by JD Hawkins
“Um…as customers? In the restaurant?”
“No,” I say. “I mean, are you good with kids? Do you like them?”
“Sure. Actually, I used to volunteer teach a cooking glass for an elementary school in Idaho. And I have two nieces back home, and either they’re mature or I’m not, ‘cause we always have a great time together. Why do you ask?”
I move toward the door and hold it open for her.
“Because I’m gonna need your help,” I say as she moves through, and I steal one more look at her peachy ass. I talk as we move through the restaurant, toward the front. “I signed up for this Young Chef mentoring program—or rather, Martin signed me up for it. He thought it would be a good bulletpoint to the publicity around me, and the new restaurant. Said I had gone too far down the ‘hard-edged food perfectionist’ route, and needed to show a more humane side.”
Willow nods as we push through to the tables.
“I can see that,” she says, without sarcasm.
“Yeah…well, I’m not exactly sure I have a more humane side. Last time I spoke to a kid, I was one.” I push open the front doors and scan the street. “There they are.”
The mousey woman with a warm smile who I assume to be Chloe’s supervisor is standing next to the small girl. The kid has dark hair, tied back into a ponytail, and dusty, tan skin. I wasn’t exactly sure what nine year olds look or sound like, but she’s a little more upright and tough-looking than I imagined. Less a waddling toddler and closer to the kind of savvy kids you see in movies, not least because she stares at me with a judgmental gaze.
The supervisor waves and we start moving toward them. If I thought this was a silly idea when I heard it, then I think it’s outright stupid now that I’m actually doing it. What the hell am I going to do with this kid? Teach her how to make a red wine reduction? Make her a cheesecake and sit her in front of a TV to watch cartoons? I suppose if worse comes to worst we can use an extra pair of hands peeling garlic cloves.
What I’m feeling right now is probably the closest I’ll ever come to empathizing with guys who have no confidence going on dates; concerned about doing or saying the wrong thing. I don’t even know how to greet her, whether I should shake her hand, tousle her hair, or lower myself to her eye level and make baby noises.
Luckily, Willow wasn’t lying when she said she liked kids, and does exactly what I needed her to do—help me.
“Hi there, I’m Maggie,” the supervisor says, shaking my hand.
“Cole Chambers. Great to meet you.”
“Hello, I’m Willow,” she says, shaking the supervisor’s hand with a smile before directing a huge smile and happy eyes at the girl. “Hey you! What’s your name?”
“Chloe,” the girl says, and immediately I’m struck by the way Willow’s infectious smile seems to compel the kid to do the same. Guess it works on kids, too.
“That’s a gorgeous name,” Willow says.
“I like yours, too,” Chloe replies, shedding any shyness instantly under Willow’s warmth. “It’s also the name of the tree.”
Willow laughs easily.
“What do you think?” she says, wryly. “Am I like the tree?”
Chloe sizes her up, her smile showing her gapped teeth now, enjoying the game.
“No…well, you’re tall. But a lot less droopy.”
We all laugh, and I turn to Maggie to ask, “So what are we doing today?”
“Oh, that’s on you. I’m leaving her here now,” Maggie says, in the slow, clear tones of someone who often addresses large numbers, “and I’ll be back to pick her up in a couple of hours. Does that sound ok? My cell number is in the email we sent you, just in case.”
“Wait, but what am I supposed to do?” I say, getting a little frantic now. “Just give a cooking lesson, or lecture her on matching appetizers to mains, or—?”
Maggie eyes me, a little puzzled.
“Nobody told you anything?”
“Nope.”
“Well, Miss Chloe is involved in a cooking competition, and she’s made it through the first rounds already but the finals are in a few months, and most of the contestants—as well as being experienced and having attended cooking courses—are being mentored by various chefs from California. None of them as big as you, though, I must say,” Maggie smiles.
“Oh, that sounds awesome!” Willow says, glancing from me to Chloe to share her excitement.
“So,” Maggie continues, “you can do whatever you want, whether it’s refining her skills or working on her mental game—anything you can think of to try and help her be a better cook. It’s not about the winning, of course, but it should be fun for both of you.”
“Say no more,” I assure her, finally feeling like I have a handle on the situation. “I might not understand kids, but I definitely understand competition.”
Minutes later, Willow, Chloe and I are walking toward the neighborhood farmers’ market. Willow and Chloe are getting on like a house on fire, and I’m spending more time marveling at how good Willow is at this than I am thinking about the kid.
“Are we going to cook after this?” the kid asks.
“Hell no,” I say. “I don’t let chefs get anywhere near a flame until they prove they can understand the principles. Produce, plan, and prep.”
Willow squints at me a little.
“Isn’t that exactly what you used to say on your show? The one where you showed convicts how to cook?”
I glance at Chloe, then back at Willow.
“I don’t see how this is any different—with less swearing, perhaps.”
Willow nods, a smile as if humoring me, and we enter the farmers’ market, passing through stall after stall where I drill into Chloe the importance of choosing good produce and providing consistent quality.
After about an hour of eyeing vegetables with a critical gaze and squeezing fruit, I turn to Chloe.
