Cocktales

by The Cocky Collective

  Normally.

  But not tonight. Because, in addition to the fact that I hate this man on principle for insulting my cooking… I already hate him for an entirely different set of reasons. Namely, because I know him. I’ve known him for ten years, since I was no more than an eighteen-year-old kid enrolled in her first-ever cooking class, who thought bouillabaisse was something you might find in The Kama Sutra, not the Joy of Cooking.

  Emmett Fox.

  Former culinary school nemesis at Le Cordon Bleu, current rival executive chef at La Folie — our biggest competitor in the city. I haven’t seen or spoken to him for eight years, but as soon as our eyes lock, I feel a long-simmering rage begin to bubble to the surface.

  “Emmeline,” he purrs, lush lips twisting into a smirk. “It’s been too long.”

  “You.” I nearly spit out the word. “I should’ve known.”

  “Oh, come on. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

  My scowl intensifies. “We aren’t friends.”

  “You’re right, Ems. Back in school, you were always far too focused to make time for friendship.” His eyes gleam with amusement. “Guess some things never change.”

  “Don’t pretend you know me,” I snap. “And don’t call me Ems.”

  “Touchy, touchy.”

  “You are aware there are several lethally sharp blades within my reach? Test me at your own peril, Fox.”

  He grins as if he finds my rage utterly adorable. “Aren’t you even a little glad to see me?”

  “No.”

  “So bitter.” He pauses. “Rather like your homemade tomato sauce, if memory serves.”

  A squawk of anger flies from my mouth. “My sauce is not bitter!”

  “If you’d loosen up those apron strings a bit, it might help — with your demeanor, not the sauce.” He waggles his brows. “A pinch of sugar should do, for that.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t take cooking advice from a guy whose ass I whipped all the way through culinary school.”

  He snorts. “If that’s how you need to remember it, it’s your choice. And by choice I mean delusion.”

  “I see your ego hasn’t diminished since the last time I saw you.”

  “And I see your insane need to win every argument is as intact as ever,” he volleys back. “Tell me, Ems, did you ever wonder what things might’ve been like between us, if you’d set aside your competitive drive for one damn minute? Whether it might’ve been… different?”

  “Hmmm.” I pretend to think about it for a second. “Nope. I was too busy beating you.”

  He shakes his head, grinning. “Amazing.”

  My brows arch in question.

  “So much piss and vinegar in such a petite little package.”

  “Get out of my kitchen, Fox.”

  “You invited me.”

  I scoff. “Consider your invitation rescinded!”

  He doesn’t move a single muscle. He just stands there, that infuriating smirk still twisting his lips, cockier than the chicken dish he so rudely rejected. Thrice. His muscular arms are crossed casually over his chest in a way that tells me he’s not the least bit apologetic for his actions tonight. If anything, he’s rather pleased with himself.

  I wish that smug self-confidence was enough to mitigate the effects of his chiseled features on every woman in the room. Izzie is shamelessly stealing glances at him as she wipes down her station. Mary is restocking the fridge a bit too slowly, eavesdropping on our every word. Even Tina, who I know for a fact is happily married with four children, looks like she’s about to start drooling on the freshly-washed dishes.

  I heave a deep sigh. “Seriously, what are you doing here, Fox? Besides driving me to drink?”

  “Call it… competitive curiosity.” His mouth curls in a smile as his eyes sweep around the kitchen. “I couldn’t resist a chance to check out the infamous dragon’s lair.”

  Dragon?!

  I clench my teeth so hard I worry I’ll snap a crown.

  Emmett catches Izzie’s eyes across the kitchen and winks at her. “Tell me, is it true she breathes fire when you displease her?”

  Izzie ducks her head to hide a smile but — wisely — chooses not to respond.

  “And the true mystery…” His gaze swings back to mine then slides down my frame, taking in my every detail. “How do you fit those scaly wings under such a tight uniform?”

  “More insults.” My eyes roll. “How very predictable.”

