“Yes, I all too clearly remember that time you threw out a customer who asked for his raw oysters to come to his table without any shells.”
“—but because every man and woman leaves Apron with orgasmic satisfaction at both the service, once seated, and especially the food. Their wait is nothing but a nail-biting climax to the ultimate taste bud experience.”
Pedro shakes his head, well-versed in his boss’s sexual descriptions of food. “I must say, Stephanie up front is making mistakes. I doubt she’s overbooking simply so our guests can climax over their entrées.”
I frown. Stephanie, while gorgeous, has been on the receiving end of a few complaints. Scrolling through her personal phone while on duty. Coming off slightly rude to tourists while booking reservations (that one, I don’t mind).
“She’s wonderful with the guests once they arrive, though,” I say.
“And has been seating them at the wrong tables.”
I suck on a tooth. The cacophony of the kitchen continues around us, my chefs preparing for the dinner rush. Swearing, mostly f-bombs, are a-plenty, but that’s life in the backrooms. As soon as guests arrive, I’ll threaten them to shut the fuck up.
“I don’t tolerate mistakes,” I say in answer.
Pedro nods. “I’ll let her go after tonight’s dinner.”
“No. Let her go now.”
“Boss?”
“Do it now. I don’t want further screw-ups on my dossier.”
“But … we’ll be without a hostess.”
I peer down at him. “Are you not front of the house?”
“I—I am,” Pedro blusters. “But I relinquished my hosting capabilities long ago—”
“Not tonight, you haven’t.”
“Fine. But I get first choice on the next host or hostess. And I start interviews tomorrow morning.”
This is what I like about Pedro. He doesn’t take orders lying down, but he doesn’t refuse, either. He simply looks for the bottom line and tries to take it for himself.
I’ll let him believe he’s won, for now.
“Deal. Let me get back to overseeing prep. I’ll see you in the dining area in twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Pedro looks so crestfallen at the loss of a crucial staff member that I add, “Provide the overbooked guests with a complimentary cocktail. And surprise them with our featured dessert at the end of the meal. I’m not a complete brute.”
“I’ll make sure it’s done.”
As soon as Pedro departs, I go back to supervising the line cooks. It’s not in my job description, but I prefer to be a part of every aspect of my business for as long as I can be, and seeing how I now spend twenty-four hours a day here, it’s the least I can do to maximize my presence.
I suppose I could stay at a hotel, or at one of my buddy’s, or hell, a sexy woman’s bed, but I’m well aware of why I’m in this predicament.
It was my choice to bring Sophie to my penthouse, to have her stay there for as long as she needs. And it would seem a disservice to then reward myself with five-star room service and New York’s best hotels, or fucking a stranger and spending the night at her place.
If I’m to be honest, it’s because I don’t want to.
Sophie invades my mind when recipes and measurements don’t. Physically, I’ll always want to fuck her. She’s all gorgeous curves and long blonde hair. Every time her glasses slide down her nose, I want to push them up with my thumb before ravishing her mouth with my lips, then my cock.
Yet, it’s not only sexual attraction that keeps my mind’s eye on her. I want to soothe, and make sure her time here is restful. I remembered what cuts her nausea—oranges—and made sure my home never lacks it. I have daily smoothies delivered in the mornings.
For all she knows, they’re from one of the many shops in NYC that caters to that crowd, and I’ll make sure it stays that way.
I glance over at one of our blenders, now being used to create a walnut pesto sauce.
Why am I doing all this shit?
Because I want to understand the pieces of her, to know what makes her whole. That, and knowing there’s a part of me in her now, growing each day, becoming more human each week.
Still have no fucking clue what do about that.
Other than to nourish it with what I know best.
Ah, fuck.
I return to the task at hand and pick up a knife, praying my mind doesn’t stray to the complicated an hour before dinner service is meant to start.
“Boss?”
