Home Skillet

by Sandra Damien

  As executive chef, I ruled this kitchen. I was on the front line, making sure every dish that hit the pass was nothing less than a work of art. Being relegated to the back office to deal with the administrative day-to-day wasn’t my thing—I usually left that to my wife, who was much more adept with the financials.

  The kitchen was where I belonged, where I thrived. This was my kingdom, and under that intense pressure, I was in my element.

  We were under the gun tonight, the phone ringing off the hook for reservations after a high-profile food critic reviewed our restaurant in the New York Times. It wasn’t our first media feature, but it was an important one, and on the heels of Jenna and I hitting number two on Restaurant Weekly’s “restauranteurs to watch” list, we were well on our way to becoming household names. I could almost smell the TV deal. It had never been a life goal to become a celebrity chef, but now that it was within reach, I wanted it—bad.

  The first wave of orders for the pre-theater diners dealt with, we were now in the throes of the primetime dinner crowd. I moved from station to station, tasting and prodding to make absolutely certain everything was on track for a seamless service. The seafood was impeccable, the meat perfectly marbled. Only the best in a Carver kitchen.

  “A little more salt in the demi-glace, Tito,” I said to the saucier on my way back to check on the incoming orders. “Béarnaise is perfect. Louie, where are my scallops?”

  The kitchen door swung open then, and Jenna came through, skirting the edges so as not to disrupt the flow or to accidentally get sideswiped by a hot skillet. She waited as I rattled out the next round of orders, then came to stand beside me.

  “James, have you got a moment? I need to talk to you.”

  “Little busy now, Jen,” I said, barely glancing in her direction as yet more tickets spat out from the printer. “Louie! ETA on the scallops?”

  Louie ducked his head, adding white wine to the pan to deglaze. “One minute, chef!”

  I exhaled audibly and shook my head, then ran my eye over the order tickets. “The broiler’s been playing up lately,” I said to Jenna. “Do you think you could have someone come in to look at it? I swear we just bought that thing. Should have sprung for the later model.”

  “I’ll make a call,” Jenna murmured. “How about tonight? Can we talk then?” Her voice was strained, enough to make me look up from the scallop plate Louie had slid before me for expo. Her features were pinched, and there was worry behind her eyes. I hadn’t seen that look since the day we’d gone to her parents to tell them we were getting married, and it immediately put my senses on high alert.

  “Yeah, all right. Tonight.” I hesitated, because I didn’t really have the time to get into it right now if there was something wrong. “Everything okay?”

  “It’s fine. We just need to chat.” She scratched her eyebrow, something she only did when she was stressed. The move didn’t go unnoticed, and I frowned.

  “Okay. I’ll see you at home later?”

  “I’ll catch you after shift.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but instead she nodded and headed back toward the dining room. “VIPs in section two tonight,” she called over her shoulder, and then she was gone.

  Dread tried to settle in the base of my stomach. It was never a good thing when someone said “we need to talk.” Jenna and I had been married five years, together for six, and as far as I was aware, everything was good. Great, even. She was my best friend, and we knew each other probably better than we knew ourselves.

  But this Jenna—this anxious, overwrought Jenna who “needed to talk”—this wasn’t a Jenna I knew at all.

  I wouldn’t let myself focus on it, not right now. I had a dinner service to kill.

  The next few hours passed in a blur, and by the time we were winding the kitchen down, cleaning and prepping for the next day, my back and feet were aching. I was used to the burn and sort of relished the feeling, wearing it like a badge of honor after fourteen long hours of hard work. Not everyone was cut out for a job this demanding, but I was. This is what I lived for; the scars left behind from the slip of a knife or grabbing a sheet pan straight from the oven without a glove were just a tribute to me chasing my passion.

  “Good work today, guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I clapped each chef on the back as they filed out of the kitchen, exhaustion written in the hunch of their shoulders and the weary smiles they threw my way. Everyone was in good spirits, though, especially after the VIPs had sent their compliments—and generous tips—back to the kitchen.

  It’d been a perfect evening, and nothing could derail me from that high that came every time I pulled it off.

  After a final inspection of the kitchen, I flicked off the lights, then made my way to my office to finish up the night’s paperwork. I was surprised to see Jenna seated at the bar, the low lights of the overhanging pendants glinting off her favorite diamond earrings, until I remembered.

  Right. The talk.

  “It’s late, Jen,” I said, hoping we could put it off for another day or two. I was tired, and all I wanted to do was kick back on the balcony at the house until I couldn’t keep my eyes open anymore, then sack out until I had to get up and do it all over again.

  She turned as I approached, her usually composed demeanor noticeably absent. She looked… chagrined—there was no better word for it—vulnerable, and a lump of fear rose in my throat. This was unexpected. I hated the unexpected.

  “Hey. What’s up?” I said cautiously.

  There are moments in your life when something comes so out of left field, you're completely knocked on your ass. One minute, everything is business as usual, and then the next, the four-thousand-dollar Persian rug is being pulled out from under you, sending you crashing to the cold hard floor of a reality you never thought you’d have to face.

