The Chef's Choice / The Boss's Proposal. Kristin Hardy

filled with the color and hubbub of the farmers’ market. Canvas-tented booths in blue and green and yellow displayed boxes of lettuce in a bewildering variety, pyramids of the fall’s apples and potatoes and cabbage. Hothouse tomatoes provided flashes of red next to the vivid purple and green of rhubarb. Even though it was barely eight, the market was bustling.

      Catching sight of a stand selling pastries, Cady made a quick beeline for it.

      Damon came to a stop beside her. “What are you doing?”

      “Breakfast,” she told him. “It’s the least I deserve after making the drive."

      “Are you kidding? I’m the one who ought to be rewarded for surviving."

      “Fine. You can buy us both drinks. I’ll take a Coke.”

      “At eight in the morning?”

      “It’s the best one of the day. What do you want here?” She gestured at the pastry and pulled out her wallet.

      “A corn muffin, I guess,” Damon said, lining up before the coffee urn.

      “A corn muffin and a cheese Danish,” Cady ordered.

      They made their way over to a bench, exchanging booty. He watched her as she took a bite of Danish, washing it down with a swig of cola.

      “You know you’ll die young eating like that?”

      “That’s what people tell me,” she said, licking crumbs off her fingers with relish.

      “Cream cheese and Coke. I don’t even want to think about what that combination tastes like.” He took a swallow of coffee.

      “It’s not about the taste, it’s about the sugar rush, although you’d be surprised if you tried it."

      He gave her a pained look. “Someone needs to educate your palate."

      “My palate’s doing just fine, thank you very much. Okay—” she balled up her napkin “—let’s get going."

      Damon swallowed the last of his muffin. “That didn’t count as part of the hour, by the way.” He tossed his trash into the nearby barrel. “The clock starts now."

      “Then get going.”

      It wasn’t what she’d expected. She’d thought it would be like going grocery shopping—pick and buy, pick and buy. Instead, Damon wandered down the rows aimlessly, stopping at this stand to sniff at a shiny red apple, that one to weigh a bunch of rhubarb in his hands and stare thoughtfully into space.

      “You know, that’s the fourth place you’ve checked out the lettuce,” she said as he examined yet another head of brushy green stuff.

      “Do you buy a car at the first place you go?” he asked, then shook his head. “Never mind, I’ve seen your truck."

      Cady scowled. “What’s wrong with my truck? It got you here, didn’t it?"

      He put down the head of lettuce and walked to the next stand. “Thank God for small favors."

      “It’s under no obligation to get you home, you know. Speaking of home, when, exactly, are you going to start buying things? You are going to eventually, aren’t you?"

      “Maybe. I don’t know.” He stopped at a vendor selling mushrooms and picked up a deformed orange thing that looked as though it had grown under someone’s back steps. Cady repressed a shudder. Her notion of cuisine ran toward pizzas and burgers, not something nasty that looked like an alien life form.

      “If you’re not going to buy anything then what, exactly, are we doing here?"

      “Recon.” He gave her an amused glance. “I want to see what’s out there, what I can get around here. If I can find something for tonight’s special, so much the better. Like these.” He picked up a different mushroom.

      “What are they?” She stared suspiciously at the pointy, honeycombed fungus.

      “Morels. Unbelievable flavor and texture.”

      She watched as he sifted through the pile, hands quick, picking some mushrooms for his bag, leaving others. “I’ll take your word for it."

      “What I need now are some ramps,” he said after he’d finished with the cashier. “I’ll sauté them up in a little ragout and put it over a poached haddock."

      “I’m sure they’ll all come running. What are ramps, anyway?”

      “Wild baby leeks that grow in the woods this time of year. They taste like a cross between onions and garlic. I can’t believe nobody’s got any here. We’ll have to hunt some down.” He started walking again.

      She trailed along after him. “Not we, you. I’ve got a job, remember?"

      “How about you quit and come be my forager? You grow stuff, you’d be good at it."

      “I brought you to the market. Wasn’t that enough?”

      “It would be if it was a real market.” He shook his head. “This is pathetic. Most of it’s from last year."

      The criticism had her raising her chin. “I told you, it’s too early for fresh produce here. It won’t really get going until July."

      “The green market in Manhattan had ramps and asparagus and squash blossoms last week."

      “And it’s four temperature zones away from us,” she defended. “This is Maine. We have snow until April. We grow what we can. If you want more of a choice, feel free to drive down to Boston. In fact, feel free to keep going."

      He studied her. “You don’t want me here, do you?”

      Cady opened her mouth, closed it. “It’s not a matter of what I want. It’s my parents’ business and they think you’re the right guy for the job."

      “You’re evading the question.”

      “Okay, how about this? I’ve seen the headlines. I know your style. You don’t fit here."

      He smiled. “You don’t believe in soft-pedaling things, do you?”

      “Why waste the time?”

      “And you think you know all about me.”

      “Given all the press you’ve generated, it’s kind of hard not to.”

      “Now who’s wasting time?” he countered. “Half of those stories are exaggerations, the other half are outright lies."

      She folded her arms. “So, what, you didn’t throw people out of your restaurant?"

      “Okay, I might have asked one or two people to leave early on,” he admitted. “You’ve got a restaurant, you know how they can be. In fact, I’d be a little shocked if you’ve never thrown someone out yourself."

      “The customer is always right,” she reminded him, not bothering to add that she’d never had the choice.

      “That’s funny coming from someone whose operating assumption seems to be that everyone else in the world is wrong but them.”

      Her cheeks tinted. “We’re not talking about me.”

      “I am.”

      “Stop changing the subject. This is about you. Maybe I didn’t see you punch your sous chef but I know you yelled at him because I saw it."

      “You saw it?”

      She could have bitten her tongue. “My girlfriend was watchingChef’s Challenge.” “You don’t say.”

      “And I know the story of the woman in your office is true because the husband named you in the divorce proceedings."

      “Well, well. You have been studying up,” he said and something flickered in the depths of his eyes.

      “What,