It’s Pedro again, and I drop the knife before I ream him for another distraction. This time, I don’t turn around. “Yes, Pedro?”
“There’s a woman here to see you.”
“Tell her I’m busy.”
“Ah, I don’t think you want to do that.”
“Pedro, we have an hour until this place opens for dinner. I don’t have time to smooth down any bed feathers I might’ve ruffled weeks ago—”
Pedro takes a deep breath. “She says she’s come from your home, and if you don’t see her right now, she’ll make sure this entire restaurant knows that you have a small penis.”
The kitchen falls into a shroud of silence.
Carefully, I turn. “Come again?”
“She said—”
“I heard what she said. Who is she?”
Pedro folds his hands in front of his stomach. “I did not catch her name, sir. Given the way she was dressed, I was quick to try and usher her out, but she would have none of it. In fact, she also threatened my manhood, so I can see where your anger lies—”
“Is she blonde? With glasses?”
“That would be the one, sir.”
The fuck is Sophie doing here?
After a deep breath, my lips so thinned out that all air has to escape my nose, I stride forward. “Out of the way, Pedro.”
“Yes, sir.” Pedro scuttles to the side.
I push through the double-doors, and wait staff scatters as I barrel through the set tables with fresh floral centerpieces until I reach the other side.
Sophie stands at the front, near the hostess stand, her hands folded demurely in front of her.
When I reach her, she says, in the now deserted room, “Quite the people-pleaser, aren’t you?”
“What are you doing here?”
Her shoulders rise and fall on a breath as she stares past me and into the restaurant. “Honestly? I was bored.”
“Did you have to threaten my manager?”
“He threatened me first.”
“With what? The man can’t point a breadstick without trembling.”
Chin tilted up, Sophie meets my eye. “He’s snobby.”
I shrug. “Snobby is what keeps out the riff-raff.”
“Is that what I am? Riff-raff?”
I can sense a trap when it’s laid out in front of me like this. “Of course not. I wasn’t expecting you, otherwise I would’ve told Pedro to keep a lookout for your arrival.”
“I only got angry at him because the first thing he did when I came through these doors was tell me to scoot.”
I picture it perfectly, Pedro’s flapping hands and all. “He’s a little rusty in the host department. Now, tell me why you wanted to spread the lie about my small dick.” I raise a brow. “Since we both know that’s not true.”
Sophie scratches absently at her arm, her attention deliberately focusing on the hostess stand instead of remaining on me. “I thought it was the only way you’d see me.”
Now I lift both brows. “Are you kidding?”
She jerks. “Why would that come across as a joke to you? You don’t come home at night. You don’t sleep in your own bed. You specifically make sure to have nothing to do with your penthouse while I’m in it. You communicate with me only through text messages. Why would I think, if I came to your restaurant, that you’d want to stand in front of me if I merely asked?”
“I’ve made every effort to ensure you don’t lack for anything.”
“Yes, and I’m incredibly grateful—for all you’ve done. And when you showed up to my apartment in Florida and made such a grand gesture for me to come here … that was incredibly kind of you. But since then, I haven’t seen you. Like my presence…” Sophie looks away again. “Like you can’t stand being around me, because of what I remind you of.”
“That’s not true,” I say, and step forward, lowering my voice. Sophie follows my movements by tilting her chin up the closer I get.
“Even now, you don’t want me to say it,” Sophie says. “In case someone overhears.”
“This place is a cesspool of gossip. I’d rather they know nothing about me, not just this.”
“You can’t even say it,” Sophie whispers.
I’m aware of what she’s referring to, but I swallow instead of uttering anything further.
Sophie searches my eyes. “Are you ashamed of me?”
“No,” I say gruffly.
“Then what, Ash?”
“It’s complicated.”
A cascade of conflict flows across her features, and I expect her to demand more from me. She has every right. Instead, she says, “Your mother came to see you today.”
I jolt at the shift in subject. And at the fact my mother’s here in the states. “What?”