“You have any idea what you’re gonna cook for the final round?” I say.
Chloe looks up at me, the smile she’s been pointing at Willow turning into a pout.
She shrugs and says, “I dunno. The first round was assigned dishes, and after that one they gave us the ingredients they wanted us to use to make something up, but for the finals we have to pick our own dish. I have no clue. There’s just too many things I could choose.”
“Well,” Willow says, “what do you like to eat best?”
Chloe thinks for a second.
“Pasta.”
I shake my head and frown.
“You ain’t winning a cooking competition with pasta.”
Willow glares at me before turning back to Chloe.
“That sounds great,” she says. “Let’s see about selecting some ingredients to make your pasta the best.”
I don’t like the way Willow overrides me—if anyone pulled that with me in the kitchen, they’d be washing dishes for a month. Yet the combination of her being so disarmingly hot, and the way Chloe seems to respond by gaining a burst of energy, gives me no choice but to roll with it.
We continue walking on a little, buying agua frescas and a box of ripe, fragrant strawberries to eat while we check out the other produce. I give up on trying to add anything productive to the conversation, especially in the face of seeing how adept Willow is at it. It’s hard to imagine the kind of women I usually spend time with pulling silly faces for a kid, or even putting that much effort into one, and if I suspected Willow was something a little different before, I’m absolutely sure of it now. Instead, I focus on complimenting Chloe’s skills at choosing perfectly-ripe fruits and vegetables, and keep my mouth shut as she goes on and on about ideas for her competition-worthy pasta sauce.
Eventually, we make our way back to Knife and meet up with Maggie again at the curb. I send Chloe home with a bag of her farmers’ market selections and she grins and waves at me and Willow through the departing car’s window. When the SUV is out of sight, Willow turns to me and I can almost sense her sympathy.
“Yo
u weren’t lying, huh? About needing help. I mean you weren’t awful, but…”
I shrug. “Guess I’m never having kids.”
Willow laughs.
“Never say never. Besides, I think she’s going to be good for you. You need a kid around to keep you from taking everything so seriously.”
I narrow my eyes at her, but for some reason it’s hard to give that gorgeous face my tough-guy stare, especially when she’s smiling playfully at me.
“You speak to all of your bosses like that?” I ask.
“To be honest, I never had a boss before.”
“Figures.”
Though everything about the moment signals she’s about to leave, that we’re about to part, I find myself wanting to spend more time with her, wanting to dig a little deeper beyond that captivating face, those doe eyes. Confident enough to handle me, headstrong enough to assert herself, yet down-to-earth enough to handle Chloe—there’s something about her…
She turns to leave and something within me makes a snap decision.
“Listen, we should talk. Properly. Martin told me you were special, and Michelle does nothing but sing your praises—but I’d feel more comfortable knowing you a little better myself, especially since I wasn’t the one who hired you.”
“Sure. Now?”
“No. I have a full day that should have started about fifteen minutes ago. Tonight. My friend owns a place not far from here. We’ll grab a bite, have a drink. You can tell me your story. Best way to get to know a cook is by eating with them.”
“Sounds good to me,” she smiles, and I wonder if she buys the idea that I’m being completely professional. “Though I’m not sure I have enough of a story to fill a whole evening.”
“Then consider it the start of one.”
4
Willow
I crash out as soon as I get home, sprawling out on the bed around midday and telling myself I’ll just rest my eyes a bit, then waking up at six pm feeling detached from reality and seeing a missed call from my sister that I’m too wrung out to return right now. It’s hard to recognize how busy and exhausted you are until you actually stop for a second.
Since I started working at Knife just over a week ago, I’ve been surviving on power naps and soup fumes. Even in a city of four million people it feels like we’ve served half of them. Add to that the emotional climax of thinking you got fired, the relief at finding out you haven’t, and the thrill of being invited out for drinks with one of the most famous chefs in the world. The whole city seems like a timewarp, where things happen on fast forward, and where everything can change in a moment.
It’s satisfying, in a way. More satisfying than lingering around the back of a kitchen watching your chefs chain smoke through another empty day. But the more I experience the craziness of L.A., the more I feel like I’m still just a girl from Idaho.
And then there’s Cole. I knew I’d meet him eventually, I just didn’t expect it to be on such charged terms, and to be honest, I didn’t expect him to be so hot. Sure, I’d seen his TV shows, and though I might work like a machine there’s enough human in me to feel a heat in my chest when his eyes get all focused—but there’s something more to him in reality. Those eyes are even more impressive, and all the masculine energy that made him the private fantasy of millions of housewives is still there, but that focus is even more intense when it’s directed at you. He listens intently, like he’s trying to read between the lines, and he never breaks your gaze, as if he’s holding you with them.
Or maybe there’s something about me that he…no. I’m not even going there. He’s my boss, and he probably can’t help the effect he has on women. No reason to think this is anything other than a slightly social but very professional business meeting.
Asha comes home around seven, while I’m in the bathroom moisturizing my face.
“Willow?” she calls from the doorway.
“I’m in here.”
I hear her drop her sports bag and come to the bathroom, where she looks at me anxiously and leans up against the doorframe. Her brown skin glistens with sweat, glowing with the exertion of teaching another kick-boxing class.
