by J. M. Adele
This had better be a massive tip.
“Chelsea. Baaabe. Get me another Patrón? Aaand we’ll have a fresh bottle of vino for my colleagues.”
Didn’t your mama ever teach you some manners? She concentrated on keeping her expression open and friendly, but damn, her eyes wanted to roll as she turned towards the bar.
Pain shot through her butt cheek as his wayward hand grabbed it in a rough hold. The shriek ripped out of her throat before she could stop it. Spinning around, she constructed her best beauty-pageant smile.
“Sugar, I appreciate the compliment, but see this here table?”
He nodded as she waved her hand, his lascivious smirk firmly in place.
“This table is like a vehicle. It’s best if you keep your limbs inside the vehicle at all times, to avoid them being ripped clean off by passing traffic. And you’ll be needing your limbs to be able to pay me a huge tip at the end of the night. Not to mention they’ll be your only source of lovin’ for the evening. Are you understandin’ the road rules, hun?”
His flat expression told her he understood all right, but he wasn’t liking what she was putting down. Damn, she was really hoping for that tip. Why were men such obnoxious bastards?
Not all men, she reminded herself.
“He bothering you, Chelsea?” Beau loomed large behind her, staring down at Clermont like he was the sludge that collected in drain pipes.
Chelsea slid her eyes back to Grabby Hands, feeling slightly braver with the reinforcement at her back. “Are we all good, Mr. Clermont?” She waited for his loose-necked nod. “Bless your heart,” she aimed the nasty remark at Clermont before patting Beau on the arm. “He’s fine, sugar. Thanks for backin’ me up. I’ll follow you to the bar, I have another order to fill.”
_____
Another hour later, with only one table left occupied in her section, and a few campers scattered throughout the rest of the room, Chelsea was ready to get some shut eye. The sounds of the clean-up could be heard coming from the kitchen, and their worst elevator music played from the overhead speakers. She’d helped bus tables so they could all get out on time, and now busied herself at the server’s station preparing for the next day.
Clermont only tipped fifteen percent, leaving without so much as a thank you. Egg suckin’ dawg. She’d already divided her tips with the rest of the staff, and was left with enough to feed her coffee addiction for the rest of the week. Just.
Dane drifted into her space, bumping her shoulder with his to get her attention. She didn’t bother raising her head.
“What’s up, Dane?” She may as well have said, ‘leave me alone, for the love of God.’ Her patience was thinner than a piece of gauze full of holes. Exhaustion sank to her bones. Too much Alabama sunshine and relaxing at home, and she’d gone soft. Plus, that damn buzz was still in the air, and it was starting to get her goose.
Her shoulder jerked forward as Dane bumped it again, more insistent that she paid attention this time. She threw down the napkin she was working on and turned to glare at him.
He held up his hands in surrender and jerked his chin towards the back corner of the restaurant, flicking his eyes in the same direction. “The new recruit,” he whispered, for some damn reason.
Like the newbie sitting in the ba—she turned her head, nearly falling into Dane when she noticed who occupied the table in the corner. She felt his steely gaze across the expanse of the room. Blood pumped to her limbs, prepping her for flight. She wasn’t sure in which direction she intended to go.
What were the odds?
How was this happening?
Her thoughts fell from her brain like chalk dust falling from a chalkboard.
“He’s been staring at you for the last twenty minutes.”
She snapped her eyes back to Dane. “What?”
“Damn shame you’ve sworn off men. He is one tall package of delicious. He gives Beau a run for his money. I may have to reevaluate my crush …”
Dane rambled on, but the buzz swarmed her ear drums and rattled the center of her chest. She stood stiff, her inability to move at odds with her body’s need to flee. Or, maybe it was that she needed to run over and jump Greyson Stranger’s bones.