  This was one of those moments.

  "I want a divorce."

  “What?” I slid onto the stool next to her, frowning. “What do you mean you want a divorce? What are you talking about?”

  She sighed. “I’ve been trying to pin you down for a conversation for weeks, Jimmy.”

  “It’s been crazy lately. You know how busy we’ve been since that review.” I shivered, like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over me. “Is that it? Is the pressure getting to you? Because maybe you just need to take a weekend—hit the spa with the girls, relax a bit and—"

  “This isn’t a decision I came to lightly,” she said, her gaze fixed on the bar top in front of her. “I just can’t do this.”

  Nausea roiled in my stomach. “You said you’d give me ten years, Jen.”

  “I know.” She sank her face into her hands. “I know, and I feel like shit for doing this to you. But my heart’s just not in it anymore.”

  I stood abruptly and came around the bar. We couldn’t have this conversation dry. I found the good stuff on the top shelf and poured a couple of fingers into two glasses, then slid one toward Jenna.

  I swallowed down a mouthful and waited while she stared into her glass before picking it up and taking a small sip. When she looked up at me again, her eyes were wary.

  “I’ve met someone.”

  Well, fuck. If that wasn’t a punch to the gut.

  “I know what our agreement was,” she continued. “And that was then, but… this is now. Things have changed… I’ve changed, and I just don’t think I can do it anymore, Jimmy. The restaurant biz isn’t what I thought it was going to be, and it’s too much.” She bit her lip. “I thought it’d make me happy, but it’s not enough.”

  My mind raced, trying to Band-Aid the situation and buy us a little more time. I didn’t think everything would end this soon. I wasn’t ready. “We still have so much more to accomplish, though—you said you’d give me ten years,” I repeated. “What about the sister restaurant we had planned? All the money I’ve put into this? Shit, Jen, I’ve got nothing without the Carvery. Absolutely nothing.”

  She let out a sob, then muffled it
with the back of her hand. A tear escaped her corner of her eye as she met my gaze. “I’ll talk to Lorenzo, see what we can do about the restaurant. You’ll get something, but it’ll take a little time.”

  I swiped my palms down my face, feeling the slow pulse of a migraine coming on. “We’ve put so much time and money into this.” I didn’t want to think about how much money, especially when I considered the state of my bank account. “Shouldn’t we think this through? I don’t think it’s the best time for us to be walking away from each other at such a crucial point in our careers.”

  “Do you think I would have brought it up if I wasn’t absolutely sure?” she asked quietly, picking at the hem of her dress. “It’s more than just leaving the restaurant behind. I…” She looked away, staring over at the empty dining room behind us. “I want a baby, a family.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jen. Way to lay it all on me.” I ground my teeth together as her words settled into my gut. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”

  She shook her head, blotting her tears away with a tissue from her purse. “No. Marcus and I only started seeing each other a few months ago, but it’s getting serious.”

  “This is insane.”

  Indignation flashed in her eyes for a brief second. “No, what’s insane is getting married to further your career at the expense of having any kind of real life. The trust fund wasn’t worth giving up a chance at something real. We’ve been living a lie for six years. I need more than friendship and a business contract. I need to be loved.”

  I looked away and swallowed, remembering a time when I’d made that very choice.

  “I’m not having fun anymore. I want a quieter life away from all this.” She gestured vaguely around the dining room. I’d let her take charge of the aesthetics when we first set up shop, and with good reason. Jenna had an eye for that sort of stuff. Whenever I stepped into the restaurant with its rich earthy tones and low ambient lighting, I felt like I was walking into a lover’s embrace.

  And now she was taking it away from me.

  “Five more years, Jenna. That’s all I’m asking for. You can go to Marcus, have your babies, move to the countryside, do what you need to do. But please, I’m begging you—let me have my restaurant.”

  Her lower lip quivered, and she refused to meet my gaze. “I received an offer three months ago.”

  Anger flared hot and sudden, prickling at the back of my neck. “Three months? You’ve known about this for three months and you’re only telling me now?”

  She flinched but lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Like I said, you’ve been kind of hard to pin down.”

  “Not for three fucking months, I haven’t.” I inhaled deeply, trying to keep my emotions in check, and paced the length of the bar. There weren’t many things that bothered me in life, but where my restaurant was concerned, I would die before anyone took that away from me. I’d come too far and worked my ass off for too long to lose everything I’d sacrificed in the name of building this empire.

  When the blood stopped roaring in my ears, I went back to the liquor shelf and refilled my glass. “Did you accept?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first.”

  “And if I say no? I own part of the restaurant, in case you forgot.”

  I watched her shoulders rise and fall for five counts before she responded. “You don’t own enough, Jimmy,” she said softly. “I don’t want to do this anymore. Everything we sacrificed for this… After all this time, I can’t say with any honesty that it was worth it. At least not for me.”

  “Were you that much of a prisoner?” I couldn’t hide the bitterness in my tone and immediately regretted it when she recoiled. Maybe our relationship had been nothing more than just for show, but she still meant something to me, even though there had never been any romantic feelings. She’d been my closest friend when I’d moved to the city, which is why it had been so easy for us to build our lives together. At one time we’d shared a passion, saw eye to eye on everything. It had been the perfect arrangement. She’d needed a husband to access her trust fund; I needed an investor.

