by Claire Adams
The restaurant isn’t that bad, I thought as I waited at the front. It wasn’t fancy, and the steaks were all less than 100 dollars, but the wine selection was decent, music was low, and waitresses were average. I paused to glance at the kitchen and took some time memorizing the menu. It wasn’t upscale Italian as I would have suggested, but seemed to be comfort American instead. It seemed I was the only one who made a reservation as well, as couples dressed in office clothes got seats with no problem. I fixed my tie and checked my watch.
It was 7:15. She was late. I should have asked for a phone number, but she hadn’t seemed to be comfortable with more than a friendly handshake at the fundraiser.
She wasn’t coming. I fixed my tie and checked my watch again. Of course she wasn’t coming; why would she? Why would such a beautiful, stunning woman bother with a single dad who spends his entire days traveling between restaurants?
The door opened behind me, and I turned to take my leave.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Everly said as she smiled in my direction. I paused, taking in her soft gray dress with a white collar and dark high heels. “I got held up at work, and I couldn’t exactly tell everyone there that I was going on a 20,000 dollar date. Not that they’d believe me anyway.”
Her cheeks flushed, catching her words too late.
“It’s okay,” I laughed. “I guess that would be difficult to explain, huh?” The host showed us to our seats, where I ordered a bottle of their most expensive wine and ordered a steak dinner. Everly ordered roasted chicken, and the 20,000 dollar date, as she called it, began in awkward silence.
“So, you were held up at work?” I asked.
“Yup.” She fidgeted with the cloth napkin. I smirked and raised an eyebrow, which she must have understood. “I’m a chef at Saint Padres,” she said. Our appetizer, a bread basket that was left out for too long and a weird side sauce that I supposed was oil and vinegar, arrived.
“Saint Padres? On Third Street?” I asked. I hadn’t realized Phil was her boss, but he had congratulated me after winning the bid with a bit too much excitement. I should have known.
“That’s the one.” She gestured with her fork.
“Are you head chef?” I hadn’t taken her for a cook, and it shocked me that I’d suddenly become even more intrigued with the gorgeous redhead.
“Not yet,” she admitted in between bites of the cold bread. “It’s taking a little longer than I expected to move up the ladder, but I should be there soon. Show up on time, be innovative while taking only the appropriate amount of initiative, give others their time to shine, and above all else, be grateful.” Her eyes lit up as she spoke about her journey, starting from a dishwasher out of culinary school to being a prep cook. She had taken the dishwashing job because she couldn’t find a chef job and it at least got her foot in the door of the culinary market. Her hair was in a tight bun, with strands curling around her forehead. Thick eyelashes framed incredible green eyes that were much brighter in the restaurant’s dark lighting.
“That’s quite a journey,” I said after she finished. “You’ve worked so hard in such a short amount of time. Give it a few more years and you’ll be running your own restaurant.”
She laughed. “Sure, and one day I’ll own a four-star restaurant, or maybe even a chain of them.” She shook her head, and I bit my lip from saying anything. Modesty is a virtue, I reminded myself.
Our dinner arrived, and I was pleasantly surprised by the appearance.
“So I have to ask, why did you pick this place?” I asked. “You work in the kitchen of a four-star restaurant.”
“This place doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not,” she said, and I frowned. She framed her words carefully around bites of herbed chicken. I cut into my steak, letting it ooze onto the plate and into the mashed potatoes. “It’s not fancy, the customers aren’t snooty or uptight. I worked here in high school, as a waitress, and I ended up liking how not fake everyone here is, if that makes sense.”
“And you feel like the four-star restaurants are full of fake people?” I asked, leaning toward her. The V of her dress dipped dangerously low, and I struggled to keep my eyes away from it. Her slender neck gulped, and a fallen strand of red hair brushed against her cheek as she tilted her head and considered.
“I think they’re afraid of being real,” she said. “Because they’re afraid of judgment.”
“But aren’t you judging them anyways?” I asked. “So no matter what, it’s a lose-lose situation.”