Emptying her lungs, heat singed her flesh as she began to twitch, her leg jiggling on the spot. Shit. She was going to have to work with him. Life had to be joking. Why did she have to go and make that promise …? Ugh, no. That was the old Chelsea talking. She was supposed to be growing up. Her head fell forward and she stared at the sensible black pumps she was wearing. She tried to imagine those Manolo’s adorning her feet, but the image glitched like her vision was on the fritz. Damn buzz.
“… And then an hour in the steam room before soaking in the hot tub.” Dane was already planning his day at the spa.
Cocky sonofabitch.
“Oh, you’re hilarious. You can forget about the spa because those boots will be mine.”
“I’m pretty sure he’d be yours if you asked him. I can feel the lust from here.”
She groaned, and turned back to the server’s station. “Shut up. Just, shut up.”
Chelsea directed the words at her friend, but it was a plea for the buzzing to stop. It must be her body reacting to the realization that she was in trouble—again.
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
I Have Arrived
After the final twelve hours behind the wheel, way too much gas station food, and numb ass cheeks messing with his swagger, he’d arrived.
Boston.
The big city.
Looong way from the ranch. Yeehaw.
Grey’s chest expanded as he sucked in a dose of freedom, checking out the brownstone he’d be calling home for the next few months, until he could get his own place. Man, his uncle must be rolling in it.
He found the hidden key and jogged up the steps, feeling the prickle of blood returning to his rear end. Opening the door, the smell of wood polish hit him as he took in the kind of opulence fit for a magazine cover. Holy shit. He stood blinking for a minute, not wanting to set his dirty, cowboy boots on the shiny floor. Grey half expected the butler to make an appearance.
His instincts led him straight to the kitchen, head rearing back as his hand dropped his bag at the sight. State-of-the-art European appliances. Extra wide, double ovens. Heat lamps. It was an entertainer’s dream. He wondered how many kickass parties his uncle had thrown here.
The temptation to put the room to use had his hands itching. This was a long way from the country kitchen he’d grown up in. All his favorite memories involved learning how to cook from his Nonna and his mama in that basic kitchen. Some of his worst memories too. As a young boy, his father had berated him for wanting to spend his time with the women. Being dragged out by the ear to ‘go on and do some real work.’ His parents fighting over keeping him in his rightful place versus developing his passion and talent.
Reaching into his back pocket he took out his phone and dialed his mother, knowing she’d be waiting for his call.
“Grey?”
“Yeah, Mom, it’s me.” He smiled at the sound of her voice.
“You made it safely. Thank the Lord.”
“Stop. You worry too much.”
“You’re my son, it’s my job to worry about you. How is your uncle?”
“Living the life by the looks of his pad.” He smoothed a hand over the stone benchtop. “I haven’t seen him yet. He said he’d be working late.”
“When do you start?”
“Not for a couple of days. I thought I’d check the place out tomorrow. Get my bearings.”
“Well, make sure you get some rest tonight.”
“I will.” He drummed his fingers on the bench, looking at his reflection in the oven door. The image shadowed, enhancing the unmistakable guilt marring his features. “How’s Papà?”
“He’s in bed. Early start tomorrow. You know how it is.”
“Yeah.” He knew how it was.
“Are you okay, Mama? Has he bee
n hassling you about me leaving?”
“I’m fine …”
The pause and the crack in her voice almost undid him. He put his hand on the keys in his back pocket, for a second considering turning around and heading home. But that would make a mockery of all the times his mother had come to his defense.
Anger brewed as he thought about the stubborn old bastard that’d raised him. What pissed him off the most was how much he loved his father despite his overbearing behavior. But trying to appease him was not the answer.
“He’s not talking to anyone. Don’t worry. He’ll get over it soon enough.”
“Hm.” He hoped that was true, rubbing his fingers over his forehead to erase the tension pounding behind his skull.
“Get some sleep. Call me after your first day at the restaurant.”
“Okay, Mama. Love you.”
“Love you too, honey.”
