Faking It With the Boss

by Nikki Chase

  But at the same time, my feet want to carry me far, far away from him. I long to escape before this whole thing blows up in my face and destroys me.

  Okay, maybe there’s more than a small chance I’m just being crazy and everything’s going to be amazing. But I can feel myself losing control and I can’t help the way I feel about it. I’ve never had anybody affect me so intensely before.

  Being with Ben can be the most wonderful thing in my life. But it also has the potential to be my worst nightmare, if things go wrong.

  For now, while my brain is still somewhat in control, I can tell myself to chill and take it one step of a time. Stop being so anxious and high-strung, for once.

  I just hope, for the sake of our new relationship and my sanity, that my fear won’t grow so monstrous it takes over.

  Ben

  “Our parents have that look on their face again,” I whisper to Claire as we cross the busy sushi restaurant and come within sight of both my and her parents, who are sitting at a raised table and already have a round of drinks in front of them.

  “Yeah, but we’re ready for it this time,” she whispers back with a conspiratorial grin.

  “Is anyone really ever ready for your mother?”

  “Hush!”

  I’m grinning by the time we get to the table. Our parents pause their conversation to stand up and greet us with “So glad you could make it!” and “There they are!” as they hug us. Within a minute, we’re all seated again, and the waitress comes by to take our orders.

  “So,” my dad says, putting a fist on the table and smiling at both Claire and I, “are we in business? It’s official this time?”

  “Yes, it’s official,” I say, chuckling and squeezing Claire’s hand under the table. “Our IDs now say ‘officially dating’.”

  “Okay, okay,” Dad chuckles, rolling his eyes at the joke.

  “Well then, for the second time, congratulations, you two,” Claire’s mom says with a broad smile on her face. “Gosh, it’s been one hell of a rollercoaster, hasn’t it?”

  “That’s putting it lightly,” Claire says. “If you’d told me this was coming my way a few years ago, I don’t think I would have believed you.”

  “We tried to tell you it was coming when he first showed up at brunch last month,” my mom laughs.

  I glance at Claire just as an uneasy smile forms on her lips. No doubt that expression matches mine perfectly. A his-and-hers grimace set.

  “Not to burst your bubble,” I intervene, “but we’re really making our own way through all this despite everything else, not because of it. Neither of us are the kind of people who like things to be too arranged.”

  “Oh, you know I don’t mean that,” Mom says, waving a dismissive hand at me. “I’m sure the two of you have your own thing going on, all our gossip aside.”

  “That interview made it seem like the two of you are a match made in heaven, though,” Castilla adds with a grin.

  “That interview,” I say with a weary sigh and a forced chuckle, and Claire squeezes my hand under the table. “I swear it’s going to be the death of me. My head chef and I were both assuming it was going to focus more on him and the restaurant rather than us, and I don’t think I’m going to live it down any time soon.”

  “Well, let him be a grump,” Castilla says. “The two of you can’t help but steal the show, you know? Just look at you!”

  “No, he’s right,” Claire says firmly. “The last thing I want is for the two of us to draw attention from Ocotillo. It’s something we’re both invested in, and if it doesn’t stand on its own merits, it’s not fair to either our work or the rest of the staff involved.”

  I feel warmth spread in my heart when Claire says that, and I’m proud to have someone like her at my side in the kitchen, lover or not.

  “Fine, we’ll save the gushing for the wedding,” Castilla says, a wicked smile on her face. Despite our groans, she and the rest of our parents aren’t easily dissuaded. “Speaking of, Claire dear, we need to figure out a date for the wedding. That chapel you like, the one with that mountain vista down south where your cousin got married—it books up months in advance, so we need to get on top of that. Now, I’ve gone ahead and taken the liberty of booking a fitting for your wedding dress, and I’d like to go over some of the catering options next week, assuming you can convince Ben to give you a little time off,” she adds with a wink to me, “and then-”

  “Aaaand let me just stop you there, Mom,” Claire says, holding a finger out and moving it toward Castilla as if to shush her, to her surprise. “Okay, again, I really appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  Castilla looks a little crest-fallen, but our parents are stubborn. She opens her mouth to reply just as our round of miso soup arrives, and we all pause to give the waitress polite smiles before she hurries off.