“The chocolate lava cake is amazing,” she said, and I blinked.
“The what?”
“You asked why I picked this place.” Both of our plates were empty, and she was eyeing our waitress. “I used to make it when I worked here. It’s a cookie dough flavored cake full of hot chocolate that melts on your tongue; it’s especially amazing paired with the vanilla bean ice cream. My mom used to ground me every single time I got a C in class, and so on report card day, before going home, I’d come here and eat a chocolate lava cake before getting grounded. I haven’t had it since I was in high school.”
“So you picked this casual American restaurant to eat a chocolate lava cake?” I asked, and she nodded. Our waitress came by with a refill for our wine, and I ordered a lava cake.
“I know it’s not as fancy as your chocolates, cheesecakes, or diamond-crusted macaroons,” she said as we sipped our wine. Her tone was a weak attempt at putting me in my place. “Or that you’ve probably never been to a restaurant like this.”
“Howells was exactly like this.” I glanced around. “A restaurant down the street from our place growing up. Comfort American, with some damn good pies for dessert.” I met her eyes as if to challenge her opinion of me.
“Pies? It’s hard to imagine someone like you eating a pie.” She laughed.
“Someone like me?” I raised an eyebrow. She was a second away from getting put in her place. She pressed the back of her hand against her mouth and blushed as if she’d read my mind. “My particular favorite is a traditional apple pie, with a crust as golden and crispy and buttery as it can be,” I said as our waitress set the lava cake between us. It was fluffy and huge, with steam slowly rising from the top. Everly picked up her spoon and dug into it, and we both licked our lips as a warm chocolate center oozed onto the plate.
“It’s still the same.” She took a bite and collapsed in her chair. I took one bite, and the sweet chocolate was a wonderful mixture with the soft, cookie dough flavored cake.
“Dark chocolate,” I said as I took another bite. Everly raised her eyebrow this time. “I think a dark chocolate filling, with a white chocolate cake and coconut shavings would be a good creation.”
“White chocolate cake, coconut shavings, and hazelnut chocolate melted in the middle,” she corrected, and I nodded. Her idea was better. “Like Nutella, but not as sweet, maybe. Yours is good too, but the bitterness of the dark chocolate would overpower any sweetness of the white chocolate. You may eat at fancy, expensive restaurants with two-year waiting lists, Mr. Maddox Moore, but you better let the chefs do the cooking.”
I laughed, but a part of her was serious. Everly truly didn’t know I was the chef who created my menus or owned my own chain of restaurants across the United States. I contemplated correcting her, but she had such an irresistible glow as she corrected my recipe that I didn’t have the heart to say anything. I had the urge to tell her about Abby, how she would scarf down that lava cake within a second, but I couldn’t bring myself to talk about her.
“You’ll have to make it for me sometime, then. I have some pull with a few professional chefs in the city,” I said, and Everly flushed.
We finished our dessert with pleasant small talk, this time of her experience in culinary school. She was incredibly intelligent, vocal about her desires and beliefs, and I found myself more and more drawn toward her as the night progressed.
I paid the check and helped her with her coat as we left the restaurant. The air was chil
ly and the wind strong, and Everly hugged herself tightly as I walked her to her car. I glanced to make sure mine hadn’t been broken into, and sure enough, the Camaro was waiting in the corner of the shadows without a mark. I had decided against bringing the Giuilia to this part of town, and the Camaro was the cheapest car in my garage. Still, it was one of my older models and I had been worried about it for the past few hours.
“Thank you,” Everly said as we reached her car. “I actually had a decent time.” She laughed, and it was obvious she was truly surprised.
“I’m glad.” I scratched my head and tugged on my cashmere scarf. I needed to see her again, that was all I knew. “Maybe next time I can take you out to one of the restaurants with the two-year waiting list? You can make your dessert, or we could enjoy some wine in front of a fire during a cold night?” I could have kicked myself. I hadn’t meant to sound like a desperate romantic.
“Thank you, really, but I’m really not interested in dating right now.” She didn’t give me much time to respond before opening her car door and sliding behind the wheel. “It’s not you, Maddox. It’s my career.”
