Lifting a shoulder in a casual shrug, I told him, “This isn’t about moxie. This is self-preservation.”
He smiled and it lit him up from the inside out. Several months ago, Wyatt was nothing but my terrifying boss I tried to avoid entirely. Luckily for me, he had it bad for Kaya, which meant my mistakes in the kitchen usually went unnoticed. Still, he was the kind of boss that evoked fear and trembling on the regular.
Since he’d started dating Kaya, I’d gotten to know him in a different capacity. True, he was still a total hard-ass at Lilou, my current place of employment, but outside of those whitewashed walls, he was kind and generous, even funny.
We’d become true friends. That was another reason to leave Lilou. Now that I knew his bark was bigger than his bite, I’d stopped taking him seriously when he started shouting and pounding on things. My obstinance was causing quite the dissension in the ranks.
When Kaya left to run Sarita, I was promoted to sous chef, second in command. So, when I rolled my eyes at Wyatt’s antics, the rest of the staff felt it was okay to roll their eyes at Wyatt.
It was so not okay to roll eyes at Wyatt.
“You’ll be good for him,” he told me. “Ezra, I mean. He listens to you. He respects your opinion. And I’m afraid your only chance of getting Bianca back where she needs to be is ignoring every damn thing your brother has to say. He’s right about most things in life, I’ll give him that, but his restaurant philosophies are dated. I’ve had to fight for autonomy. Killian left to find it. Kaya isn’t asking for permission, she’s just doing whatever the hell she wants. You’re going to have to find your own way with him. But you’re going to have to do something to revive this place. And Ezra has no clue what that is.”
“The eyes were a good choice,” I said, defending my brother. “The mural brought life to this place.”
His lips twisted in a smirk. “Molly’s idea. And she told him to butt out while she did her thing too. Like I said, he’s super smart with money. But he doesn’t know shit about what it’s going to take to get this restaurant back on top. That’s up to you, Dillon. Make this restaurant your own. Give her your feel. Your style. Your… something special. She’ll bounce back naturally.”
Fresh panic swirled through me. “What if I don’t have a style? What if I don’t even know how to go about getting one?”
His smile softened and his eyes warmed. “I’ve seen you in the kitchen. I’ve watched you lead. I know you don’t think you’re qualified for this, but there are ten other chefs at Lilou that have been cooking decades longer than you and can’t do what you do. There is something incredibly special about the gentle way you handle food. You love it in a way that is rare.”
Emotion clogged my throat and I blinked back tears. “Aw shucks, Chef.”
He playfully punched me in the bicep. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
“Okay.”
“I mean that,” he reiterated, shooting my brother an annoyed look. “Kaya and I have your back. This isn’t going to be easy. You know that. But that doesn’t mean it’s not going to be the best damn ride of your life.”
I sucked in my bottom lip and sunk my teeth into it. He was right about that. Right about all of it.
“Seriously, thanks, Wyatt.” He nodded in acknowledgment and another thought dawned on me. “Wait, who are you going to get to replace me?”
His expression hardened and he glanced desperately at the ceiling. “Hell if I know. I merely mentioned the idea to Benny and he already shot me down. Nobody wants that job.”
“Yeah, well, nobody wanted this job either, but look, Ezra found a sucker. I’m sure you’ll find a sucker too.”
He snorted. “I guess we’ll see about that.”
“I guess we’ll see about all of this. Maybe don’t fill the position too quickly. I might need to come crawling back.”
The others joined us before he could assure me for the millionth time that I’d be fine. That was a good thing. I knew I wouldn’t be fine. I wouldn’t even be close to fine. I didn’t need any more false assurances that I’d be great at a job that was entirely out of my league.
I wasn’t going to be great at it.
I wasn’t even going to be okay at it.
Holy shit, what did I just sign up for?
Three
The following morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I rolled over and buried my face in my pillow, willing my body to go back to sleep. The sun wasn’t even awake yet, why was I?
This was one of those rare traits I’d inherited from my father. Ezra was the same way. As a whole, the Baptiste family were terrible sleepers. Driven by insane work goals and the need to conquer the known world, we woke up ready for battle.
I usually enjoyed waking up early. Even if I had a late shift the night before, I preferred to be up and at ‘em. But today, my head felt like someone had split my skull in two with a chisel and my entire body ached. Another hour of sleep would’ve helped.
My phone beeped with an incoming text. And then my email started to buzz. I’d dealt with migraines my entire life. This wasn’t a terrible one compared to some of the other ones I’d had in the past, but it was enough to make me want to stay in bed for the rest of the day.
Okay, to be honest last night’s surprise ambush to take over Bianca was the real reason I wanted to hide inside my three-bedroom loft with my blackout curtains drawn and Netflix rolling for the rest of forever and ever amen. The migraine was a byproduct of my recently imposed head chef position and all the stress that came with it.
Groaning into my plush pillow, I blindly reached for my phone, patting the nightstand until I nearly knocked it to the floor. It started ringing just as I grabbed it.
Without bothering to look at the number, I pushed it against my ear and croaked a garbled, “Hello.”