  My mom picks up the slack where Claire’s left off. “We just want to be proactive about these things,” she says, crossing her legs and looking pointedly at me. “Before you know it, time will slip by and you’ll have been stagnating too long to keep things exciting.”

  “We’re not like the four of you, though,” I say firmly. “We want to take things at our own pace and make sure we’re happy with everything before moving ahead one step at a time. I’m sure you can appreciate that.”

  “Moving quickly didn’t hurt us, if you ask me,” Claire’s dad says, “but I can understand that.”

  “This is just exciting for us, seeing you two finally get together after everything,” Castilla says.

  “So you’ll be happy to see us taking things slowly, since it’s still in the early days,” Claire says just as firmly as me as we start to dig into our miso soup. “Don’t get me wrong, we’re really happy, but there are already cameras pointed at us every other day, it feels like. We’d like to keep things a little more low-key as much as we can. Besides, Ben already filed the paperwork to have the domestic partnership dissolved, so we’re legally back to square one where we want to be.”

  Our parents roll their eyes and smirk, probably thinking this is all some formality, but they finally seem to relent. This is probably not a good time to reveal my dirty secret.

  “Fine, fine,” my mom says at last. “But just so you know, you’re spoiling a perfectly good relationship story for your grandchildren.”

  Claire nearly spits her miso out at the mention of grandchildren, and I chuckle.

  “Sounds like ‘taking it slow’ is going to be a work in progress for them as much,” I say to Claire as she pats her mouth clean.

  Of course, I’m grateful for the change in topic, because now I have to hide my own embarrassment that I’d rather not bring up at all.

  I haven’t actually filed those papers. They’re still in the glove box of my car where I shoved them about a month ago. I’ve just kept forgetting over and over again, and each time it crosses my mind, it’s like there’s something in me that kind of resists it in a way I can’t explain even to myself.

  I want to blame how busy my life has been, now that I own two bustling restaurants. But a part of me feels like it solidifies my relationship with Claire somehow . . . and as silly as it sounds, I don’t want to lose that.

  I don’t want to spoil the mood, though, because I have a feeling Claire would greatly disapprove of the fact, especially since it would undermine this sort of tag-team resistance against our parents’ overwhelming support. So, as we finish our miso and watch the most appetizing plate of sashimi I’ve ever seen come our way, I decide to just let that slide and try to take care of it later.

  A part of me wonders if it wouldn’t just be better to wait it out and see if Claire is interested in moving in with me. That would work to our benefit and save some headaches over the paperwork. It could be something nice and romantic to surprise her with down the road. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I mix some wasabi into my soy sauce while Claire puts her lump of wasabi onto my plate with a grimace on her fac
e.

  I know I should be getting my ass into gear with this, but the more time I spend with Claire, the easier it is to just ignore all the strings that come attached with our relationship.

  I wish I could turn back time and meet her before that brunch, pull her aside and get something started the way I want. I don’t like having things out of my control like this, and I like other people pulling those strings even less.

  All I know for sure is that I’m liking my time with Claire, and I want to do everything I can to keep things going the way they are. Some might call that micro-management, but the way I see it, I’m giving my Claire everything she deserves.

  As the dinner goes on, I can’t keep my eyes off her, noticing the way she plays with her hair unconsciously while she talks, the way she picks at her food, when she’s sincerely laughing and when she’s faking it . . . it’s like getting to know someone I feel like I’ve always known.

  I like that.

  I want everything to stay exactly the same.

  And I’m damn good at getting what I want.

  Claire

  “Claire, chica, can you go to the fridge and get me another container of masa? I need to start forming them into balls for the sopa de tomate,” Chef Alonso asks during our morning shift.