We said our goodbyes, and as I slid behind my steering wheel, I found it hard to blame her. I’ve given up plenty of opportunities for my own career. But the ghost of her smile hid in the shadows of my rearview mirror as I drove to Nick’s house.
I needed to see her again. But first, I needed to figure out how.
Chapter Eight
Everly
For the first time in a month, I had the chance to sleep in. I threw my phone beneath my bed and snuggled under the blankets, hiding from the noisy stripes of sunlight dancing on my pillow. It was late when I got home from the date, and after a few glasses of my own wine, bottom shelf, I had sat on the couch and went over the entire evening in my head multiple times.
Maddox was handsome, and charming, and hadn’t taken offense to anything that I said. It wasn’t for my lack of trying, but he handled it like a true gentleman. I’d thought at any moment he’d put me in my place, but instead, he wanted another date. Glutton for punishment, maybe? But I’d let him off the hook with my refusal.
He wanted another date.
But that was far too complicated for my life. He was rich, and no doubt powerful. And living in an entirely different world than me. Still, it had been fun thinking of a new dessert, and he had eaten at Thad’s with no problem. I supposed he was a down to earth billionaire.
I laughed. Did such a thing exist? Who knew? It wasn’t every day I met one, but then again, I hadn’t let myself meet anyone over the years since school. I was content to do my work and get my career off the ground without anything or anyone getting in my way. Turns out it wasn’t too bad after all, but I’d take those things in small doses. I reminded myself to look him up again, to figure out exactly why his name was so familiar. His face certainly wasn’t, but Seattle was huge. Unless he was the mayor or someone important, there was no way in hell I would remember him. My memory sucked, as it were.
Maybe looking him up is a bad idea. I’m not interested anyway.
Sleep was just barely on the horizon when someone knocked on my door.
Ignore it. I told myself. It’s not important.
But the knocking continued, and just as I believed it gone, a key was inserted into the lock, and the doorknob turned.
Great. I tried burrowing further into my bed. It was either a murderer or Lacey and Belle, and last I checked, I hadn’t given any murderers a key.
“Evie!” Belle’s voice rang throughout the apartment. I would have rather faced the murderer.
“Everly.” Lacey knocked on my bedroom door. “I know you’re cursing us right now, but Belle really wanted to help wake you up. And we thought it would be nice to have breakfast together.”
“This is why I moved out,” I yelled and forced myself out of the bed. “Because Belle wants to wake me up every morning.”
“She’s a good alarm clock, I’ll give her that.” Lacey joked. I laughed to myself and slipped on a pair of comfy lounge pants and a thermal. “I’ll start breakfast.”
“Are you sure this isn’t because you’re insanely curious about my 20,000 dollar date last night?” I asked, as I met Belle on my couch. She hugged me and told me about the newest Shopkins that she wanted. For a toy series about tiny groceries and miniature kitchen sets, they could get expensive. But Belle had matured beyond what was average for other 5-year-olds, and she always asked politely and somehow understood when it was beyond our means.
“A 20,000 dollar date at a ‘20 dollars for two meals’ restaurant,” Lacey said from the kitchen. “I can imagine that only went one way.”
“A disaster?” Belle asked. I laughed, and the little girl smiled sheepishly. “We were talking about it on the way here.”
“It wasn’t a disaster.” I pulled out the miniature fridge that Belle carried everywhere with her and helped her stack the tiny food toys inside. Belle giggled as they threatened to fall over, and together we jammed them all inside. “It was decent. He liked the steak, at least.”
“He liked the steak,” Lacey repeated. She spoke over the sounds of bacon sizzling and potatoes frying, and soon my apartment smelled like a 24-hour diner. I took a deep breath. “Waffles or pancakes?” she asked.
“Why not both?” Belle and I said at the same time, and we laughed. The girl was thinking more and more like me every day.