There was a beat of hesitation before my mom said, “Dillon? Is that you?”
Rolling over, I faced the curtains that hadn’t been fully drawn last night. A glimmer of early morning light slipped between the opening. Downtown was just on the other side of those dark curtains. The city would be waking up soon. Trucks would start delivering their goods to nearby businesses. Men and women with briefcases and suits would start dotting the sidewalks as they trudged their way from nearby parking garages to their high-rise office buildings. A man with a pushcart of coffee, fresh fruit, and savory hand pies would appear on my corner—like an angel sent to earth every morning, winning over humanity one delicious, flaky, buttery crust at a time.
I loved living in the middle of Durham city life. I loved the hustle and bustle. I loved my expensive loft that overlooked the high rises and gritty streets and was way too big for just little old me. I loved the doorman that let me double park and helped me with groceries because I kept him fully stocked with leftovers from Lilou and chocolate croissants I made every weekend.
Waking up in my giant, king-sized bed with my down comforter and ten pillows in this city I loved so very much was the best way I could imagine a morning. And it eased some of my fears concerning Bianca.
Not much. But some.
My headache pulsed at my temples, reminding me that there was still plenty to fret over.
“Hi, Mom,” I told the woman on the other end of the phone. “You’re up super early. Is everything okay?”
I said the Baptistes had the early morning bug. Not my mom. She could easily sleep till noon and not even notice. The woman was a total night owl. All my life, I’d hear her moving around at all hours of the night. I always had to rouse her to eat lunch the next day.
“Is it early there?” She sounded distracted. “I forgot about the time change.”
I scrunched my eyes closed and searched for the missing information. My mom lived in Durham. If it was early for me, it would be early for her. “Where are you?”
“Dillon, I told you. Tony and I are spending the summer in Paris.”
“You did not tell me that.”
She sighed, thoughtfu
l. “Yes, I did. Of course, I did.”
I blinked at my curtains. “I think I would have remembered you were spending the next three months in France.”
“Maybe you’re right.” She laughed at herself. “Sorry, darling. Tony and I are spending the summer in France touring. We’ll be home by Thanksgiving.”
That was more than just the summer, but I rarely argued logistics with my mom. “You’re going to miss Killian’s wedding.”
I heard a smack on the other end and knew she’d slapped her hand over her forehead—a trait we shared. “Oh, I totally forgot they moved the wedding up.”
“It’s because Vera’s knocked up.” I tsked conspiratorially, totally joking.
“Shotgun wedding then,” my mom teased in return. “I always knew if Killian were to get married, someone was going to have to be held at gunpoint. Although, honestly I always thought it would be that girl.” She took a breath. If I didn’t have a migraine, I would have cut her off before she could speak again. But the pain in my head was throwing me off my game. “You know, I always thought he would fall in love with you, Dilly Bar. I was so surprised when you told me he’d met someone else.”
I bit back a groan, we’d had this conversation at least one thousand times. Maybe more. Even before Vera showed up, I’d constantly had to remind her that nothing would ever happen with Killian and me. We were like brother and sister. Sure, I looked up to him. I respected him. I was going to totally take advantage of his offer to help with my transition to Bianca. But romantically we were about as compatible as a kitten and a stampeding elephant.
I was the kitten in this scenario.
Obvi.
“Mom, Vera is amazing for Killian. She can handle all his… bullying. They’re basically the most perfect couple that has ever existed.” She made a sound in the back of her throat so I quickly added, “After you and Tony, of course.”
I could hear her smile all the way from France. “You’re too sweet, baby.”
Laughing at her easy retreat, I rolled on my back and adjusted to the pain shooting through my head. I needed some drugs. Fast. Which meant, I would need to disentangle myself from a conversation that could go on for the next four hours.
My mom and I only chatted on the phone about once a week, but we texted constantly. Both of us hated talking on the phone, but we made an exception for each other. And then we’d spend all day catching up, telling each other everything going on—except when she was headed to France for months at a time.
Okay, we told each other everything we could remember. I usually remembered more than she did.
Cynthia Troy had been flighty her entire life and she was only getting worse. I loved her easy-going personality and ability to laugh at herself. But her forgetfulness was only getting worse the older she got.
At least she had Tony now. They’d married three years ago after dating for the same length of time, both second marriages with grown children. Mom only had me, but Tony had four kids that lived all over the country.
They’d known each other almost my entire life. Tony had been one of my dad’s investment partners. But it wasn’t until after Dad died that the sparks had flown—they’d accidentally reconnected at a little wine shop where they were both bottle of the month members. He was a very successful investment banker and my mom loved money. It was a match made in heaven.
Luckily, Tony had turned out to be a great guy, even after working with my dad for so long, and I was thrilled my mom had finally met a man that loved her so completely.
I’d grown up watching her put up with my dad’s shit. Once he’d died, she’d gone into a tragic cycle of meeting, dating, and dumping countless losers. For a short period of time, I’d followed in her footsteps. We’d both broken free around the same time. But for different reasons.
She’d gone on to find her happily ever after. I’d spent six years avoiding men completely and wishing they’d feel the same way about me. Now I just prayed I wouldn’t have to wait until I was fifty-seven to meet my soulmate.
