her work has appeared in the Chicago Tribune and its affiliates as well as the lifestyle sites, Mom.Me and BlogHer. After Gemma Halliday picked up her first manuscript, False Start, Publisher’s Weekly dubbed Barbara an “Indie Star” when they granted the romantic comedy a coveted starred review. A member of Romance Writers of America, she looks forward to seeing her name on the New York Times bestseller list…at which point she will finally accept Godiva’s dogged requests to be a taste-tester.

Book preview

Chapter One

To her colleagues at the Chicago Gazette, Nancy Braley was known for several things, chief among them being her quirky and, for lack of a better word, youthful wardrobe, unflappable self-confidence—especially while wearing said wardrobe—an uncanny ability to mimic highly guarded secret recipes after just one taste, and her enviable talent for spotting consumer cooking trends (to this day, she is unofficially credited with having introduced the concept of spiralizing zucchini to the Midwest).

Her curious inability to turn down a request for assistance, however, was a trait for which Nancy was not always keen to be known. Especially when it came to her mother, the oft-married Meredith Dixon Braley Schmidt Miller Campos Blake Sanchez, who had just called with news of yet another engagement—and a demand that Nancy be her mummy's bridesmaid in just a few scant months.

But it wasn't for a lack of trying on Nancy's part.

While Congratulations and Who's the lucky guy? poured from her mouth, prompted more by habit than emotion, she flipped the months of her mental calendar, trying to remember why that particular date rang a bell.

I've already found you the cutest dress to wear, her mother started before Nancy had even replied. So, what do you say?

Gee, Meredith, you've caught me at work. Can I get back to you?

To think there was a time when Nancy had actually referred to the woman who had given birth to her as Mom...but that was before she hit high school.

Then, said woman had informed her that she preferred to be addressed as Mother.

Nancy had no sooner graduated from college than Mother, apparently eager to sever the maternal cord all together, insisted on being called Meredith.

As such, any time her birth host actually described herself using a maternal term of endearment, Nancy knew she was about to be manipulated by a master.

Like now.

But I can't make a single arrangement without you, the voice on the other end of the line protested. You know the drill better than anyone, don't you, sweetheart?

Which was true. Her mother traded up husbands every few years like some people do cars.

Flicking through her Shirtless Spanish Chefs wall calendar, Nancy's eyes fell on the muy caliente Chef Enrique Fusco (aka Señor Junio), stirring a big pot of gazpacho while wearing little more than a ladle, before her gaze dropped to Saturday, the 7th.

Mattie's wedding.

Nancy had every reason to believe that Mattie Ross, a pal and investigative reporter from the Gazette, was about to ask her to stand up in her wedding. Why just the other day, the bride-to-be had asked if she was free on that exact date, and Nancy knew for a fact that she had already invited a few of their mutual friends to be in the wedding party.

Truth be told, Nancy half expected Mattie to interrupt this excruciating phone call with a request to be her bridesmaid.

I hope, I hope.

She scanned the newsroom, hoping to spot the bubbly investigative reporter who must have been out on assignment.

Rats.

Well, I'm sorry, Meredith, but that date's not going to work for me. I already have plans that weekend. Nancy pulled up a freelance contributor's copy before continuing, A friend of mine from the paper is getting married. Mattie Ross? I'm pretty positive she's going to ask me to be in her wedding par—

When do I ever ask anything of you, darling?

Nancy could just picture her mother lounging on the white leather sectional in her sprawling all-white penthouse on north Lincoln Park Way that had an expansive view of Lake Michigan.

Pulling her eyes away from her computer screen, Nancy pressed her cell phone flush against her cheek before asking, Do you mean so far this morning?

A heavy moment of silence ensued, during which Nancy opened, read, and accepted an invitation to moderate a panel of cookbook writers at an upcoming literary festival a stone's throw from her upscale West Loop loft.