  “I don’t recall insulting you.”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “Fire-breathing dragon.”

  “That was a compliment.” He laughs and his whole stupidly handsome face lights up in the process. “Mostly.”

  Izzie’s shoulders shake in silent amusement.

  Kevin thinly veils a chortle with a coughing fit.

  My scowl returns. “Go away, Fox. It’s been a long night, and I don’t have the energy to play this little game with you.”

  “I wasn’t aware we were playing a game.”

  “You sent my coq au vin back three times! You had me running around my kitchen like a maniac!”

  “Sorry to break it to you, babe — guess I’m just not into coq.”

  Several of my staff members giggle helplessly. I’d glare at them, but I’m too busy directing all my rage at the man standing before me.

  “Well, that’s just fine, because I won’t be cooking it for you ever again.”

  “Even if I beg?”

  “Even if you show up on my doorstep dying of scurvy and malnutrition.”

  “Scurvy and malnutrition?” His head tilts to the side. “Isn’t that a little redundant, as threats go?”

  My hands curl into fists at my sides. “Just go away.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I hate you.”

  “Liar.” His eyes hold mine, so blue I can’t look away. “You feel something for me — but it’s definitely not hate. We both know that, Emmeline.”

  “You’re delusional.” My heart pounds a bit faster when he says my full name. “And rude. Intolerable. Irredeemable.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s not enough?”

  “Really, what have I done that’s so terrible?” he asks lowly. Heat saturates his stare, overtaking all traces of amusement. “Besides fail to ask you out, ten years ago — which I see now was a terrible oversight on my part.”

  I ignore him — and the butterflies that burst to life in my stomach at his words. When I speak, my tone is as arctic as my glare. “Three letters, asshole.”

  His sandy brows lift.

  “K.”

  I take a menacing step in his direction.

  “F.”

  Another step.

  “C.”

  And one more, so I’m right up in his face.

  Actually… he’s about a foot taller than me. So I’m not exactly in his face. But I’m close to his face. In the general proximity of his face. Which totally conveys the same threatening effect.

  Right?

  Shit.

  Emmett’s lips twitch as he looks down at me. I fear my lethal glare isn’t quite as intimidating as I thought it would be.

  “Don’t you dare laugh,” I growl under my breath, hoping no one else can hear.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” A dimple pops out in his right cheek and more butterflies burst into flight. “You know… you’re pretty fucking cute when you’re angry. No wonder your kitchen staff puts up with your tirades.”

  The butterflies die instantly, incinerated by a fresh wave of anger. “I do not have tirades.”

  “Fine.” He pauses. “Diatribes?”

  I hear several telltale snorts from behind me and swivel my head around. Sure enough, every single one of my underlings is staring avidly in our direction, fascinated by the sight of two premiere New York City chefs mere inches away from strangling the life out of each other.

  Or… maybe, doing something entirely different to each other. Something I refuse to let my br
ain contemplate.

  “Everyone is dismissed,” I bark gruffly, making them all flinch. “I’ll finish the clean-up. See you tomorrow night. On time. That means you, Steve.”

  With a murmured chorus of “Yes, Chef”, they slip out of the kitchen without a word of protest. The door bangs shut with finality. Steeling myself for another round of battle, I glance back at Emmett and find his smirk is more pronounced than ever.

  “Tell me again how you don’t have tirades rivaling that of a small, tyrannical dictator?”

  “You know, when I ordered everyone out, that applied to you as well.” I look pointedly toward the door. “Shoo.”

  “Did you just shoo me? Like a dog?” He laughs again. The sound pools in my stomach like a warm shot of whisky.

  “If the fleas fit,” I say sweetly, turning my back to him. I cross to the closest stainless prep table and grab the bottle of disinfectant spray. There are still plenty of counters to clean and utensils to store, thanks to my early staff dismissal. I’m glad for the distraction.

  He won’t leave?

  Fine.

  I’ll ignore him.