“At your home. I met her.”
I stare at Sophie warily. “What did she do?”
“Walked in, looked around, walked out.”
I shove my hands into my pockets.
“She also invited you to dinner tomorrow night. And me. At the Waldorf Astoria Hotel.”
“That’s…” Suspicious.
“I don’t expect to go,” Sophie says quickly. “I’m the message bearer, here. I’m sure I surprised her just as much as she surprised me when she buzzed the apartment—”
“Come.”
“Huh?”
Sophie’s eyes are always large and round, especially behind her glasses, a feature of hers I find myself comparing to sweet things more often than not. At this moment, they’re two saucers of hot chocolate swirled with cream.
“I think you should go with me.” I rest an elbow on the hostess stand. “It’ll help me suffer less.”
“But you never…” Whatever she’s thinking, Sophie shakes herself out of it. “Okay. Fine. I’m super bored in your giant apartment floor with no walls, anyway. This will give me something to do.”
“Good.”
The conversation’s over, but I don’t leave. I want to stay. I want to ask her to stay, and the realization pulls at my lips.
“Are you angry-inviting me right now?” Sophie asks.
“What? No. It’s my mother. She does this to my face.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Why don’t you stay?”
Sophie’s cheek ticks up. “Here? Now?”
“Sure. Have you tried the food at this restaurant before?”
I don’t consider it a stupid question. For all I know, Carter or Astor have taken her here on the nights I’m stuck in my office going over profits and losses.
“No. I’ve used a lot of your raw ingredients at home, though.”
I angle my head. “What have you been cooking?”
Sophie takes a moment to think. “Salads—a lot of those. Macaroni and cheese. Meatloaf. Chili. Spaghetti Bolognese…”
“Comfort foods.”
“The most comforting, fatty, cheesiest foods you can imagine.”
I try not to smile. “Come with me. I’ll get you our special tonight.”
Pedro hovers somewhere nearby, and I don’t have to look at him to know he’s gawking and flapping around, horrified that I’m about to seat a lone party at a four-top on an overbooked Friday night.
Apron is mine. I can do whatever the fuck I wish.
I seat Sophie at the same table our friends used on opening night, near the exposed brick wall, with a perfect view of the warm-toned restaurant. As she sits, Sophie takes it in with awe.
No one’s here yet. The tables are ready, the staff is in their meeting, and the dining area is deserted but for us and Pedro. Yet, she looks around as if it’s peak dinner hour and the place is packed and fragrant, and she’s lucky enough to have snagged a seat.
This time, my smile is hard to stifle. I like that this space, that has proven nothing to her, makes her happy.
“Our mixologist makes great virgin cocktails. I’ll send one over,” I say.
My hand remains on the back of the chair I pulled out for her. I peel it off, envisioning mint leaves, lime, the zest of a naval orange. All the ingredients to settle her stomach—
“Could it have some mint in it?” she asks.
Precisely. “Coming right up.”
I turn to leave, but the picture of her remains in the back of my mind.
She’s in discount clothing. Her hair is a mess. Her skin is pale and slightly chalky from a day’s worth of morning sickness. Her glasses can’t hide the flush on her cheeks at the prospect of dinner.
I can’t help but think—
Apron has never catered to someone so perfect.
Holy fuck, no wonder I’m doing everything I can for her while staying away.
13
Sophie
My virgin cocktail is in a large wine glass, so I feel very high-tone when I lift it and take a sip, fresh mint leaves swirling amidst crushed ice.
In only twenty minutes, Apron’s doors have been opened, and the restaurant is filled. Tables house women in cocktail dresses and men in tailored suits. Everyone’s beautiful. The waiters zip and zap between tables, skillfully avoiding pushed back chairs and standing patrons. Glass clinks together, silverware hits porcelain, voices meld into an audible cloud, and I can’t stop staring at it all.
Ash owns this.