Checking to make sure her mother hadn't disconnected, Nancy ventured, Really, Mother, I'm—

Uh-uh-uh, now what did I say about—

Nancy made no attempt to conceal an irritated sigh before grinding out, Sorry. Meredith.

That's better.

You're going to have to get one of your other daughters to do it.

I have no other daughters.

Please. You have more daughters than Imelda Marcos had shoes.

Stepdaughters, darling. Step. Daughters. And I barely know any of them. Can't even remember most of their names, she clipped. Just Reggie and Jo—Jer—

Julie, Nancy shot out, surprised that even she knew the name of a woman to whom she was legally related for a scant four months.

Still, her mother's insistence gave her pause. While she was as stubborn as they come, it wasn't like her to demand that Nancy choose between obligations—especially knowing how much she was looking forward to Mattie's wedding.

Her mother sighed. "This time is...well, different, and I really must insist that you be a part of it."

Bracing herself for the real reason behind her mother's obstinance, Nancy dragged her gaze from her computer screen and sat up in her chair. What do you mean 'different'? Not having it at the Bellagio this time?

Her mother paused before lowering her voice. Darling, this time...I'm in love. I'm sure of it. Really, really in love.

Sinking back into her chair, Nancy turned her attention back to her computer screen, miffed with herself for expecting some really big news—like her fiancé being a movie star or not a man.

"Like I said, Mer, I'm busy."

Then, using the same haughty globe-trotting tone she'd adopted sometime between spouses five and six, Meredith asked, What could be more important than witnessing your only flesh and blood getting married?

Nancy thought of the plans she did indeed have for that very same weekend. Big plans. It would be the first time anyone—well, besides her mother—would have asked her to be a part of their big day. And she was looking forward to it more than words could describe. That the groom was Italian and had, according to the bride-to-be, hailed from a tribe of good-looking, available male relatives, most of whom would be in attendance, was icing on the cake.

Like shooting fish in a barrel.

Again, a friend of mine is getting married that weekend.

Oh, what type of friend would expect someone to skip out on a familial obligation, hmmm, sweet-ums?

Sweet-ums. Nancy knew that particular endearment was a favored tool in her mother's impressive arsenal of guilt-inducing weaponry. And, over time, she had learned exactly what she had to do to deflect its punch.

Wait.

Quietly.

Not ten seconds later, she heard her mother emit an impatient sigh. Tell you what. You've been working so hard lately. Why don't you bring one of your girlfriends along? Bring two. My treat, huh? You can make it a girls' weekend. Her mother spoke with the same sugary sweet tone other mothers might use to bribe their child with I'll make you some cookies or better yet I'll take you shopping.

Except Nancy had no recollection of her mother stepping foot in their kitchen, ever.

Tempting, but all of my friends will be at Mattie's wedding.

Another exasperated sigh on the other end of the phone. Then bring a date, dear. Just do me a favor, will you? Make sure he's not married, jail bait, a pedophile, or an ex-con, hmm?

Nancy had to grip the edge of her desk to keep from falling out of her chair. Whoa, seriously?

I do not want my grandchild fathered by a miscreant.

Pulling herself up straight, she laughed, "Back up. Grandchild? I thought we were talking wedding dates. She checked her watch before asking, Did you have Bloody Marys for breakfast today?"

Darling, you're already what—thirty-five?

Thirty-eight, but who's counting?

Apparently not you.

"Oh, whatever, dear. Studies have shown that as soon as women turn thirty-five, their eggs start dying. What chance will I have for a grandchild if you keep acting like you have all the time in the world to make one?"

You already have grandchildren. Reggie's kids, remember?

Stepgrandchildren are hardly the same as real grandchildren.

Just about out of patience with the conversation that had taken a most illogical turn, Nancy retorted, Just to be clear, I am not inviting a man to your wedding so he can father my child.

Several curious heads in the newsroom turned in her direction.

Pointing to her phone, she announced, Sorry. Just talking to my crazy mother.