  I set to work, misting the surface and wiping it down with rhythmic strokes. Usually, this kind of monotonous task would be enough to calm me. However, tonight, with Emmett standing five feet away watching my every move, I find myself more keyed-up than ever. Nervous energy zips along my nerve endings.

  “Ignoring me now?” His voice is wry and warm.

  I scrub harder.

  “That’s fine, Ems. We don’t have to talk.”

  I hear footsteps heading my direction, but I don’t look up — not even when he comes to a stop next to me. He’s standing so close, I can feel the heat off his skin, can hear the soft, steady breaths escaping his lips. Shifting so much as an inch would bring our bodies into direct contact… and I’d be lying if I said, just for an instant, I’m not reckless enough to consider the repercussions.

  What would happen if I closed that gap?

  If, just this once, I let my unparalleled self-control lapse?

  I push the voice away, cursing myself for even considering such madness. No matter what he looks like in that suit… I hate Emmett Fox, and I always will.

  Even if he’s hotter than the blow-torch I use to caramelize my creme brûlée.

  Holding myself perfectly still, I hardly dare to draw a breath as I wait for him to say something that will shatter the heady tension filling up the narrow sliver of air left between us… but he doesn’t say a single word.

  My heart begins to pound faster.

  My fingers clench the rag harder.

  After a moment, a large, callused hand reaches into my line of sight and grabs the disinfectant spray. To my everlasting relief — and, admittedly, a tiny shred of disappointment — Emmett steps out of my space. My lungs resume functioning. Keeping my eyes locked on the cleaning cloth in my hand, I listen as he rounds the kitchen island and takes up a position directly across from me.

  With the stainless table planted firmly between us, I feel safe enough to steal a small glance at him. Just one, tiny peek won’t hurt…

  Right?

  Wrong.

  My heart stutters a beat as I take in the sight of Emmett shrugging out of his expensive jacket and tossing it onto a nearby shelf. There’s something almost erotic about the way he rolls up the sleeves of his crisp white button-down, those dexterous fingers folding back the fabric to reveal a set of sun-bronzed forearms. My mouth feels suddenly dry as I watch his muscles flex beneath the cotton fabric of his shirt when he sprays down the stainless surface and begins to wipe it clean with practiced motions.

  “Wh-wha—” I swallow hard. “What are you doing?”

  “Playing basketball,” he deadpans, not looking up.

  I sigh. “Why are you helping me clean?”

  “Contrary to what you might think, I’m actually a nice guy.”

  “Not from what I remember. In fact, nice wouldn’t even make the top fifty adjectives I’d use to describe you, Fox.”

  “Fifty adjectives, huh?” He whistles. “Guess that means you think about me a lot.”

  “Try never.”

  “You’re breaking my heart, Ems.”

  “Wasn’t aware you had a heart.”

  He glances up, catching my gaze immediately. There’s a lighthearted look on his face, but his eyes are more serious than I can ever recall seeing them. “You’re certainly determined to carry on this feud, aren’t you?”

  “Me?” I snort. “Refresh my memory — was it me who went to your restaurant, sent back your signature dish three times, then came into your kitchen to troll you in front of your staff?” I pause. “No! That was you.”

  “Come on, Ems. Where’s your sense of humor?”

  “Somewhere in the garbage, along with the three uneaten batches of coq au vin I made tonight.”

  “I’m sorry, okay?” He sets down his rag and braces his hands against the table. “Yes, it was a dick move… but it was also my only move. If I’d asked to come back here to see your kitchen — to see you — would you have rolled out the welcome mat for me? Or would you have sent that waitress straight back to my table with a message to get the hell out of your restaurant and out of your life?”

  I jerk my chin in lieu of an answer.

  “Yeah,” he mutters. “Thought so.”

  “In case you’re forgetting — it’s not like you deserve a red carpet reception, Fox. Not after all the shit you put me through back in culinary school.”

  “Such as?”

  “How about the time you slid skewers inside all my baguettes, so I couldn’t slice them?”

  “You mean, after you’d removed all of mine from the cooling rack without permission, to make room for your own?”

