My thoughts flickered to Wyatt. There weren’t many things I liked about him, but his total self-assuredness was one of my favorites. I had never seen him concerned with what other people thought, save for food critics. I had never seen him try to cover up his extensive tattoos or worry over his clothes. He was perfectly who he wanted to be. And God, I found that ridiculously sexy for some reason. Maybe I liked a few more things about him than I wanted to admit.
On the other hand, there was Nolan. A man so consumed with what the rest of the world thought of him, he’d let them trap him somewhere he hated. My sisters were the same way. Claire had stayed in Hamilton even though she hated it, even though she was dying to leave. My parents had convinced my youngest sister Cameron to go to the local community college to live at home and save money. Cameron was on board, but she had no idea how much she was missing. And she was young enough not to care.
Oh, well. Those were their choices. I couldn’t live their lives for them, no matter how much I wanted to help them. All I could do was love my own life. And I did. Even if it was busy. Even if it was hard. Even if sometimes it was lonely. I loved my job and I love who I’d turned out to be and I loved the people I’d surrounded myself with.
I closed my compact and put it away before folding up my chef coat and tucking it into my purse as well. My fingers brushed over the cool stainless-steel counters as I walked wistfully through the kitchen.
Some other day, friend. Someday soon.
Christian found me as soon as I walked through the kitchen doors. “I’m Christian,” he blurted excitedly. He was a waif of a kid with ink black hair and a perfectly ironed crisp white shirt. “Vera said she wants me to show you the ropes tonight.”
His energy was infectious, and I couldn’t help but smile back at him. “She’s crazy for making me do this. I cook. I don’t know the first thing about waiting tables.”
He waved me off. “There’s nothing to it.” My look must have screamed I didn’t believe him because he laughed. “Once you get the hang of it, there’s nothing to it.”
“How long have you been serving?” He had one of those faces that was deceptively young looking. He could either be thirty or sixteen. I wouldn’t have been surprised with either one.
“Long enough to be excited about the prospect of new leadership.”
“Was he that bad?”
“Who? Juan Carlo? Or Ezra?”
“Juan Carlo. I already know how bad Ezra is.” I bit my lip ring and hoped Christian wasn’t partial to our boss.
He laughed again. “Oh, right, you’re part of the harem.”
I rested a hand against my neck, where the stitching of the lily usually was on my lapel. “Lilou.”
Cocking his head to the side, his eyes trailed over me, taking my measure. “That seems a little stuffy for you.”
It was. “That’s why I’d love to move over here.”
“You’d be the first to successfully transfer laterally.” He rolled his shoulders and sighed, like he was reluctantly giving up information I was dragging out of him. “However, anybody would be better than JC. I didn’t mind that he was a diva. Comes with the territory, or so I’m told. But he was completely useless. And God forbid someone lodge a complaint. The man would lose his shit.”
I tried to keep my expression neutral, but I wasn’t sure I totally succeeded. Under normal circumstances, I would have loved to gossip about any and every chef across the country. It was one of my favorite pastimes. But if I got this job, I didn’t want it spread around that I’d had these thoughts about their previous executive chef. Especially if he was a better chef than me.
It was better to play it safe and give the noncommittal answer. Besides, I wanted to be this guy’s boss. Meaning, I needed to remain professional and distant. It wasn’t the fun answer or the enjoyable one. But it was the necessary one. “He was under a lot of stress.”
My reaction must have triggered something for him, because his eyes bugged out and he leaned toward me. “But you must know what that’s like, right? I’ve heard your new head chef is a major douche canoe.”
His accusation was accurate, but it also rubbed me wrong. In the worst way. Wyatt was the way he was for a purpose. It was necessary. Unlike Sarita, Wyatt didn’t have the luxury of saving a sinking ship. He had to live up to a standard of excellence set by one of the greatest chefs in the current culinary culture. He wasn’t walking into a position abandoned by an incompetent diva, he was fighting to prove he belonged in one of the most coveted positions on the east coast. “He’s a perfectionist,” I explained, ignoring the defensiveness in my tone. “He wants Lilou to be even better than when Killian Quinn was there. It’s a hard job.”