Leaning both hands on the bench, he faced his reflection head on. Jaw clenched and eyes piercing, his determination flashed like a Times Square billboard. He couldn’t wait any longer. Taking the stairs two at a time, he found his bedroom, dumped his bag on the floor, and grabbed the towel that had been left on the bed. Thank you, Uncle. After the fastest shower of his life, he jumped back in his pick-up, and set off to check out his new workplace.
Greyson’s truck crawled past the front of Abbiocco, stunned at the sight through the windows. The place was beautiful in a rustic, old-world kind of way, without looking dated. He slowed almost to a stop until the car behind him honked.
Sorry, man.
If he had any doubts about chasing his dream, they disintegrated with the spike in his pulse at finally being here.
After parking at the back entrance and banging the side of his fist on the door, he pulled the collar of his jacket up and slipped his hands in his pockets, eager to get inside and out of the cold. Light spilled at his feet as the entrance opened in invitation.
“Buonasera, Zio,” Grey greeted his uncle, a little shocked at how his midnight black hair was now the color of steel.
“Greyson. Good to see you made it.” Matteo waved him inside, giving each cheek a kiss and enveloping him in a hearty hug.
The heated air from the kitchen seemed to reach out, pulling him into its warm embrace. He gratefully accepted, feeling an instant sense of belonging to this place.
Grey’s feet anchored to the floor as he surveyed the scene before him. Gleaming stainless-steel benches, stacks of bowls and pans, and the ranges and ovens, all called to him. He couldn’t wait to sink his teeth into the challenge of creating the perfect balance of textures and flavors to make the mouth sing. An expression he learned from his Nonna.
The kitchen was in the middle of the dessert service. He watched the Chef de Partie and her patissiers scoop rochets of sorbet, arrange macaroons, and trickle what looked like berry coulis onto an array of plates. Tiramisu, sfogliatelle, and a coffee semifreddo also featured on the line.
The smells shot a message to his stomach, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since lunch. He swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth, and rubbed a hand on his belly to quiet the growling.
Matteo laughed. “You hungry? We can fix that.”
“Thank God. I didn’t want to have to face another dose of take-out. Road trips are great and all, but the food sucks.”
“Fretta,” Matteo barked into the room, pointing to the clock on the wall. He waved his hand at the controlled chaos, turning to Grey. “You’ve arrived on a particularly crazy night. But, it’s good for you to see how busy we can be. You’ll learn to cope, or you won’t survive. It’s the life of a chef. Always pressure against the clock. Always trying to exceed expectations, and innovating to make your mark and keep things fresh. You will see.”
He followed Matteo further into the room.
“I’ll show you around, and then we will do your paperwork.”
It was obvious how Matteo’s powerful presence commanded respect in the dip of each employee’s head, and the way they did his bidding without question. They trusted his expertise and guidance.
Grey had barely spent any time with the man, but he respected the hell out of Matteo. Over twenty-two years ago, he’d rejected his birthright and Nonno’s expectation that his first born would inherit the cattle ranch and continue the family legacy. Matteo ended up in Boston, where he apprenticed under one of the leading chefs of the time. After building up his own reputation, and saving enough to invest in his own restaurant, Abbiocco was born.
Declared an outcast after his unsanctioned exit, Matteo hadn’t met Grey until he was ten; after Nonno died, lifting the ban. Sporadic visits from his uncle eventually dried up all together when Matteo and Lucca had a falling out. That was one skeleton that remained locked tight in Grey’s father’s cupboard. Not even Nonna knew what drove the brothers to blows.
Secret communications between Nonna and her eldest son kept Greyson updated on Matteo’s successes, stoking the flame of his own ambitions. And now, here he was. He knew the repercussions of his actions, because it appeared that history was set on repeat. The two black sheep had found each other again.
They entered the surprisingly small office where bare brick walls made it feel more like a cave than a work space. A desk lamp provided the only light source, adding to the cozy feel. Other than the desk that took up the center of the room, the only other furniture was a filing cabinet, bookcases in each corner behind the desk, and a bench seat to the side of the doorway.