“So if it wasn’t a disaster, did he ask you for another date?” Lacey asked. I bit my lip. Do I tell her? I didn’t want her to think there was anything more than one paid date. But there was something charming about Maddox. An annoying itch that I couldn’t scratch in my head.
“No,” I lied. Lacey set up my kitchen table with stacks of pancakes and waffles and heaping plates of bacon and potatoes. “You do realize I’m a chef, right? I’m not going to starve if you don’t leave me leftovers.”
“All this food was getting near the expiration date. I’m doing this so you don’t poison yourself,” she said. “And I can take some leftovers home. All Belle ever does anymore is eat.” The little girl was stuffing her face with waffles as her mother spoke. “When’s the last time you went grocery shopping?”
I thought about it. “I haven’t had time, honestly. Prepping for the dinner rush takes way longer than I thought, and then I help the station chefs through the rest of the night. I’m stuck there.”
“What do you eat on your days off?” she asked.
“Lacey, when’s the last time I had a day off? And yesterday doesn’t count.”
“Mr. Moore probably didn’t think it was stupid.” Lacey smiled between bites of potatoes.
“Well, he didn’t want another date, so I wouldn’t say that as fact,” I quipped. “Plus, it’s not like I have time to even think about him. I need to focus even more at Saint Padres; there’s rumors that Remy, the sous chef, is planning on retiring in a year. If I can get a spot as a station chef before he officially has a leave date, I can throw my name in for his position.”
“Sous chef? That’s basically head chef, right?” Belle asked. I smiled, happy that she remembered my lessons.
“It’s one step lower, basically an assistant to the head,” I said.
Lacey groaned. “Well, your love life can’t take a backseat to your career forever. Find someone who will support both, Everly. There’s no reason you can’t have both. Like you and Belle always say.”
I contemplated her words as we finished up our breakfast, and I helped Belle put away her Shopkins.
“I have to drop Belle off at kindergarten,” Lacey said as she slipped both of their coats on. “She’s finishing up her painting today.”
“Oh, the secret one for me that I’m not supposed to know about?” I smiled as Belle counted each one of her Shopkins.
“That’s the one. So be surprised,” Lacey instructed me, and I nodded. I said goodbye to them both and glanced at the clock hanging above my kitchen. I still had a few hours before I had to leav
e for work, and with a full stomach, I could feel the edges of sleep pulling at me. I lay down on my couch and got comfy within the warmth of a throw blanket.
For a brief moment, I wondered what Maddox was doing. And then I reminded myself that it didn’t matter. He was probably sleeping in his giant, four-post bed with one of those canopies over it, on sheets that were more expensive than my monthly rent. Yearly rent? Then another thought popped into my head and my face burned. Was he alone in that giant, four-post bed?
“It doesn’t matter,” I yelled at myself. Just fall back asleep.
Something poked my side, and I wiggled my arms until I pulled out a tiny chocolate cake Shopkin. I smiled at the memory of our fictional dessert, and fell asleep with the chocolate cake in my grasp.
My eyes opened, and without even glancing at the clock I knew I was going to be late.
I got ready in a rush and pulled out of my parking spot with tires screeching against the road. I used my knee to steer as I tied my hair into a tight bun at the top of my head, and glanced in the mirror to make sure my face looked decent. A few bags beneath my eyes, and makeup from last night still smudged, giving me an almost smoky eye. At least I was presentable.
I was still sitting in traffic when my shift started. There’s goes my planned speech to Phil about me moving up to a station chef within the next few months. But, as I stared at the cars slowly inching forward, a new determination grew within me. I wouldn’t be licked. I may be late, a little too often than I’d like, but I always stayed far past my shift, never once blinking an eye as everyone else left before me, and I’d never once disappointed Phil. I’m a hard worker, loyal, and dependable. This was just a hiccup in my plan, sure, but surely Phil would recognize my resolve and at least offer a discussion about a promotion.
Third Street was nearly right off the highway, but the parking was a few blocks over. I zigzagged through traffic and nearly screamed in a fit of rage as another car cut me off, but I eventually found our parking lot and was grateful as I pulled into one of the last remaining spots.