His expression turned neutral. “I’m sure it is.”
Instead of insisting that it was, I let silence fall between us until it got awkward. Wyatt’s prowess as a head chef wasn’t a hill I wanted to die on, but I also wouldn’t let unfair rumors spread through the harem about him. Stories like that spread as quickly as wildfire. If not controlled, every kitchen in Durham and the great state of North Carolina and beyond would hear all kinds of nonsense. I wasn’t responsible for Wyatt’s reputation, but I did feel enough loyalty to Lilou to protect it.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. Whether I wanted to admit all the secret respect I had for him or not, the truth remained. It was okay that he annoyed me and drove me crazy. He was my boss, my problem. And I would defend him and Lilou forever and ever amen so help me God.
“Do you want to give me the general layout of tonight?” I asked after we stood there in constrained quiet for too long. “I’d love to not totally screw this up tonight.” I added a smile and that broke through some of the awkwardness.
“You won’t,” he promised. “I won’t leave you totally alone. I don’t want to be the dick that abandoned his future boss when she was thrown to the wolves.”
My smile turned more genuine. “I appreciate that.” Especially since I wouldn’t exactly be his boss.
He started walking toward a server station. “Come on, I’ll show you how to enter orders in the computer. Then you can help me finish rolling this silverware.”
We fell into an easy partnership after that. True to his word, he never left me by myself. Instead of serving on my own, I shadowed him, taking orders when he prompted me to do so and explaining dishes after he’d given me all the details.
Vera was right, I did get to know Sarita this way. By the end of the night, my feet hurt as usual, I’d splashed at least thirty mojitos all over my sleeves and I had developed a full-on hatred for the camouflaged step near the bar, but I knew the dishes. I knew what they looked like. I knew what they smelled like. I knew what a lot of them tasted like thanks to Vera force-feeding me all night. And I knew the vibe of Sarita, her mood, her essence. But mostly, I knew the direction I wanted to take her.
She had great tapas that drew crowds, but all of them could be better. There was a total of three cold dishes for instance. I wanted more. I wanted gazpacho and carpaccio. I wanted a summer flower salad that would blow your mind. And I wanted a chilled watermelon soup with notes of mint and ginger that I dreamed up thanks to one of their most popular mojitos.
As for the hot dishes, several of them were dated. I would easily trade out the classic huevos rancheros for a more modern version with poached eggs and spicy green chili and tomato jam over bite-sized fry bread. And I would toss out the marinated chicken skewers for seared rabbit and a pickled radish chutney.
I had more ideas too. So many ideas. With each new dish I brought from the kitchen, more inspiration would spark, quickly adding to the wildfire blazing through me. The entire night was spent dropping off good dishes and quickly scurrying to a dark corner, so I could furiously take notes on my phone, imagining better dishes, envisioning a better menu and a better restaurant. The best restaurant.
I doubted any of my hurriedly scribbled improvements made much sense now, but that wasn’t the point. It was the inspiratio
n that mattered. The deep hunger I had for this place after only being here for one day.
Imagining myself at the helm, I knew I would rip apart the current menu and put my signature on every dish, drink—every inch of this place.
By the time I reached my car sometime after eleven p.m., my cheeks hurt from smiling so much. I shouldn’t be this happy. Especially since I hadn’t cooked a single thing today. And yet, I couldn’t help it. Sarita had so much untapped potential, so much sparkle that had been tarnished by bad leadership and laziness.
I would take this place to the next level. And then I was going to give Lilou and Wyatt a fucking run for their money.
Seven
“I need Sunday off again.”
Wyatt’s cold, hard stare found mine across the expo station in Lilou’s kitchen. We were the first two to arrive at Lilou Wednesday morning and this was the first chance I’d had to chat with him alone.
“Are you on the schedule?”