  I’ve been standing next to him peeling what seems like an endless pile of garlic cloves for the better part of an hour, so I jump at the chance to do . . . well, literally anything else.

  “Sure,” I exclaim, setting down my bulb of half-peeled garlic and scampering away toward the far end of the big kitchen to where the industrial-sized refrigerator stands.

  The thing is six-feet wide and nearly seven-feet tall, so it’s no easy task getting the doors open sometimes. I manage to yank the middle door open with both hands, then reach up on tiptoe to grab the sealed container of soft, in-house ground masa.

  It’s one of the traditions here that Ben and Jorge are most proud of. While lots of restaurants ship in imported, pre-ground-and-prepped masa for tortillas and whatnot, we handle it all in-house. It’s just one of the little details that adds authenticity and home-grown comfort to our dishes.

  I’m happily grabbing container after container of masa when I hear a strange groaning sound from inside the fridge. My eyes grow wide as I wonder for a split-second if there’s someone in there. But then there’s a kind of weird mechanical grating sound that seems . . . off.

  I step back and tilt my head to one side, looking up at the gigantic fridge in confusion. I notice that one of the inside lights is flickering, like it’s about to blow out at any moment.

  “Oof. That can’t be good,” I mumble to myself, raising an eyebrow. But I dutifully close it up and bring the masa back over to Chef Alonso.

  “Gracias,” he quips cheerfully.

  “Hey Chef, do you mind if I run to tell Ben about something real quick?” I ask.

  He gives me a sidelong glance and nods. “Yes. Si claro.”

  “Thanks,” I answer quickly as I dash across the kitchen and down the little hallway to Ben’s office. I knock on the door and hear his muffled voice tell me to come in. I push the door open and peek my head inside.

  His face lights up when he sees me, even though he’s got a cell phone wedged between his cheek and shoulder and he’s busily scribbling down notes on a pad.

  “Sorry, that looks like an important phone call, but I just thought you should know that the commercial fridge is making some weird noises,” I stage-whisper across the room.

  He frowns, looking bewildered by my comment. “Weird noises?” he mouths at me.

  I nod. “Yeah. Like it’s starting to malfunction or something.”

  “Just a second, Ted,” he says politely into the phone receiver. Then he covers it with his hand and looks over at me with a terse expression. “Don’t worry about that right now, Claire. It’s not urgent. Find something else to do in the kitchen for now, okay?”

  I arch an eyebrow at him, taken aback by how dismissive he sounds, but before I can offer a rebuttal, he’s back on his business call, waving for me to leave. With a sigh of irritation, I back out of the room, close the door behind me, and trudge back to the kitchen, passing by the now-quiet fridge on the way.

  I’m annoyed that he isn’t taking me seriously. I know I asked him to treat me just like everyone else, but I feel like he’s taking it a step too far.

  I wouldn’t just pop into his office in the middle of a work call just to drop some unnecessary information on him. I only went there because I know how vital that refrigerator is to our ability to function as a restaurant, and if it goes down, we all go down with it. And we’re not even super busy at the moment here, so it wouldn’t hurt our productivity much if we took a moment to inspect the fridge and make sure it’s nothing serious.

  Besides, it’s not like he would even have to worry about it himself. I can definitely handle a call to a repairman myself, if only he’d trust me with that kind of task. It’s not like it’s rocket science.

  Right now, all I’m doing is some easy produce prep. Any number of the other staff members could take over it just as easily. But Ben is such a control freak, he won’t even accept that.

  Oh well, I tell myself with a shrug, If it breaks, it breaks.

  Hours later, I’ve almost totally forgotten about the stupid fridge and its weird noises. I’ve spent most of the afternoon shift busily chopping, dicing, and julienning potatoes, tomatoes, and ancho chiles, wearing my ear buds and listening to music.

