by Claire Adams
“Thank God,” I murmured and held my bag against me as I hurried down Fifth. As soon as I crossed onto Fourth, I realized I hadn’t locked my car, and after a quick sprint back to the parking lot, I was finally in the back alley of Third, behind Saint Padres.
“Everly, I was looking for you!” Timothy, a station chef for meats, called as I stashed my purse into my locker and tied an apron around my waist. “I needed the meats carved, and Anthony needs the potatoes blanched.”
“I’m on it,” I said and immediately went to work.
“You seem out of it.” I jumped as Catalina, one of my only friends at work, scared me as I peeled potatoes.
“I had a long night,” I said. “And morning; my sister and niece woke me up way earlier than I’d planned.”
“Oh, you mean your date?” She smiled, brushing a small black curl off of her forehead and took over the other half of potatoes.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said. Catalina was station chef for the desserts, but she often helped me with my own chores. She shrugged, and I knew better than to argue with her. “And you know about that?”
“Phil was talking nonstop about it,” she said. “He was so happy that a woman he brought was bought for so much.”
“He didn’t buy me,” I argued, and Catalina laughed. “At least not liked that. We went out to eat at a small restaurant, nothing fancy, and had casual conversation. He paid, I thanked him, and we went our separate ways.” I realized then that I hadn’t thanked him for paying.
“Really?” She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “All the men here would pay more than he did for a single conversation with you. And they would do a lot more than talking.”
“That’s gross,” I said and nudged her with my hip. “He was a gentleman, thank God. Completely proper.” I watched as Timothy struggled at his station. The older man was buried in mountains of potatoes, each one needing to be shaped differently, and I realized he must have been hours behind. There was literally no reason for me to be blanching these potatoes. “Phil hasn’t been too happy with Timothy recently, right?” I asked.
“Yeah, the rumors say he might be fired soon. Phil even mentioned hiring another station chef to pick up his slack,” Catalina said. “You’re gunning for that spot, right?”
“That station helps all of the other ones,” I said. “Decent exposure to the whole kitchen, and then the sous chef is leaving soon. I could make head within the next two years if I play my cards right.”
“You’re crazy.” Catalina smiled and laughed. “I’m perfectly happy where I am. Head chef is a whole other ballgame. But,” she gestured behind us, toward the restaurant’s offices, where Phil was just entering through the back door. “The pitcher just got back from the bank, if you want to make a swing at him.” Catalina knew I had been planning on making my pitch for station chef. “I’ll finish the rest.”
“Thanks, Catalina,” I said, and met with Phil outside of his office. His bald head was freshly shaved, and his suit was crumpled at the seams. I thought of Maddox, and how perfectly straight his suit had been.
“Everly, how was your night?” he asked.
“Very good, thank you for taking me. Maddox was a perfect gentleman,” I said.
Phil made a funny face, and I realized he most likely didn’t know who Maddox was.
“I heard you were late again today,” he said, and I winced. “Traffic?”
“I’m sorry, yeah. It was bad earlier. I’m staying past close and helping prep for tomorrow, if that makes up for it,” I said and followed him into his office. Phil took a seat behind a large mahogany desk and rummaged through metal bins.
“Of course, Everly. I’d expect no less. You know, sometimes I count on you being late, only on days that I know we’ll need more help later in the night.”
“I’m glad to help,” I said and took a seat. He raised an eyebrow.
“Is there anything else I can help with?”
I swallowed, this was my moment.
“I’ve been here for two years,” I said. “Started dishwashing, and now I’m prepping.”
He nodded. “You’ve worked hard these past years, yes.”
“But I’ve been helping the station chefs a lot more, and most of the shifts are spent subbing for station chefs,” I said.
“Every position is expected to fill in,” Phil said, repeating the same words he had said during our interview two years prior.