I braved his glare and shook my head. “No.”
“Then why do you keep double checking with me?”
My nerves turned angry at his tone. Like always, this guy had the ability to take me from zero to sixty in approximately three seconds. “Because I’ll be the one blamed if you need me and I don’t show up.”
He leaned forward on his hands, bringing us closer together, trying to intimidate me with his size. But I wouldn’t be intimidated. I mimicked his pose and leaned toward him. His eyebrows rose at the same time his eyes dropped to my lips, totally throwing me off my game.
Not that I would let him know that.
“Oh, I always need you, Kaya.” His head dipped closer. “And I always blame that on you.”
My heart jumped in my chest and then took off in a sprint. Something warm and foreign pooled in my belly, some long-forgotten instinct that my brain couldn’t name. My vocal chords got on board too, dropping my voice to a softer, sultrier tone. “That seems unfair.”
His gaze trailed to my lips again. “It’s not my fault. Maybe you shouldn’t make me need you so badly.”
Butterflies exploded in my stomach, like surprise firecrackers thrown in a poor, unsuspecting mailbox. My body leaned towards him involuntarily, pulled in by the deep tone of his voice and the way his brown eyes had gone dark and hot and so utterly hypnotizing. My body was shaky and overly warm and practically liquid with lust. Good thing my brain still worked. I was able to throw back a sassy, “Maybe you should find someone else to fulfill your needs.”
His head dropped again, separating our mouths by only inches. If I wasn’t so short, our faces would be smashed against each other right now.
“We’ve already tried that and it hasn’t worked. It’s got to be you.”
I shook my head, trying to get a grip on reality. Did he mean in the kitchen? Or something else? Something else was crazy right?
This was Wyatt, my biggest problem. And if you asked him, he’d say the same thing about me. Our dislike was obvious by the way his body was leaned all the way over the counter toward me and the way I was pushing up on my tiptoes to get closer to him. It would be clear to anyone that saw us how much we couldn’t stand each other.
My body jerked awake with the keen awareness that I was enjoying every second of Wyatt’s attention. I pulled back and smoothed out my tank top, trying to find my equilibrium again.
I was reading too much into this. Wyatt meant he needed me here. In the kitchen. Because I was amazing at what I did. And I was his sous chef. Of course, he relied on me.
“You should probably figure that out then, Wyatt. I’m not always going to be around you know.”
The heat left his eyes as quickly as it had appeared, and he pulled back into standing, looking more pissed off than ever. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Hot and cold. Fire and ice. Blazing to glacial in seconds. That was Wyatt. He was the same way in the kitchen. He was never calm or even-keeled—his best attributes when he’d been sous chef for Killian. Now he was volatile. Like an active volcano buried under layers and layers of ice.
I’d noticed the change the minute he stepped into his new position. He wasn’t the same guy I’d cooked next to for years, the same kid that had a lot of growing up to do before his meteoric rise to fame. He was different. More intense, more focused, more… demanding.
I turned my back on him and started unrolling my knives. Shrugging to diffuse any remaining tension, I said nonchalantly, “It means that I won’t always work here as your number two, Wyatt. I want a kitchen of my own. I’m bound to move on eventually.” Sooner than that, hopefully. But he didn’t need to know all the dirty details. He could find out when I handed over my two weeks’ notice with undisguised glee.
“Yeah, eventually. Maybe. Until then… I mean, I thought we talked about this. I need you here, Kaya. You taking a bunch of days off isn’t working out for me.”
A scoffing laugh dislodged itself from the back of my throat. “Oh, I’m so sorry to inconvenience you, Shaw. I’ve taken one day off in more than a month, but if you need me to hold your hand that badly, forget I ever said anything. You say the word and I’ll be here. Every single night. And hell, why stop there. If you need me to babysit you, I could spoon-feed your meals too. And pick out your clothes every morning. Tuck you into bed at night. Whatever you need, chef. I live to please.”