  “Not at all,” she said, her face softening as she stood and made her way around the bar in a swish of ivory fabric. She cupped my face, the metallic press of her wedding ring noticeably absent. “But we can’t keep this up, Jimmy. It’s not fair to either of us.”

  I tried not to jerk away, the weight of what now settling heavily on my shoulders. “I guess your mind’s made up, then.”

  She dropped her hand and sighed. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth. I… wish we’d thought this through, back then. Not rushed into marriage. We were too young and idealistic, and didn’t really think about everything we’d have to give up.”

  She wanted me to see her side, and objectively I could. But my mind was warring with my heart, and all good sense flew out the window.

  “You’re gonna do this? You can do it on your own.” I shucked off my chef jacket and threw it on the bar, then stalked to the front door.

  “Where are you going?” she called, her voice high and tense.

  “You’ve been making all the decisions without me until now,” I said, reaching for the brass handle. “So I’m making this one without you. I quit, effective immediately.”

  Chapter Two

  Ben

  Simon grunted as I hauled him harder against me. His dick was straining against mine, hard and thick, just how I liked it. I ignored the ringing of my phone in the distance as I sucked hard at his neck, leaving him with a hickey he’d have a hard time hiding. I didn’t care, and he didn’t seem to mind much either. His head fell back and he arched into me, his hands clawing at my T-shirt. My dick twitched against the constrictive fabric of my boxers.

  This wasn’t gonna be gentle because I was definitely not in the mood to be patient.

  I slanted my mouth across his, pulling a moan from him as I slid my hand down the front of his jeans, palming his cock. Simon had been teasing me for hours. A busboy at my restaurant, he’d spent most of his shift that night bending over in front of me, brushing up against me, and generally letting me know he was ready to have my cock buried in his ass ASAP once our shifts were done.

  I was so on board with that plan.

  The guy wasn’t really my type—a little too close to being jailbait for me to truly be interested in more than a night or two, but his body was tight and his dick was a thing of beauty, and frankly arranging a night of no-holds barred sex with a guy who worked five feet away from my prep station was a hell of a lot easier than hauling my ass to a club to convince a stranger to blow me.

  Besides, he was leaving to visit his family in Iowa for the summer, so any chance at the post-fucking awkwardness was pretty much nil. I couldn’t have designed this particular hookup any better if I’d tried.

  So here we were, Simon panting against my mouth, his hands moving with the eagerness of a guy who’d barely figured out what he was doing. Maybe I was going to have to take the lead on this. A thrill ran through me.

  “Get naked,” I commanded, pushing back to watch him strip before we’d even gotten past the front entrance. “Then get on your knees.”

  I reached down and flicked the button of my jeans open, pulling my cock out and stroking a few times as I watched him shuck his clothes and drop to the floor in front of me. He licked his lips, and I could feel the heat of his breath against my erection. I grinned down at him, anticipating what was coming next.

  My beeper sounded from somewhere in the apartment, and Simon turned his head toward the noise. I slid my hand along his jaw and pulled his focus back to me.

  Whoever the hell was paging me could wait.

  I threaded my hands through his hair, just tight enough to make sure I had his full and undivided attention, then pulled him forward. He nuzzled against my groin, his moaning sending subtle vibrations through me. I groaned.

  “Open up.”

  My beeper sounded again, less than a minute after the last time. Simon’s gaz
e darted up, the question of whether I was going to check written all over his face. I let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Hold tight a sec.” I let my hand drop from the back of his head and leaned over to grab my pager from where I’d tossed it with my keys on the table.

  Jimmy’s number followed by the call-me-now code appeared on the screen. I exhaled hard. “Fuck.” I shifted my attention back to Simon, who was still waiting obediently, the head of his cock ruddy and swollen, circled by his fist.

  I crossed my apartment and grabbed the phone off the hook and dialed, resentment displacing the arousal from moments earlier.

  “Are you serious?” Simon asked, staring at me like I’d lost my mind.

  Maybe I had. I held up one finger. “Just gimme one minute.”

  The ringing came through, and Jimmy answered a moment later. “Ben?”

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “Can I come over?” There was an edge to his voice, his words tainted with anger, but this was the first time he’d called me in a month. I didn’t want to be that guy—the guy who let himself become a doormat just because he’d been in love with his best friend for the better part of a decade.

  I hesitated, swallowing the urge to give in. “I’m kinda in the middle of something.”

  “Please, Benny.”

  Turns out I was that guy, because that little “please” was all it took to break my flimsy-as-fuck resolve. “Fine. But you’d better be bringing provisions. You show up empty-handed and I’m not letting you in.”

  “I’ll see you in a few.”

  I hated myself before I’d even hung up the phone. That must have been a record for how fast I folded. Irritation licked through me at what a fucking pushover I was. I turned back to Simon, still kneeling on the floor, his eyes wide and disbelieving.