Menu for Romance

The only thing Major wanted to push was the stupid trainer out the nearest window. With each impact of his foot on the treadmill, sharp pains shot up through his calves, quads, and hamstrings; and his lungs felt like he was trying to breathe through soggy bread.

When had he gotten this out of shape?

Unfortunately, the personal trainer assigned to take him around and put him through his paces on his first visit to the gym had recognized his name as a former football player at ULB. Though how this whippersnapper could remember someone who played almost twenty years ago was a miracle.

The only thing that kept him from hitting the emergency stop button was the memory of how puffy his face had looked on TV. Sure, no one should trust a skinny chef—but who wanted to look at a pudgy one week in and week out?

He ran as hard as he could to keep from being flung backward off the machine while Mr. Universe called encouragement at him. Finally, the kid reached over and knocked the speed down to three and a half miles per hour.

“Walk it off. Walk it off.” He made a notation on the clipboard he carried. “Yeah, I think you can start with running fifteen minutes at ... seven miles per hour, then walk half an hour at three and a half. Gradually, you’ll work it up so that you’re running the entire forty-five minutes.”

Major followed him over to the weight machines and spent the next forty-five minutes pretending that he already had more muscle than flab, and planning to decrease the amount of weight on each one next time he came in. If he survived tonight.

After the last apparatus, Major was ready to dissolve into a puddle of melted lard on the floor. Sheer strength of will was the only thing that kept him upright when the trainer smacked his shoulder.

“Good workout, man. Come in four or five times a week and do that, and you’ll be back in your playing condition in no time. See ya later!” The trainer jogged away.

Major grabbed the top of the bicep curl machine as the floor wavered beneath him. Sweat dribbled down his spine ... and his face and his chest and his arms. Why should sweating in the gym feel entirely different from sweating in the heat and humidity of a busy kitchen?

And why had this stupid gym put the locker rooms on the second floor? He stared up the long flight of stairs, trying to talk his legs into carrying him up them.

“Hey—Major O’Hara, right?”

He turned at the man’s voice—and groaned inwardly when he recognized Ward Breaux. He knew he should have come in the morning instead of waiting until after work. He wiped his hand on his towel and shook the man’s proffered hand. “Yeah, good to see you.”

“Didn’t know you worked out here.”

“Just joined today.”

“What’d you think?” Ward started up the stairs two at a time.

Pride—that ghastly beast—refused to allow him to let Breaux leave him behind. Clenching his teeth against the pain, Major ran up the steps to keep up with the contractor. “To be perfectly honest, it kicked my butt. It’s been since college that I’ve made an effort to exercise regularly.”

“Yeah? What did you do back then?”

“Played football.”

“Really? Me, too. Where’d you play?” Ward nodded at several beautiful young women who smiled and eyed him hungrily when they passed them on the stairs.

None of them noticed Major. “Here, at ULB. Where’d you play?”

“Miami. I guess in your line of work, it’s hard to find time to stay fit.”

If Major could move his arms, he’d deck the guy. He didn’t need someone else to point out to him how out of shape he was. His legs were already screaming that they’d be sore for days to come. “It is. But I figured if I’m about to be on TV every week, I’d better shape up.”

“You’re going to be on TV?”

Finally, something he had that Breaux didn’t. “I’m going to be doing a weekly cooking segment on Alaine Delacroix’s show.”

Ward’s dark brows shot up. He opened the locker room door. “That hot chick who does the midday show on Channel Six?”

“Yeah.” Major wasn’t sure if he liked the fact that someone who was seeing Meredith had just called another woman a “hot chick.”

The contractor let out a low whistle. “No wonder you’re here. If I were still unattached and about to be spending that much time with Alaine Delacroix, I’d want to get in shape, too.”

If I were still unattached. A little piece of Major’s heart died. Things between Meredith and this guy must be more serious than Major originally thought if Breaux considered himself attached to her. Major didn’t see any reason to correct Ward’s notion that he would be spending time with Alaine, when it had been made pretty clear that it was only the production and camera people he’d see each week on Tuesdays when they came to film.

“Oh, by the way, Meredith told me she’d like to bring you in on planning the kitchen design in her new house. I’d like to pick your brain on that so I can include your ideas in my bid.”

Lovely. Just what Major wanted to do. Spend more time with the guy who was stealing Meredith away from him. “Sure. Anytime.”

“Great. I’ll get your number from Meredith when I see her later. Well, I’ll catch you another time.” Breaux flung his towel over his shoulder and went around to a different part of the locker room.

Major stuffed everything into his duffel and headed for home before he had to speak to Ward again. The cold air outside turned his sweat to clamminess, and since Kirby’s ragtop was more like a colander than a roof, he was shivering by the time he got home a few miles away.

He stood in the shower for a long time, letting the hot water work on his sore muscles and trying to clear his head. But he had to face the truth. He’d lied to Meredith last night. He wasn’t happy about Meredith and Ward Breaux. He was especially not happy that he’d had the perfect opportunity yesterday to tell her the truth—about Ma, about his feelings—but like a coward, at Anne’s untimely interruption, he’d allowed all of his doubts and insecurities to come flooding back.

He couldn’t blame Ward Breaux for wanting to have a serious relationship with Meredith. And when he compared himself to the tall, fitness-club-commercial-perfect contractor, he couldn’t blame Meredith for choosing Ward over him.

After the shower, he took a couple of aspirin to hopefully head off some of the soreness he was sure would come, pulled on a clean pair of sweats and long-sleeved T-shirt, and went into the kitchen to fix supper. He opened the fridge and bent down to make sure he didn’t miss seeing anything in there.

Another Friday night, and here he was at home, alone. Alone, while Meredith was probably at this very instant getting ready for another date with Ward Breaux.

He should win her back.

The thought jerked him upright, and he cracked his head on the bottom of the freezer door. Win her back? He’d never had her to begin with. Had he?

He pulled stuff out of the fridge without really paying attention. The only thing that had kept him from asking her out all these years was fear—fear that once she found out about Ma, she wouldn’t want anything to do with him. Once burned...

But Meredith wasn’t anything like the other women he’d dated in the distant past. He should give her a chance, tell her the truth, see how she reacted.

He remembered the way the women in the stairwell had looked at Ward. Tossing a package of lemon fish onto the cabinet, he let the fridge door swing shut with a condiment-rattling slam. He couldn’t compete with that. He’d only look more like a fool if he tried.

But Major had known Meredith a long time; Ward, only a few weeks. Surely Major could call upon his greater knowledge of Meredith’s likes and dislikes to draw her attention back to him.

He loped into the living room and sank—painfully—into the desk chair. The notebook in which he’d been writing his sample menus was on top. He flipped to a clean page and started writing a new menu—a menu of ideas for romancing Meredith away from Ward Breaux.