He was behind me in the next second, his hard body pressing against mine, trapping me against the cool stainless-steel counter. I should have been outraged. I was a tiny female and he was a giant man. I should have been intimidated.
I should not have been turned on.
Holy hell. I shivered again, a violent tremble of nerves and lust rolling through my entire body.
His arm slid around my waist, his hand splaying over my hip bone, dipping beneath my chef’s coat and tank top. Skin to skin. Flesh to flesh. Wyatt against me. Wyatt versus me in a battle to see who could combust from sexual tension first.
I shivered again.
His mouth dropped to the curve of my neck, his lips brushing against my suddenly sensitive skin. “Say it again,” he ordered.
My hands gripped the counter, the edge biting into my tender fingertips as my muddled brain tried to make sense of his request. “Babysit you?” I couldn’t say it again without a breathy giggle.
His laugh rumbled through him. I felt it from my neck to my knees. “You know what I want, Ky. You know what I want to hear.”
Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I hadn’t meant to call him chef. It slipped. It had been my one power play, the one thing I withheld to remind him that I was as good as him. Damn it!
He wasn’t supposed to know he had somehow earned my respect in his short time as executive chef. He wasn’t supposed to figure out that I admired him and looked up to him and wanted his approval. Those were my secrets. And they were supposed to go with me to the grave.
But with one, ill-timed slip of a title of respect, I’d ruined everything.
“Kaya,” he growled against my skin, sinking his teeth into my neck in the sexiest bite of all time. He was getting me back for the one time I’d bitten his finger. Only his was way worse. His was sex and fire and the fucking end of me.
I started to think maybe I’d ruined the power struggle between us in the very best way.
“Chef,” I whispered, unable to deny him with his mouth on me.
His entire body stiffened, hardened, springing into action. He spun me around and lifted me to the counter with an impressive display of power. My butt slammed against the surface and my legs instinctively opened for him. He shoved my roll of knives away without acknowledging that they were ridiculously sharp and could slice his fingers open. Or that usually he was meticulous with knives and handling them, taking care of them.
Under normal, sane circumstances, Wyatt would never treat his kitchen with such disrespect.
Not that I was complaining.
Because his disrespect felt too amazing for me to
complain about. His touch felt too incredible for me to protest. His body between my legs felt surprisingly right and good and I didn’t want him to move away.
For as long as I’d known Wyatt, I’d been physically attracted to him. We’d clashed in the kitchen, two Titans with a hunger for perfection and little room for anyone else to get in our way. But when we weren’t cooking, I had always been unable to squash my carnal lust for the man.
I’d been intimate with a couple guys in the kitchen since Nolan, but never Wyatt. And it wasn’t just that when he’d been single, I’d been dating Nolan and when I became single, he had Trish. It was more than that.
I had never wanted anything serious from someone in this kitchen. I’d only ever wanted convenient and throwaway. But Wyatt didn’t feel throwaway. He felt very permanent. He felt solid and unflinching and like he would sink beneath my skin, wrap around my bones and never let go.
But my biggest problem with him was that I wasn’t sure if I would care. The scariest part was wanting him to stay and not knowing if I would be enough for him after all.
His fingers curled under my jaw and he tilted my head, so he could capture my gaze with his. “I like that.”
I tilted my chin higher, not letting him have his way. “Is that so, chef?”
“Fuck.” The curse ripped from his throat as if he’d lost all control. His forehead landed on mine and I watched in fascination as his eyes fluttered closed and his face scrunched in indecision. “Fucking hell, Kaya. You’re going to be the death of me.”
I felt possessed, scooting forward so that his waist was cradled more firmly between my legs. It was his turn to shiver and it was the hottest thing I had ever experienced. Instinct told me to back off, that I was playing with irreversible fire. But the demon inside me whispered, “Then I could have your job. Maybe that’s my plan.”
He pulled back and his eyes popped open, his expression all serious, professional Wyatt. “I fucking believe it.”
Opposites Attract: The complete box set Page 70