  Now I’m part of the way through the dinner shift, still jamming to my playlists. It’s a habit not every head chef or manager would be okay with, but I’ve gotten to know Chef Alonso fairly well over the past few weeks, and he trusts me. He knows I can easily get my work done while listening to music. In fact, I tend to work even better when I have a soundtrack in my head. So I don’t immediately notice when there’s a collective gasp from across the kitchen.

  It takes me a couple of seconds to realize that there are several kitchen staff members gathered around the industrial fridge. They’re all looking around at each other with wide eyes and panicked faces, and my heart sinks.

  I pop out my earbuds and tuck them into my pocket as I walk over to join the crowd of concerned chefs and washers.

  “What happened?” I ask, already guessing what happened.

  One of the sous chefs turns to me and whispers, “The fridge gave out. Everything inside is going to melt and go bad now.”

  “Oh, that sounds pretty serious,” I reply, nodding. “Did nobody else notice the weird noises it was making earlier?”

  Everyone glances around in confusion, then looks back at me.

  “No,” says the sous chef.

  “Ah. Yeah, I noticed it sounded weird this morning. I told Ben about it, but he didn’t seem to think there was a reason for concern,” I say pointedly as Ben comes walking into the kitchen to see what all the commotion is about. He and I lock eyes from across the room and I can see him getting annoyed.

  But whatever. I’m annoyed, too.

  “Alright, stand back, everyone,” he calls out. “Let me look at the damn thing.”

  We all watch as he inspects the fridge. He heaves a sigh and whips out his cell phone, calling the repair man. “Hello? Yeah, this is Ben Graham over at Ocotillo downtown. Looks like our commercial refrigerator broke down. Could you get someone out here to fix it? We still have a couple hours left of service to get through, and—”

  I watch his face going pale, then beet red as he nods through the reply on the other end of the line.

  “Huh. Okay,” he says into the phone. “Yes, I see. Well, if that’s the soonest you can get here, I suppose we’ll have to settle for that. Alright. Thanks. Bye,” he says curtly, hanging up and sliding the phone into his back pocket.

  “Well?” Chef Alonso prompts him, standing with his hands on his hips.

  Ben shrugs and gives him an apologetic look. “He said the absolute soonest they can get here is tomorrow after
noon.”

  Gasps and whispers ripple through the crowd and Jorge groans, “So, what is our plan?”

  Ben scratches his chin and then says, “Well, we have a couple hours left tonight. Use up everything you can. Anything perishable you can use to prepare complimentary dishes for customers tonight. Hopefully that will garner us some good reviews. People love free food. As for tomorrow, well, I’ll figure that out when we get there.” He claps his hands together and announces, “Alright, back to work, guys. Business as usual. We’ll get it worked out, don’t worry.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but he quickly glances at me and then strides out of the kitchen without giving me the chance. I stand there fuming, feeling totally dismissed and ignored.

  I warned him about this hours and hours ago, and he never took the initiative to do anything about it until it’s too late? What a jerk. I love seeing him so calm and decisive and under control, but I hate the way he pushes me aside when he’s like this.

  The rest of the evening goes off without a hitch, and as predicted, the customers are delighted at all the free food. But when it’s time to clean up and clock out for the night, I’m still stewing over how annoyed I am. I hate when people don’t take me seriously, especially when I know I’m right.

  I hope that we can talk about it on the drive home, but to my dismay, he spends the whole car ride on the phone with our commercial equipment supplier, complaining about the malfunctioning fridge.

  He’s still on the phone by the time we get to his apartment, so I just trudge off to the shower, hoping to scrub my hair and scalp with enough intensity to just wash out all my irritation. But no such luck. Even once I step out of the shower and towel off, I’m still pissed off.

  I wrap my towel around myself and march into the bedroom, prepared to lay into Ben about what happened today. But when I get there, I see him conked out on the bed, spread-eagled and snoring. He hasn’t even changed out of his clothes. He looks exhausted, like he needs this sleep desperately.