The Chef's Passion (Her Perfect Man Contemporary Romance)
Page 1
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Get Connected
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Excerpt: The Professor’s Heart
Also By Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
About the Authors
The Chef’s Passion
Her Sexy Man Series
Z.L. Arkadie
T.R. Bertrand
Z.L. Arkadie Books
Copyright © 2018 by Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
ISBN: 978-1-942857-23-5
Created with Vellum
Acknowledgments
Thanks to the following:
Edited by Red Adept Publishing
Cover Design by Jacqueline Sweet Design
Contents
Acknowledgments
Get Connected
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Excerpt: The Professor’s Heart
Also By Z.L. Arkadie & T.R. Bertrand
About the Authors
Get Connected
Contemporary Romance Series
Join the mailing list.
1
I speed into the parking space and smash my foot on the brake pedal. The clock on my stereo reads 1:17 p.m.
“Shit.” I’m late. All I need is Randy riding my ass today. He can be a major jerk.
I snatch my purse off the passenger-side seat and swing my door open. There’s a loud bang.
I pound my steering wheel.
“Shit, shit, shit!” I jump out of the car and examine the deep dent I put in someone’s bright-red BMW. The paint’s even chipped.
“Damn it!” I stand and look around the parking lot and at the door of the Calypso Café. There’s no one in sight.
I take a deep breath then dig frantically through my purse and take out a pen and an old business card from Jack of All Tires. I draw an arrow, pointing toward the dent, and scribble, “Sorry about the door. Find me at the register. Will pay. Gina.” I tuck the card under the wiper blade on the driver’s side and run across the lot and into the café.
The bells on the door jingle. Randy Cousivan, our manager, is working the register. He gives me the evil eye. “You’re late.”
I grunt and swoop right past him on my way to the locker room. I swear he lives to harass me. The locker room is small and always smells of strong perfume and some guy’s sweaty socks. I open the lock with my key and swing the door open. My deodorant and lipstick fall out and hit the wooden bench and then the floor.
“Fuck,” I mutter while picking them up. I have so many books shoved in the locker that I hardly have room for anything else. I’m back in school, culinary school, and enrolled in an intensive program that’s supposed to make me a professional in just eight months.
I snatch my apron off the hook. I put it on along with my name tag, roll on some red lipstick and deodorant, then check my face in the mirror. Jeez, I look haggard. Sleep has been a rare commodity as of late, and that fact is beginning to show.
“On with the show.” I center my name tag.
There are two consecutive knocks on the door, a pause, and then two more. That signals that the person is male.
“I’m decent,” I say.
The door opens, and in walks Randy. “I didn’t think you were going to be late every day when we discussed your plans for school.”
I slam my locker shut. “Neither did I.”
He sweeps past me and opens his locker. “Why should I continue supporting you when you’re constantly late?”
I jerk back. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
He cocks his head to the side.
“Well, you didn’t seem to have much of a problem with my tardiness after my muffins and tarts sold record numbers.” A few months back, one of the bakers left in the middle of his shift. I stayed late to finish it, only instead of following his recipes, I used my own. For the next three weeks, customers didn’t stop requesting them until finally Randy put his pride aside and asked for my recipe. Now, my pastries have been added to the menu permanently.
“Beginner’s luck,” he snaps.
I grunt, offended. “Are you fucking with me, or are you really that big of a jerk?”
Randy blows a hard breath and slams his locker shut. “Fuck it, Gina. Could you just stop being late from now on?”
I open my mouth, on the verge of unloading an arsenal of profanity.
“Because,” he continues, “I’ve shown you a lot of leniency, and the person who’s replacing me may not be as tolerant as I am.”
I flinch. “Replacing you?”
“Today’s my last day.”
I close my eyes for a second, in disbelief of what I just heard. “Today’s your last day?”
“Yep.” He passes me on his way to the door.
“Did you quit?”
He looks squarely at me. “I’m going to be on a game show.”
“A game show?” I can’t help but laugh. “Like Family Feud or something?”
“No, it’s more like a cooking competition.”
Lots of things go through my mind—and first, surprisingly, I realize I’m going to miss him. He might be a dick, but he’s one that I’ve slept with one, two—I bite my lip—six or seven times. I’ve stopped counting because each time we do it, it’s a mistake. Well, a mistake in that I wish I hadn’t spread my legs and let him in. At the same time, I find him so appealing, and I’ve tried every way possible not to think of him as sexy and attractive but have failed miserably. Second, I’m the only person working here who knows Randy’s deep, dark secret.