“Yes, and it’s given me plenty of experience, and I’m so grateful for it. And recently, I’ve noticed a need for an extra station chef, and I’m trying to be modest here, but I am perfect for that position.” I lowered my voice as Phil glanced between me and the various files on his desk.
“You’re asking for a promotion?” he asked.
“Yes, to station chef. I’ve never been shy about telling you that I’m going to be head chef one day, and being a station chef is my next step,” I said. “Remy retires within the year, which is more than enough time to get the experience necessary as a station chef before applying for the sous chef position.”
Phil rubbed a hand down his jaw.
“It sounds like you’re getting a little ahead of yourself there,” he said. My heart deflated.
“I just want to make sure I’m prepared,” I said. “I can recreate all of the menu items here perfectly, and I’ve assisted Remy enough times to know that I can manage an entire kitchen on my own.”
“You are talented, Everly, and I’ve never disagreed.” Phil leaned back in his chair. “But I have to deny your promotion. I need you where you are. There are no new station chefs, and when it’s time for Remy to leave, whoever the top station chef is at the time will replace him. There’s a natural order to the chain, and if you try climbing over others to get to the top, you might find yourself delinked.”
“What does that mean?” I whispered.
“You know what it means,” he said and focused his direction back to the files. “Stay where you are, Everly. You’re a wonderful prep cook, and given time, you’ll get to where you want to go.”
He dismissed me, and I walked back to my prepping station in a daze.
Two years. I’d bled for the restaurant for two years, giving up a life, time spent with family, losing friends, and two years later, all I can do is blanche frites. Catalina threw me a look of pity, recognizing the distress in my face.
Two years, and I’m still at the bottom of the ladder. I blanched my potatoes. Maybe it was time for something new. It was going to be a long ass week, for sure.
Chapter Nine
Four Days Later
Maddox
It was a rare day off, but being the end of the week… I’d take it. One of those days where Jackie promised to take care of the restaurants herself, and to forward any emails to me to be read tomorrow. I didn’t have anything planned, other than possibly stopping by Alaskan Way to peep in without anyone knowing I was there, and thankfully there wasn’t anything else written on my calendar. No business meetings, no doctor visits, no luncheons. I could say, without a doubt, that I had absolutely nothing planned.
So then, why did I feel such an overwhelming urge to do something? I had spent all week thinking of ways to see Everly again, and I did have one idea that was unlikely and nearly impossible, but it was the only trick I had up my sleeve. I hoped Nick wouldn’t mind watching Abby for a bit.
Something wiggled beside me, not unlike a horror movie; I remained still as a creature wormed its way up to me. Stiff, blonde curls popped out of the sheet, and it took me a moment to realize Abby had been hiding under the covers as I slept.
“Hi, Daddy,” she mumbled and rubbed her eyes.
“Hey, sweetheart. How long have you been here?” I wrapped an arm around her tiny frame and snuggled her close.
“Crawled in last night. The wind was scary,” she whined. “Like that movie Uncle Nick was watching before you picked me up.”
I groaned. “You guys watched a scary movie that late?” I wasn
’t entirely surprised, which spoke for itself.
“About a guy who chased people with chainsaws and cuts them in graveyards,” Abby said and trembled. “Uncle Nick said it’s good for the brain to watch scary movies early.”
I couldn’t even remember what movie that was, which meant it must have been one of Nick’s B-rated slasher films.
“Don’t listen to Uncle Nick,” I said. “He must have watched one too many scary movies, and his brain is messed up because of it.” Abby giggled.
“Are you going on a date?” she asked. I asked her what she meant. “Uncle Nick said you’re dating.”
“You barely even know what that means. I only went on one date, with Everly.”
“Do you like her?” Abby stared at me with her giant blue eyes, and I was reminded of Everly’s firm refusal. “Daddy?”
“Sure. But that doesn’t matter. I don’t need anyone else but you.” I poked her nose and she laughed.
“Daddy, you need a girlfriend,” she said, and I slowly brought my hands to her sides. She recognized it too late, and Abby screamed bloody murder as I tickled her.