“So how are you feeling?” she asks, in a voice as tenderly cautious as a therapist’s. “Was he there this morning? Did you argue with him again?”
“Yeah, he was there. He didn’t fire me.”
She lifts a brow. “No?”
“No. We talked it over and I told him I knew I’d made a mistake, and he said he’d give me another chance. It’s all good now.”
“That’s awesome!” Asha says, beaming a pearl-white smile.
“Yeah. Actually we’re going out to get a drink together. Seeing as he didn’t get to interview me for the job himself. Maybe we’ll start off on the right foot this time around.”
“Great! When?”
I check my phone on the sink.
“In about forty minutes.”
Asha’s smile drops, leaving a stunned incredulity on her face.
“So why aren’t you getting ready?”
“What are you talking about?” I say, stepping back from the sink to show her my skinny chinos and tank top under the plaid shirt. “I am ready.”
Asha steps back and looks me up and down, an expression of utter disbelief on her face.
“Did you say you were going for drinks? Or that you were going apple picking with him?”
I look back at the mirror.
“It’s nothing fancy,” I say. “Just a drink at his friend’s spot. We’ll probably just be talking shop a little before he has to run off and do something more important.”
Asha steps beside me so that she can stare at me in the mirror.
“Girl, this is Cole fucking Chambers, everything he does is fancy. The guy’s had his own TV show, he’s been on the cover of GQ. You can’t go on a date with him looking like someone who works in a hardware store.”
“No,” I say, turning to look at her directly. “It’s not a date. This is just a work thing. Colleagues. There’s nothing date-like about this, no ‘dateyness’ at all.”
I don’t want to admit that I’d half-considered the idea myself before pushing it away—but I’ve got a feeling Asha is going to admit it for me.
“Oh please. You’re not in Kansas anymore, honey. Ain’t no gentlemen here. If he’s taking you out for drinks and it’s not daylight, trust me: he’s interested.”
“Why would he be interested?” I say, almost laughing at the ridiculousness of the idea. “Like you said, he’s ‘Cole fucking Chambers.’ He can—and does—date a different European supermodel every week. I’m just his new employee.”
“I guess we’d better get you looking like a supermodel, then,” Asha says, spinning so fast she almost whips me with her braids.
I follow her as she marches into my bedroom and yanks open my closet.
“Why do I get the feeling you want me to fuck Cole?” I ask.
Asha flicks through my outfits shaking her head and grimacing at each one.
“I just want you to get close enough to introduce me.”
“Even though yesterday it sounded like you wanted to get him in a chokehold?”
“That’s how all my relationships usually start. Here,” she says, pulling a tight sweater dress from the rack and jabbing it toward me. “Let me see you in this.”
“This?” I say, taking the dress from her and staring at it. “I’ve never even worn this before. My sister bought it for me before I left. I don’t even think it’ll fit. It looks like barely enough material to make a pillow cover with.”
“Should be perfect, then,” Asha says, as she starts foraging in the base of the closet for boots. “The heels on these are a little high, but you won’t be driving anyway. You’re taking a cab, right?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why would I take a cab when I have a perfectly functional vehicle of my own?”
Asha laughs, handing me the boots. “If this night goes the way I know it will, you’re gonna be
so full of lust and alcohol that you’ll be in no shape to drive yourself home afterward. Trust me, you want the cab. I’ll call one for you now. Don’t argue.”
Knowing that I’m not going to win this battle, I retreat to the bathroom to get changed, more concerned about the idea that this is actually a date than I am about the dress. Did I miss something obvious? Am I so frazzled from work that I didn’t pick up on the signs? Surely if this was a date he’d have said so—Cole Chambers is not exactly the kind of guy who hides his intentions. He might be hard to read, but dating an employee you’ve only just met is too stupid a notion for anyone to entertain. Or maybe that’s the way things go in L.A.?
If this is a date, though, I’m not sure I should be going. Cole’s my boss, and I’ve spoken to him a grand total of two times. Plus, I’ve worked my ass off to put my failures behind me—the restaurant flop, the small town claustrophobia and overbearingly concerned parents, the ex-boyfriend who was more like an emotional leech than a romantic partner—so dating is not on the menu of things I’m looking for, and it’s completely against my current philosophy of starting fresh and taking things one step at a time.
But then again, there is a part of me that I have to suppress whenever I think of those intense eyes, the hard muscles of his tattooed shoulder, the way his forearms bulge when he crosses them over his perfect chest…
“You done?” Asha asks from the other side of the bathroom door.
“Yeah,” I call out.
She comes inside where I’m standing in front of the mirror again, turning this way and that to see how the dress looks. I glance at her and see that she’s smiling, a fairy-godmother smugness on her face.
“Ooh, yes! How does it feel?”
I shrug and pull the dress up a little over my cleavage.
“It feels ok, actually. I kinda like it.”
“Like it?” Asha says, as she steps forward to pull the dress down and re-expose the cleavage. “Girl, you should love yourself in this dress. That man is going to need an icepack when he sees you.”
I laugh a little and look back at myself in the mirror.