We only have sex on nights we close the café together. One night, after we let our desires get out of hand, he spilled the beans.
“How did you end up in Minneapolis?” I asked, readjusting my bra back over my tits. Randy enjoys sucking on them.
He grimaced at me as though I’d asked if he was wanted for murder or something.
“What?” I asked him, zipping my pants.
“It’s nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s just that I used to be a chef.”
“Oh,” I said, extremely intrigued.
He studied me scrupulously. After his prolonged examination, Randy told me he use
d to be the executive chef at three of LA’s most exclusive restaurants but was fired from each because he had a serious problem with alcohol. He missed workdays, screwed up recipes, and flew off the handle, pretty much yelling and cursing at his staff on a daily basis. When no other restaurant would touch him with a ten-foot pole, he was forced to check in for his sixth stint in rehab. Well, this time it worked. However, he had sullied his reputation and couldn’t even get a job at a chain restaurant—not that he would lower himself to work at one of them anyway. So his cousin Steve, who owns Calypso Café, convinced him to move to Minneapolis, work for him, and wait it out until everyone forgets.
Right now, Randy looks at me with the same expression he did the night he bared his soul. It’s as if he’s wondering if he can trust me with the news he just dropped in my lap.
I fold my arms in front of me. “Which cooking competition? There are a million of them on TV these days.”
He cracks a tiny smile. “Head Chef Total Domination.”
I unfold my arms, surprised by the emotions surging through me. Perhaps envy. Head Chef is the most popular cooking show on TV. It has ignited the careers of many previously unknown chefs. If Randy wins, he could return to his former glory. And I’m okay with that—only, I want to prove that I can be just as great a chef as he is.
We stare at each other. My emotions are coursing through my veins, and I’m lost for words.
There are two knocks. “Come in,” Randy and I barely say at the same time.
Rita, a coworker, pokes her head into the room. Her curious gaze shifts from Randy’s face to mine. “I’m sorry, did I hear you say come in?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“There’s a guy at the register asking for you.”
I sigh gravely, remembering the shiny, new red BMW I damaged. “Well… good luck,” I say, barely looking Randy in the eye.
I can feel him staring at me as I walk out.
My eyes land on the guy standing off to the side in front of the register. Before I introduce myself, I notice the lunch crowd. Normally, it doesn’t die down until after two o’clock. It’s almost that time now, but instead of thinning, the place seems to have gotten busier. I look back to the guy whose car I marred. He’s watching me with a bemused smile. I admire how his cream turtleneck sweater complements his fiery red hair. He’s also wearing an expensive black cashmere coat. Rita and Sarah can’t stop smiling as their bright eyes continuously dart to his handsome face.
I form my best smile, straighten my posture, and take long strides toward the counter with my arm outstretched. “Sorry about the car.”
He reaches out to shake my hand. “Yeah, you did some serious damage.”
I sigh. “I know. Listen, I can pay whatever it costs to fix it. I just don’t want our insurances involved.”
He looks at me like he just had a million-dollar idea. “What do you say about this?”
“About what?”
“A proposition.”
I grimace. “What kind of proposition?”
“I’m willing to forgive and forget if you agree to go out with me on three dates.”
I furrow my brow then release it. “Why three dates?”
He brings his lopsided grin closer. “Because you’ve done three dates’ worth of damage.”
I glance to both sides of me to see if anyone else is hearing this. Rita and Sarah are still watching him, and I catch a glimpse of Randy standing behind me, fiddling with receipts or something.
“What if you can’t stand me after the first date?”
He smirks. “I doubt that.”
I snort. “Oh, it’s possible. Believe me, I can be pretty insufferable.”
“Then let me be the judge of that.”
There’s an eager gleam in his eyes. I feel what he wants from me is evident. I lean across the counter and put my mouth closer to his ear. “I’m not going to fuck you.” I stand upright again. “So how about you get an estimate and…”
“I think I’m insulted,” he says.
I close my mouth and then open it again. “I’m sorry, but I…”
He lifts a hand. “Gina. My name is Jeremy. And when you say ‘but,’ everything that follows cancels everything you said before it. So you’re not sorry, and I still want to take you on three dates.”
“Hey, Jeremy, back off from my workers! We’re not paying them to socialize.”
I whip my head around to see Randy frowning.
I roll my eyes and focus back on Jeremy. “You two know each other?”
“We’re cousins,” Randy says.
This time, I refrain from giving him the evil eye, even though he’s outright eavesdropping on us and it’s just bad manners.