He’s off zipping and zapping in the back and hasn’t made an appearance since he sat me at this table almost half an hour ago. Another waiter appears with what he calls an amused bush, or so I think. He repeats himself, and I think I finally get it—amuse bouche. Some kind of very small starter before a starter that introduces one to a chef’s style, he explains.
“Sweet pea gazpacho with crisp prosciutto topping,” the waiter continues.
“Thank you,” I say, but he departs before I can lift the tiny shot glass filled with soup and drink it.
“Wow,” I whisper to myself after I swallow. The salt of the prosciutto remains on my lips and I lick it off, gazing longingly at the shot glass and wishing it were a cup. Or a bowl. Bigger than a doll’s tea set, at least.
The empty glass is whisked away before I can blink, and I marvel at the service.
My attention drifts up, where a crowd has gathered at the front, and I notice Pedro doing a lot of hand movements as he talks to the waiting guests. He snaps his fingers toward the bar, mouthing something I can’t decipher.
“Your appetizer, miss.”
Yet another waiter appears, setting a large plate in front of me and saying, “Peppercorn encrusted Wagyu beef sliders with smoked gouda and our homemade barbecue sauce.”
I eye the three medium-sized burger patties. “This is my starter?”
“Yes, miss, and be prepared for your eyes to roll back into your head at the deliciousness.”
Glancing up, I catch his smile. He’s a young guy with slicked back hair and soft green eyes.
“It’s my favorite dish,” he says, almost apologetically. “It’s not on the menu tonight, but the owner said to make it especially for you.”
Melted cheese flows over the meat and onto the plate. “I can see why.”
“Enjoy.”
And I do. I take one of these babies into my hands and chomp down, juice dribbling from the corners of my lips and unctuous cheese coating my tongue, and I’m pretty sure I know what heaven now tastes like, if heaven has cows.
“Omigod,” I mumble into the bun as I take another bite.
A prickling sensation hits my temple at the same time my brain tells me I’m being watched,
and I peer over the slider to the kitchen.
Inked arms crossed, a plain white apron tied around his waist, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, stands Ash.
I’m fairly certain, if I hadn’t successfully bedded Ash almost three months ago, I would’ve tried right this instant, in his sexy chef’s uniform, with burger juice on my chin.
Dear God, that man is hot.
The corners of his mouth lift into a closed-mouth smile as my gaze hits him.
Good? he mouths.
All I can do is swallow audibly and nod. I’d been afraid to come to this restaurant, thinking I’d do nothing but annoy him since he goes out of his way to pretend I don’t exist. All the while gifting me with everything I need, except his company.
It’s a small comfort to see Ash in his element, smiling at my enjoyment of his food, despite everything that’s occurring between us. Distractedly, I put a greasy hand on my abdomen, picturing the little lime enjoying Ash’s cooking, too.
Then, realizing what I’m doing—he doesn’t want to be a father—I go back to my meal and look anywhere but at Ash.
I turn my attention back to the front, where Pedro remains, hopping from foot to foot, his lips moving rapidly as he speaks to one guest, then the other, attempting to placate whatever conflict is ensuing over there.
It’s making me uncomfortable, watching Pedro grow increasingly red and sweaty, so I pay particular attention to my remaining burgers with one ear perked.
Pedro’s voice rises well above the others, and I look for Ash, wondering if he’s noticing, but he’s no longer at the front of the kitchen.
I’m parked in the corner, so it comes as no surprise when Pedro scuttles up to one of the servers nearby and says to him privately, “We had to fire our hostess a few hours ago, and I’m going down in a fiery pit of shit. I’m not meant for host duties anymore, yet here I am, doing as the boss says, who—by the way—thinks this is good for the restaurant. Some supply and demand bullshit. I’m hanging by a thread, Alan, I really am. There’s so much to do, I don’t have time to act pretty to all these damned people that keep coming in droves—”
“I’ll help.”
Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection) Page 65