Whom I need to get in for a mental health evaluation ASAP.

She pressed her phone back to her ear just in time to hear dear old Mom argue, Darling, if a free trip to Vegas isn't enough to get a decent man to sleep with you, I don't know what will.

Nancy flinched, feeling rather as if her mother had reached through the phone and slapped her hard on the cheek. Wow. Thanks, Mer.

Oblivious to the hurt she had just inflicted, her delighted mother exclaimed, Oh good! Now go ahead and put it on my card. I'll text you the details. Ta, darling.

Doing her best not to get sucked into a vortex of esteem-robbing defeat, Nancy hung up and dialed the office of Dr. Penelope Lutz—the best therapist in the city, according to On the Couch, a popular mental health blog.

A female voice answered. Good morning. Dr. Penelope Lutz's office. How may I help you?

Nancy hunched over her keyboard and whispered, I need to speak with Dr. Lutz. It's urgent.

The clinician on the other end asked rather matter-of-factly, Are you in danger of harming yourself or someone else?

Do crazy mothers count?

"Rachel, is that you? It's me. Nancy Braley. Just—please. I need to speak with her. Now."

A quiet moment ensued before Rachel offered, I'll see if she's available. Please hold.

Clamping her eyes shut, Nancy massaged both temples with one hand, listening to 19th Nervous Breakdown by the Rolling Stones throb in her ear.

The song was nearly finished when she heard a hesitant voice say, Hello? This is Dr. Lutz.

Penelope. Nancy Braley. She did it again.

Nancy, the voice on the other end breathed. What have I told you about nonemergency phone calls?

But this is an emergency.

I know to you it may feel that way, but you cannot pull me out of an appointment with another patient just because you let your mother get the better of you.

Pressing the palm of her hand to her forehead, Nancy hunched over her keyboard and closed her eyes. I know, she whispered. "But this time, she really crossed the line. She's mandating that I go to her stupid wedding in Vegas, and it's on the same weekend as Mattie's wedding. You know how much I was looking forward to that. But my mother, narcissist that she is, doesn't care. She thinks she can make it all better by letting me bring a date. And then she had to go and tell me my eggs are dying. I've never wanted kids, but now she has me thinking that I might be missing out."

Looking up, she spotted her pal Sara Cleff, a music critic at the Gazette, hovering nearby. You ok? she mouthed.

Nancy nodded at her and watched as she walked away while half-listening to Dr. Lutz's reply.

That's a lot. No wonder you're upset. Why don't you make an appoint—

Speaking more to herself than the good doctor, Nancy muttered, I'm thirty-eight years old. Why do I keep letting her treat me like I'm fourteen?

Repeat after me. I am a successful, award-winning, well-connected professional worthy of my mother's love.

I'm a successful, award-winning—

Quashing back a rare self-pitying sob, she whispered into her phone. I hate that I let her get to me like this.

I know you do.

Nancy hung her head while resuming her temple massage. After a moment, she heard Penelope instruct, Repeat after me. I am amazing.

Her chest tightening, she whispered in reply, I am amazing.

Good. Ok, now say, 'I am lovable.'

Her throat tight, Nancy muttered, I am lovable.

And I don't need my mother's approval.

Jerking her head up, Nancy started, Now see, that's where I think you're—

Say it, the voice on the other end coaxed.

In a voice she barely recognized, the words came out of her mouth. I don't need my mother's approval.

Good job. Feeling better?

No. Not really.

Call her and tell her you already have plans and cannot possibly stand up in her wedding.

But—

Do it. Right now.

All right, I will, Nancy lied.

Promise? the heavily degreed voice on the other end of the phone asked.

No.

Yes?

Another quiet moment passed before the good doctor offered, Come see me tomorrow. I have an opening at one, and I'll want to hear all about it.

Right. Will do. Thanks, doc, Nancy replied with all of the gusto she could muster before she hung up.