“I see,” I say, trying to find a resemblance between them. There isn’t any. “So three dates, and that’s it? I owe you nothing?”
Jeremy lifts his hands in surrender. “I swear.” He drops his left arm and leaves his right hand up. “Scout’s honor.”
I twist my mouth contemplatively. I look to my right and see Rita restocking the pastry case. “Hey, Rita, could you be my witness?”
Her eyes widen. “Witness for what?”
I stare boldly at Jeremy’s amused yet confident expression. “A contract.”
“What are you, a lawyer?” Jeremy says.
Randy snickers behind me. I pretend I don’t hear him. Jerk.
“No,” I say, and it pains me. I should be a lawyer since I graduated from law school. However, I’ve failed the bar exam so many times that I stopped counting. “I want assurance that you won’t back out of our deal.” I rip a slip of paper off the order pad on the counter. “What’s your last name?”
He’s still grinning as if he’s not taking me seriously. Finally, he says, “Bailey.”
“Do you know your license plate number?”
Now he’s dropped that smile. I guess he can tell I mean business. “Sure. It’s 484AC1.”
I crack a smile. “That’s an easy one.”
“You know, we don’t have to do this. My word is good enough.”
I scoff as I look back down at the slip of paper and write in legalese how Jeremy Bailey agrees to release Gina Gilbert from any responsibility for damage to the red BMW with his license plate after the completion of three dates with no sex or physical intimacy involved.
“How about a kiss?” he asks.
“No kiss.” I hand Jeremy the pen. “Sign it, and we have a deal.”
He hesitates. I can tell by the look on his face that he finds my demeanor abrasive.
Finally, Jeremy takes the pen and signs. The guy standing at the register, who witnessed nearly all of our interaction, snickers.
Once I have our contract in hand, I tear another slip of paper off the order pad, write my phone number, and hand it to him. “Have a nice day.”
He’s still cheesing out as he folds the paper and stuffs it inside his billfold. He’s careful to show me all the twenty-, fifty-, and hundred-dollar bills he’s carrying. I fight the urge to tell him that his money doesn’t tempt me whatsoever. I have plenty of my own. Not that I’m independently wealthy. A month after graduating from law school, a trust my grandparents set up for me started paying. It’s a lot of money, and I’ve been saving—not for a rainy day but to buy something big for myself that will be an investment in my future.
“We’ll talk soon,” he says.
“Good-bye,” Rita says, wiggling her fingers at him.
He winks at her, and she turns beet red. All the women within view of Jeremy watch him stroll out the door and cross the parking lot. I must admit he is something to look at, but he doesn’t make my juices flow.
“Okay, the show’s over. Get to work.”
Rita, Sarah, and I turn around. Randy’s standing between the cappuccino maker and the counter, writing in a ledger. I’m sure, like me, Sarah and Rita are thinking he decided to do paperwork out front today for no other reason than to ride our asses.
2
Today,
I work the register. Calypso Café is one of those places where customers order at the counter and then take their food back to their seats. As far as food items go, we serve sandwiches, three soups of the day, and a multitude of gourmet pastries and coffees, which is what people really come here for.
Randy only stuck around long enough to become irritated by my interaction with Jeremy. I haven’t seen him since then. Four hours later, the lunch and after-work crowds thin out. My eyelids are heavy as I finish wiping down two tables. It’s been a long day. I’m up at five thirty every morning for a seven o’clock class. Lately, I’ve been staying up past midnight, studying and trying out new recipes. I’ve always been a pretty good baker, but I find cooking over the stove more challenging.
I stand tall and bend my back to stretch as I think about the tangy eggplant hash I made in my cooking-methods class. Chef Ballard said my vegetables were cooked perfectly but I might want to pull back on my creative spicing method. The class chuckled, and my heart sank. I do have a tendency to overdo it.
“Hey, Gina,” Pete, the second-shift baker, calls.
I send my tired gaze across the room. Pete is standing at the register in his white baker’s coat.
“Yeah?” I say with a yawn.
“Could you finish up for me? My daughter has a thing tonight.”
Just thinking about abandoning the part of my job where I’m washing tables, taking orders, and making fresh sandwiches on request wakes me up a little.
“Sure, but are you sure Randy’s okay with me helping out?” I only work in the kitchen on days when Randy isn’t here. When I made my famous pastries that are now on the menu, Randy was out for two weeks. The day after I helped in the kitchen and Pete let me experiment with some new recipes, Calypso Café’s Yelp page blew up with five-star reviews. Ever since then, Pete has been a believer in my talents in spite of Randy.