Greyson sat, wedging his knees under the lip of the desktop. He eyed the bookcase, recognizing some family photos of him with his brother and sisters as children, and a couple of Mama and Nonna in the kitchen, balanced precariously in front of the stacked cook books. None of his father or grandfather. The Agrioli men were masters at holding a grudge.
Matteo’s chair squeaked as he wheeled around to reach for the policy and procedure manuals, dumping them in front of Greyson.
“Some light reading before you start.” Matteo raised a single brow. “Now, once you sign, I’ll have you for two years. I don’t tolerate quitters. If you’re not prepared to bleed, burn, sweat, and blister for this, then don’t sign. The program includes over four hundred hours of related instruction. I expect two hundred percent effort and top marks. When you’re here, I’m not your uncle. I am Chef. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Chef.”
“Bene.”
Matteo pushed a stack of papers across the desk and held out a pen with a burning severity in his gray eyes that said, ‘don’t fuck this up.’
I don’t intend to.
He passed the papers and pen back, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans.
“Is Lucca still against you being here?” Matteo’s gruff voice sounded suddenly tired.
“Yeah.”
“Hmph.”
They sat watching each other with a hundred unanswered questions, refusing to make a sound. He could see it on Matteo’s face, and his head was clogged with them.
What happened between you and my father all those years ago?
Why are you giving me this chance?
He didn’t give voice to either, choosing to continue sizing up the man he’d idolized for years.
“Grab a plate, go on out the front, and take a seat. Watch how things work front of house. I’ll meet you out there.”
Grey took his food, dodged his way around the busy staff in the kitchen, and scanned the restaurant for an empty table. There were plenty this time of night. He picked one in the back corner. Perfect. He’d get a full view of the room, and not have to watch his back. Not that there were any rogue animals to worry about here. Just rogue humans with too much alcohol in their veins.
The place looked even more amazing up close. It had a vibe going on that had everything to do with satisfied customers and staff, and little to do with the decor. Greyson wolfed down the delicious cuisine before he leaned his arms on the table and surveyed the room again. His whole body tensed when he caug
ht a flash of platinum blonde.
No. It couldn’t be.
Shaking his head, he sat back and relaxed. Of course, it wasn’t her.
The view of the blonde’s rear was a sight to behold in that black pencil skirt, and the fitted white shirt showed off a trim waistline that would fit in his hands nicely. He willed her to turn around so he could see if the front was just as enticing.
She whirled around to attend to a table, and his heart stuttered to a stop. Rebelling against his body as it roared to life with a thousand possibilities.
Holy shit! It IS her.
Chelsea.
Boston, you’re full of surprises.
He didn’t know if she was a welcome complication or a disaster waiting to happen, but he tightened all his muscles to stop himself from springing out of the seat. He didn’t want to scare her off. He’d sensed she’d be a hard one to pin down when they met. And he’d be damned if he didn’t enjoy the chase.
This time there’d be no walking away. For either of them.
Fate was a genius.
I’m Taking You Home
Chelsea tried to resist peeking over her shoulder, only failing a few times as she worked with Jenna, tidying up. Anything to ignore the ten-ton weight of Greyson’s gaze on her back. He hadn’t bothered to approach her, and she refused to go there again after the way he had rejected her last time. Whatever scared him away back in Alabama probably still bothered him now. Every second that passed without him coming to speak to her was a hatchet chopping away at her confidence. The ground under her feet had wavered between shaky and solid since meeting him. But, it was her own damn fault. She was way too fond of playing with fire.
Her head turned again, involuntarily tracking her boss as he walked over to Greyson’s table and took a seat. They spoke for a little while, though she couldn’t hear them, before turning their eyes on her. She stiffened, but nodded with a smile, like his attention didn’t bring out goose pimples on her skin and send her heart thumping behind her breast.