As Kyle turned away, Cruz said, ‘Thanks for staying, mate. And for helping Mum over the last few months.’
‘Maybe I deserve a raise?’
Cruz chuckled. ‘Don’t push your luck.’
As he shut the door, he pondered whether loathing his father and this farm had infiltrated all aspects of his life, to the point he’d hated the entire town and all those associated with it. While he didn’t intend on spending too much time in town socialising, it would be interesting to see if his other classmates were as laidback as Kyle. The next twelve months would drag if he became a hermit confined to Kinstead Grove, so perhaps he could reach out to a few people?
Cruz couldn’t help but wonder if turning his back on this town and most people in it years ago had been a mistake. Had he contributed to his own misery?
CHAPTER
8
Elora flipped open her laptop, eager to do the one thing she’d wanted to do since learning Cruz Wardlow was the stranger she’d almost had sex with last night: research him online. To do her job well, she liked to be fully informed, and if Cruz would be the face of Kinstead Avocados for the next twelve months, she had to know more.
Surprisingly, there’d been no mention of him when she’d looked up Kinstead Avocados. Then again, considering the farm’s woeful website and lack of social media presence, his absence shouldn’t have been a surprise.
After typing ‘Cruz Wardlow’ into the search engine, she scanned the page that popped up then clicked on the first link, an article from a low-key culinary magazine that had been published a year ago.
Born and raised in northern Victoria, Cruz Wardlow swapped working on an avocado farm for an apron at the age of twenty. The self-taught chef started his culinary career in Melbourne’s renowned gourmet pubs, including Nott in Smith St, Collingwood, The Bro in Brunswick St, Fitzroy, and Chantal’s in North Melbourne.
Lauded for his use of fresh ingredients to create innovative Australian fusion cuisine, Wardlow completed several courses, including advanced pastry skills, before dabbling in phenomenal desserts.
When offered the sous chef position at Tiles, Melbourne’s trendiest restaurant, three years ago, Wardlow didn’t hesitate. His refreshing takes on classics like slow-cooked lamb shanks and chicken parmigiana quickly built him a reputation as a rising star. Not surprisingly, he was appointed head chef at Tiles a scant fifteen months later and he hasn’t looked back.
On the night I visited, I had the pleasure of tasting Wardlow’s handmade ravioli stuffed with scallops and golden beetroot, a melt-in-the-mouth wagyu brisket served with a vibrant persimmon salad, and a decadent chocolate pudding, followed by a cleansing fig and rhubarb granita.
Wardlow’s attention to detail lends itself to superb food presentation, and his talent for combining unlikely ingredients ensures that whatever he cooks will have you salivating.
I highly recommend you sample his exquisite fare at Tiles, on Lonsdale Street, Melbourne.
Elora’s stomach rumbled, as it had not that long ago in Cruz’s presence—totally embarrassing—but after reading that mouth-watering description of his food, her hunger increased. For a moment, she contemplated ditching the rest of her research and knocking on his door in the hope he’d whipped up dinner, but she wanted to be prepared when they crossed paths next.
From the article, he’d started his cooking journey later, when most budding chefs began after they finished school. She wondered what he’d done in those two years. Had he travelled or stayed on the farm? Had he always loved cooking?
She clicked on a few more links, but they didn’t tell her much: photos of Cruz’s creative dishes with accompanying rave reviews, but not many pics of the man himself. Not unusual, as many chefs eschewed the limelight, but combined with Cruz’s general grouchiness, she pegged him for a recluse who buried himself in his work with time for little else.
None of the articles mentioned a significant other and a small part of her couldn’t help but be relieved. Not that she intended to have a repeat of their hot and heavy session, but it would’ve made her think less of him if he’d kissed her when he had a girlfriend. Then again, a partner wouldn’t be mentioned in culinary reviews.
She moved on to researching social media sites. Cruz had a private Facebook page, with a photo that looked years out of date, and an Instagram profile that featured photos of food and nothing else. Limited use of hashtags, no captions, no updates for the last three months.
And no partner.
Annoyed that her curiosity about his personal life had distracted her from the task at hand, she read a few more articles before realising she’d get more information direct from the source than scouring his limited profiles online.
She closed the laptop, linked her hands and stretched her arms overhead, surprised half an hour had passed. Dusk had fallen while she’d been distracted, and gorgeous tones of mauve and sienna streaked the sky as she peeked outside. Another hunger pang made her stomach gripe, so she opened the door, intent on hassling her resident chef to ask if dinner was ready, only to find him standing in front of her, his expression shocked.
‘I brought you dinner,’ he said, pointing to two glass containers at their feet. ‘I should’ve asked if you were allergic to anything, but it’s rice and a lemon asparagus chicken with nothing but stock and spices.’
‘No allergies,’ she said, stunned he’d intended on dropping off the meal rather than sharing it with her as she’d assumed from their earlier conversation.
‘Okay, then, I’ll leave you to it.’
‘We’re not eating together?’ she blurted, unable to curtail her disappointment.
‘No.’ The frown lines between his brows deepened. ‘I have a lot to catch up on before a meeting with the farm manager tomorrow.’
‘Dinner won’t take long. I’d like to ask you a few questions—’