  I have no rebuttal for that.

  Emmett snorts. “Cooking with you was like a military coup d'état — no compromise, no communication. Just a seizure of control without any concern for anyone else.”

  “Nice,” I drawl sarcastically.

  “True,” he counters softly. “You may blame me for starting this rivalry, but of the two of us, you’re the one who made everything such a damn competition. I was just… rising to the challenge.”

  “Oh, spare me. Not all your pranks were so justifiable.” I narrow my eyes at him. “What about the time you dyed my chef’s hat bright green with food coloring? I walked around all week looking like a damn leprechaun.”

  “It was Saint Patrick’s Day! I was being festive. And you dyed my soufflés blue in retaliation,” he reminds me, smiling. “Or am I not permitted to mention your offenses, prosecutor?”

  “Fine.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Maybe I did that. But I wasn’t the one who carved my initials into your final dessert evaluation. When I pulled my perfect cheesecake out of the fridge to present to our instructor, you’d completely defiled it!”

  “It needed a little embellishment. Pretty sure my efforts only helped your grade point average.” He shrugs. “Plus, in return, you changed FOX to FOXY in the student record system. I don’t even know how you managed that one, but every single piece of paper from that point on was affected. Attendance sheets, grade reports, permanent files. I’m surprised my damn diploma didn’t read EMMETT FOXY.”

  I can’t help cracking a grin. “That was some of my best work.”

  “Honestly, I’m still curious how you made it happen.”

  “I’ll never reveal my sources.” I pause. “However, I will say, it always pays to befriend the school secretary.”

  He shakes his head sternly. “Devious. Truly.”

  We both grin and, for a moment, it’s easy to forget he’s my arch-rival.

  “See?” His smile falters a bit. “It wasn’t all bad.”

  “It wasn’t exactly good, though.” I sigh. “I’m surprised we didn’t kill each other. Probably best we haven’t crossed paths, since we graduated.”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that.” His Adam’s apple bobs as
he swallows roughly. “It’s nice to see you. It always is. Even when you’re glaring at me or threatening to carve me into bits with your rather impressive knife collection.”

  I blink slowly, startled by his words.

  “Look…” He runs a hand through his hair and blows out a sharp breath. “I can’t apologize for all the shit that went down ten years ago, ‘cause the truth is, I’m not sorry. Sparring with you was damn entertaining. Some of those pranks we played on each other were the best times of my life. You may be a tyrant with a spatula… but you’re a hell of a lot of fun, Ems.”

  My mouth gapes.

  Did my nemesis… just… compliment me?

  “That said… I’m not the same guy I was back then. I’ve changed.”

  “Yeah?” I put on a bitchy tone, hoping it might drown out the pounding of my pulse. “Is that why you spent the evening insulting me in every way possible?”

  “I insulted your cooking,” he corrects, eyes narrowed. “Not you.”

  “Same thing!”

  “Is it, though?” His tone drops to a low, intent murmur. “Are you really so defined by this job, you don’t know who you are outside this kitchen?”

  I don’t answer.

  “When was the last time you got out of that chef’s hat, Emmeline? Let your hair down? Got a bit wild?” He leans in, across the table, eyes never shifting from mine. “When was the last time you did anything at all just for fun?”

  Truthfully?

  Back in culinary school. With him. Playing stupid pranks.

  Since then, my life has been one long string of late nights and endless work. I’ve been so caught up improving my craft, pushing myself to succeed… I can hardly recall the last time I did something just because it made me happy.

  “Emmeline.”

  My eyes fly up to his and I realize I’ve gone nearly a minute without responding. I search my mind for a convincing lie, coming up short as I get lost in his too-blue stare.

  “I… I…” I fumble and, without any other options, blurt out the truth. “I don’t have time for a life. Not yet. Not when I’ve worked so hard to get to this place.” I gesture around at the empty kitchen. My small empire. My entire reason for existence, contained within one room. “Not when I’ve sacrificed so much to land here.”