“But then I wouldn’t have time to tickle you!” I yelled, and Abby hit me in the side. She squirmed on the bed, trying to crawl toward the edge, and I pulled her back. “Plus,” I said, getting serious. “I can’t imagine loving anyone else as much as I love you.”
Abby wasn’t one for emotional outbursts, so as I spent a moment bonding with her, she took the opportunity to sneak her arms in my armpits and started tickling me.
“You monster!” I yelled, and she took off from the bed. I chased her down the stairs, where I picked her up and spun her around the room.
“You monster!” she repeated in screams. “You monster!”
I carried her into her room and helped her change for the day.
“What did you eat?” she asked. I had tried explaining to her what a date was before I left, and said that it was a night where two adults shared a dinner. She had seemed so confused, but I promised she’d understand when she was older.
“Steak,” I said.
“That’s so boring!” She picked out my tie, a striped blue one, and fetched my shoes for me. Three-year-olds could be really useful at times.
“It was delicious,” I said, a blatant lie. Abby was already used to the tender portions of steak at my restaurants, and she would have spat last night’s steak out with disgust.
We walked hand in hand over to Nick’s, who answered the door in a paint-splattered apron.
“An early surprise.” He yawned.
“You know how much Abby loves going over here. She’d probably make a tunnel connecting our houses if she could,” I said, and looked over his newest paintings. They were incredible; bright and vivid with dark shadows that really caught your imagination.
“There’s a lot of buzz coming from the galleries downtown,” Nick said. “I sold a few already, and my name’s been popping up in people’s mouths. Soon, I’ll be known in all of Seattle.”
“That’s great,” I said honestly. “They deserve it. You deserve it. I knew you’d get your big break eventually.”
“Is that why you’ve been sponsoring me?” Nick teased. Abby was invested in a mostly blank canvas in the corner, where the corners were covered in stripes of yellow and pin drops of red. She had been working on her own painting for a while, pretending to be Nick’s little apprentice.
“So, now that you got the hardest one out of the way, when’s the next?” Nick asked and plopped down on his couch.
“What?” I frowned, did he mean children?
“Dating. You went on your first date since having a kid, and you’re still standing. That means you’re free to go on others, right?” he said. Nick had been begging me to go out with him for months now, but meeting women at the club and checking into a motel while my 3-year-old was at her grandmother’s didn’t sound like a promising life.
“No dates,” I said. “At least, not with anyone else. You should have met her, Nick. Everly, the woman’s name, she’s smart. Beautiful and smart, with her own aspirations and goals, and damn, I really think she has a chance.”
Nick smirked. “A chance? At what?”
“Well, she’s a chef,” I said. “At Saint Padres, Phil’s place. That asshole you hate. But she had these ideas for her own menu that were amazing, and she’s working now to become head chef. She has no problem speaking her mind, and doesn’t give a shit how much money I make. She ordered the cheapest entree on the menu.”
Nick clapped. “She ordered the cheapest item? She’s obviously the one, Maddox.”
“Go screw yourself,” I whispered below my breath and glanced to make sure Abby didn’t hear.
“It sounds like you really like her,” Nick said. “Poor girl.”
“I don’t know what I feel,” I admitted. “Just that I have to see her again. Will you watch Abby for a while? Not too long, I just have something I need to do.”
“Sure, she needs to work on her painting anyway. I’ll make her some breakfast, and we’ll go out for lunch later.” Nick gestured at Abby’s little workshop in the corner. “You’re going to have an artist on your hands one day.”
“As long as she doesn’t grow up to be like you.” I thanked him and got ready to leave. “Oh, and if you let my 3-year-old watch a slasher film again, I’m going to chase you with a chainsaw around a cemetery.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Nick laughed. “Go chase your woman.”
“I’m not chasing anyone. And she’s not my woman,” I mumbled as I entered my car. “Not yet.”