“Please, please, please don’t make me wait another thirty years,” I whispered to the ceiling, hoping the powers that be could hear my plea.
I knew I wouldn’t be as fortunate as my mom if I had to wait that long. I was barely getting out of my twenties without Botox. In another three decades, I might be a cautionary tale of plastic surgery gone wrong.
The kitchen was not a kind place of employment for people like me, who preferred clear skin over the alternative, and clean hair over greasy and straggly. Cooking in a hot kitchen was not conducive for those things.
“I’m glad to hear you’re safe in Paris,” I told her. I could hear Tony in the background, reminding her about reservations.
“I guess I have to go,” she pouted. “The slave driver is summoning me.”
“Have a good time. And keep in mind I’m ridiculously jealous and now I won’t be able to enjoy my day at all.”
She laughed and I pictured her tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder so she could tug on her earring like she did when she thought something was truly funny. “Yeah, right, Ms. Head Chef. I’m sure your life is so terrible right now.”
I groaned in response. I’d texted her last night to share the news, somewhere between being excited for the position and absolutely terrified.
“Oh, stop that. This is a dream come true. Your brother spoils you rotten.”
That was true. “It’s already given me a headache and I haven’t started yet.”
“Take some medicine before it turns into a migraine,” she instructed. “And then drink a glass of champagne. You’ll feel better.”
It was pointless suggesting I shouldn’t drink alcohol this early in the morning with a handful of pills. But I let it go. She knew that. She just wasn’t thinking about her words.
“Love you, Mama.”
“Love you too, Dilly Bar. I’ll call you later.”
We both knew that was a lie, but she probably meant it at the moment.
After hanging up my phone, I stumbled to the kitchen, following her advice. At least to search for the ibuprofen.
I skipped the champagne.
For now.
I chased the drugs with a full glass of water and a few crackers to keep from getting nauseous. Then I dragged myself to the shower and turned it on as hot as I could stand it.
The heavy stream of water washed away some of the tightness in my shoulder blades and across the back of my neck. I worked through my daily shower routine and then stood under the pelting water until my fingers were prunes and the medicine kicked in.
By the time I’d finished dealing with my thick head of blonde beachy waves and applied some eyeliner and mascara, my phone had really woken up.
I’d missed texts from friends in the industry, congratulating me on my new gig. News traveled super-fast between kitchens. We loved gossip as much as we loved cooking.
My email box was filling up quickly too. I’d also missed calls from Kaya, Vera, Wyatt and Ezra.
Good grief.
I texted the first three and dialed my brother.
“Thanks again,” he said, sounding wide awake and chipper. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you stepping into that kitchen.”
“Good morning to you too.” I sounded significantly less poised. Unless this hoarse, croaky man-voice thing I had going on was poised.
He ignored me. “You’re the best, you know that right?”
“I am aware,” I teased, sighing for good measure.
“Good.”
I smiled at my unmade bed. “I’m not starting until Sunday though. We’re clear on that, right?”
“Sunday…”
“I want one last shift at Lilou,” I reminded him. “And I want a weekend before I become head chef and never get another vacation day again. One last hoorah before I sell my soul to saving your ass.”
He barked out a laugh. “Is that what you’re doing?”
I didn’t say anything. He knew t
hat was what I was doing.
As sous chef at Lilou, I still got nights off. Sure, I worked almost every day. And night. And Wyatt basically couldn’t run his kitchen without me. But I did occasionally get a night off.
I wouldn’t get the same luxury at Bianca. Especially not in the beginning as I attempted to undo all the damage the last year and a half had inflicted on her.
He groaned, reminding me of how I talked to my mom this morning. “All right, fine. I guess I can cover for you until then.”
“And I still want off for all the wedding stuff. Don’t forget about that.”
“Right,” he agreed quickly. Too quickly. “The wedding.”
“And the rehearsal dinner,” I reminded him. “And the bachelorette party.”
“I don’t know if I can swing—”
“Ezra. You promised.”
“I don’t think I promised.”
“I think I quit.”
“Excuse me?”
I sighed, realizing this was how it was always going to be working for him. He was impossible. How Molly ever put up with him was an unsolved mystery. “I quit. I can’t work under these conditions.”
“These conditions? You haven’t even started at Bianca! That’s the whole point!”
“Then you should have hired me after the festivities. Those events are nonnegotiable.”
He cursed under his breath, a word he didn’t usually say in front of me. You know, because he was the big brother and I was the delicate little sister. Cue eye roll. “You’re a ballbuster, you know that?”
My smile was real when I quipped, “Learned from the best.”
“Hmph.”
“Love you, Ez.”
“I hate it when you call me that.” He sighed and added, “Love you too, sis.”
We hung up and I tossed my phone on the bed, the sick feeling of panic curling through me once again. It was hard to say if Ezra had called as a big brother checking up on his little sister, or if he’d called as the boss protecting his investment.
He was like that. As much as I loved him and looked up to him, he was also a cutthroat restaurateur that wanted to be the best in the city.
The Something about Her: Opposites Attract book four Page 3