But, instead of calling her mother back as promised, she clicked her pen with reckless abandon while weighing her options.

An all-expenses-paid weekend in Vegas to witness yet another of her mother's expeditions into a matrimonial jungle, or a standing up in a colleague's church wedding on the north side of Chicago, followed by what promised to be a rollicking reception at Vito's, a banquet hall near the church, reportedly owned and operated by one of the groom's relative's.

Sigh.

Nancy's phone vibrated. Snatching it up, she saw that Mattie had just texted: Got a sec?

She held her breath as her thumbs typed: Absolutely, my friend.

Worried that it might look like she was trying too hard, Nancy deleted my friend and pressed Send.

Then she held her breath and waited. While staring at her phone display for what seemed like hours, she wondered what color and style the bridesmaid dresses would be and if Mattie planned on having her stand up with one of Nick's hunky relatives. She was just picturing herself walking back down the aisle after the ceremony on the arm of a Mark Ruffalo look-alike when she felt her phone buzz with the bride-to-be's reply.

Bakery making our cake went bust. Any ideas?

Chapter Two

Doug Johnston, proprietor of Chez Doug, his namesake café on Michigan Avenue, stood in front of the door to Isabelle Fournier's office at the Halsted Street Culinary College. It was the last place he wanted be, but he didn't know where else to turn.

After sucking in a cubic ton of air, he rapped lightly on the door, exhaling only after he heard her voice, still thick with a provincial French accent despite having spent over a decade in Chicago.

Must be good for business. Authentic French cooking and all that.

Doug pushed through the door and took in the sight of his former sister-in-law who looked way too much like her younger sister Rosalie—the one who had informed Doug on the eve of opening the café that she was in love with another man.

So much for calling the café Chez Rosalie.

The litany of excuses she had hurled at him as he jammed his duffel bag with as much of his stuff as it could hold still echoed in his ears. Not that he could make out every word. His French wasn't that good, but her angry allegation of Tu m'as laissé tout seul had come through loud and clear.

You left me all alone.

Now that over a year had passed, he was finally ready to admit that, yeah—he probably had.

No one knew better than Doug that it had taken way longer to get the café off the ground than he had anticipated. After sinking the bulk of his savings into securing the lease and equipment, he had little left for repairs and redecorating. Dipping into his staff allocation would have meant shorting funds for things like, oh, ingredients. Thank God two of his childhood buddies, who weren't about to let him give up on his dream of opening a café, offered up their nights, weekends, tools, and know-how to complete the bulk of the work pro bono.

Probably should've named the place Chez Doug, Richie, and Jeff.

Giving the doorknob to Isabelle's office door a hard squeeze, he clenched his jaw.

Hell, if Rosalie had been so lonely, there was nothing stopping her from coming down to lend a hand. Instead, she took on more classes to teach at the college...right where Doug had fallen in love with her in the first place. And, apparently, where she had since fallen for another guy.

He pushed the door forward.

Having not seen his sister-in-law since he'd stormed out of his and Rosalie's apartment that awful night, Doug braced himself for her reaction.

The last thing he expected was to see her spring up from behind her desk and wrap him in a rib-crunching hug.

How are you, Douglas? she purred while squeezing the air out of his lungs.

With the never dormant ache in his heart jumping to his throat, Doug couldn't return her embrace with anywhere near the same velocity.

Hey, Iz.

He started to say, It's good to see you, but stopped short, because it wasn't. Just a few years apart, the sisters' resemblance was too close for comfort.

Pulling back, Isabelle grasped his elbows and asked all at once, What can I do for you? Are you doing all right? How's the café?

Doug narrowed his eyes, trying to remember why he was there in the first place. I, uh, could use a hand. In the kitchen. Locking his eyes on hers, he knew there was no need to say more. She knew as well as he did that the plan was for him and Rosalie to run the café together, taking turns in the kitchen, at the counter, and waiting tables. That she bailed on