I pulled into an awful parking situation on Third, and after one glance up and down the street, decided to valet three blocks over from Saint Padres instead. It was a busy Monday, in between breakfast and lunch time, and business workers hurried down the street to make it to the office in time. I took my time, hands stuffed in pants, and walked back and forth in front of Saint Padres. The afternoon preps were arriving, and I tried to stay innocuous as I looked for any sign of red hair. My nerves got the better of me, and I walked down a block toward a cat cafe to collect my nerves.
What was I doing? This was never going to work. She was absolutely going to refuse me, possibly even call me a stalker, and hit me with her purse. I paid for a small mocha and brownie and sat in the cat cafe for longer than I’d like to admit. I took Abby there often, and her favorite cat, an adoptable black and white tuxedo who loved purring on her lap, greeted me warmly. He was looking for the 3-year-old who loved scratching behind his ears, surely, and I offered him a pet or two as an apology. His white fur clung onto my dark suit within seconds, and I cursed myself.
There was no way I could confront Everly now, not with cat fur all over me.
I finished my mocha and treat in peace as two other cats lounged beside me. The worker reminded me kindly, once again, that the tuxedo cat was up for adoption, and I pretended to care. Abby would be delighted, but she’s also a 3-year-old with little understanding of what it meant to take care of another living being.
I was making excuses. I realized this as I paid for another mocha and convinced myself that Everly would judge me for three stray cat hairs on my sleeve. I was stalling for time; I was a coward.
Saint Padres was in between the cat cafe and the valet where my car waited, so I slowly walked past it. Just before I turned the corner, however, a flash of bright red caught my eye, and I turned.
Everly was rushing down the street on the opposite road, her hair in a messy knot on the top of her head, and eyes focused on her watch.
This was it. My chance. It was now or never. Seeing her in the flesh, not in the hazy memories of my mind, was like a jolt of electricity to my veins. Had she always been so beautiful?
“Everly,” I said and moved in front of her, but she wasn’t paying attention and she ran right into me.
“I’m so sorry!” she yelled, and stared at me with wide, green eyes. I saw the flicker of recognition, and the shock of surprise, hit her.
/>
“Mr. Moore,” she said and fixed her uniform.
“Maddox, really,” I said. She seemed hesitant.
“Maddox, what are you doing here?” she asked, glancing at her watch. “God, I’m late again.”
“Again?” I bit my lip and stopped a smile. “I wanted to see you.”
Her eyes flickered from her watch to me, and she raised an eyebrow. I realized how inappropriate I sounded.
“I mean, I have a proposition,” I said, and cursed. That also sounded inappropriate.
“I hate to rush you, but I’ve been late twice already this week, and I’m already not on the best of terms with my boss at the moment.”
“Of course, I’m sorry. I only meant that you seemed so skilled and knowledgeable, and in a turn of irony, my chef quit this week.” I forced a smile onto my face.
“Your chef?” she asked. “Like, at your house?”
“Yes,” I said it a little too quickly. “At my house. My personal chef. She made every meal, and was going to teach me how to cook, but she found a better position at, well, death.” I cringed. This was making no sense at all.
“She passed?” Everly covered her mouth. “I’m sorry, I think. But what does your personal chef dying have to do with me?”
“I want to offer you a formal position as my personal chef, and to teach me how to cook. It’s time I learned how to do it myself.” The lie was blasphemous, and if anyone else heard me, Phil, for example, who no doubt was sitting in his office just feet away from me, they would never let me live this down. But it was the only way I could get Everly in my life, while also helping hers. “It’ll look wonderful on future resumes. A lot of people in this city know my name, and they know how I only eat the highest quality food available.”
Everly hesitated, staring at everything except for me. I had expected her to laugh, or to slap me, or just about anything else other than actually contemplating it. But she recognized the potential, it seemed. “What’s your current salary?” I asked.
She whispered a number under her breath, and I almost frowned. Phil was paying her that little?