Fiona laughed. “That’s true.”
I licked the last of the powdered sugar off my fingers and squinted into the robins egg blue sky. Light gray clouds were beginning to roll in from the west, and soon I knew they would coat the sky, perhaps bring a light drizzle of rain that would plunge the city into early twilight. I sighed and pushed away from the wall. “Come on Fiona, we should get the rest of the orders in.”
“Finally,” she said. “We’ve got to be at the restaurant in two hours.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I reached into my pocket to check my phone and did a double-take. “Shit.”
“What?”
“My phone is missing.”
Fiona pushed away from the wall and looked me over. “Is it in your purse?”
I riffled through it, found nothing, and handed it over to Fiona. “I don’t understand. I had it earlier.”
“I know, I saw it.” She began to shift through the debris that is common in any woman’s handbag and shook her head. “No, it’s not here. Check your pockets—all of them.”
I did. It was a short search, and it came up empty. “Shit,” I said with emphasis. “Last time I had it was just as I saw you.”
“I know. I thought I saw you put it in your pocket.” Fiona looked around. The market was filling up fast, more than double the amount of people milling about than had been there in the beginning. She sighed, “Honey, I think it’s gone. You must have had your pocket picked. If you downloaded one of those security apps we can look up its location.”
“I never got around to it.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “Jesus. First I almost set my condo on fire and now I’ve lost my phone? I just got it, too.” I slapped my hands down on my thighs, “God, could this day get any worse?”
Fiona let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t say that. You just jinxed yourself.”
CHAPTER THREE
Ethan
I spent the morning in distraction, as I had almost every morning since beginning work at Le Poisson d’Azur six weeks ago.
The job had come at the most opportune time. I had overstayed my welcome in Boston after the fallout from that disastrous relationship with Brittany had ended. While I had whiled away my time on learning vacations to France, I had missed the bustle of a kitchen. The masters of Paris were something to behold, but I was there as an observer only, and none of the hotels in which I stayed had an adequate kitchen in which to practice.
When Mr. Simmons had called me with an offer to be the new head chef at Le Poisson d’Azur, the formative French cuisine in San Francisco, I had jumped at the opportunity. But while the job, and the change in location, was welcomed, the distraction that a one Ms. Veronica Delaware offered was not.
I woke almost every morning to visions of her at my mercy, her cream skin flushed with the passions I evoked in her. I dreamed of her walking toward me and taking my face in her hands before she leaned forward for a kiss. I dreamed of seeing those clear, light eyes of hers dark with pleasure.
But I had learned my lesson, or so I often reminded myself when these fantasies drove me to distraction. I should not bring someone from work into my private life, especially when I never knew if they shared my specific desires.
I sighed and rested my forehead against the cool stainless steel of my refrigerator. “Don’t make a fool out of yourself,” I said aloud. My voice seemed to echo in the empty walls of my condo.
But she does not have a lover, my mind whispered back. I had learned about this only the day before when one of the busboys shot the shit with the dishwasher in the back alley while they shared a cigarette. I had overheard their talk about her ex-fiancé and a breakup which had, according to them, been something of a show. Tears, screaming and throwing of objects. He was the one who had the new hit single out on the radio, and all the offers flooding in from talk-show hosts and magazines.
But that didn’t matter. She mattered. The fact that was available, that mattered.
Being available, of course, didn’t matter if she did not share the same needs as I. I needed to get out more, to see more of the city and make inroads into a community of people who had desires like mine. This obsession with Ms. Delaware would, like as not, go nowhere. It was only because I was so wrapped up in moving, breaking in the kitchen staff, and acquainting myself with the city that I looked at her with such intensity. Without all those distractions, I would have found someone by now.
What I wouldn’t give to have her delicate body under my hands, I thought.
I gritted my teeth at the onslaught of new images. I shook my head and began to prepare my breakfast, losing myself in the one activity that had a chance to distract me from thoughts of her.
“I should just... talk to her,” I murmured to myself.
But how to bring it up? Hey, so, I would love to take you out to coffee and get to know you, and later would you like to come back to my place and get tied up? I laughed aloud at the thought. I had never tried to bring up the subject to anyone who I did not know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, belonged to the same ‘club’ as me.
I almost burned my breakfast. That hadn’t happened in years. I tossed the pan off the burner with an impatient snarl. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll give it a try.”
It was like a song stuck in your head. You had to listen to it to make it go away.
Maybe if I spent time around Ms. Delaware, the spell she seemed to have on me would go away. She would probably end up being as dull and boring as some of the girls I had set my eyes on before, once I got to know them.
That’s what I’ll do, I thought, I’ll get to know her, and then I’m sure everything will be settled, one way or another.
But I could not help but hope that perhaps, just maybe, she would be like me.
CHAPTER FOUR
Veronica
The new head chef of Le Poisson d’Azur, Master Chef Ethan Craymore, is, hands down, the most attractive man I’ve ever seen. He has the strong jaw and sharp features of a movie star, dark hair with auburn highlights, long enough to fall into his eyes if he isn’t careful, piercing hazel eyes, and the muscular build of an MMA fighter. If it were not for the perpetual scowl on his face and filth spewing out of those perfect lips, I might have fallen at his feet and done almost anything just to touch him.
As it was, after the day I had—narrowly avoided condo fire, stolen or lost new cell phone, about two dozen cabbies who ignored my frantic waving, and dropping a crate of mussels on my toe, among other things—I was only just avoiding the impulse to clock him one right across that fine, handsome jaw of his.
“Ms. Delaware,” he called out. “What are you doing in prep? The saucier is murdering my velouté, and stations five and three are nothing short of a natural disaster.” He did not wait for me to abandon the station, instead shoving his side into mine. I narrowly avoided dropping the heavy knife on his fingers which, on second thought, might not be so bad.
“It’s like this,” he said, speaking with the same kind of high, wheedling voice one might use on a recalcitrant child. “Do you see? Simple. Now, do you think you can let the butcher commis do their damn job?”
“Yes, chef,” I barked dutifully. Fuck you, chef, I thought to myself. The prep cook had sliced into his finger and was getting it bandaged by another in our break room. I was certain Chef Craymore had seen it go down, but he never seemed to care about “little things” like that.
The kitchen was the typical noisy, controlled chaos of preparation. The first of the guests were a half hour from arriving, but we had been preparing for hours. The confectioneries were completed and chilled, where applicable, the sauces simmering, and the soup bubbling in its enormous copper pot. I took a half second to close my eyes and absorb the sound and smell of the place. This is why I’m here, I thought, I love to cook. I love food. I’m good at this.
A loud clang broke me out of my thoughts. On its heels, Chef Craymore began spewing a string of expletives that would make a bar full of sailors stand and cheer. I rolled my eye
s at the source of his ire, one of the many busboys. He didn’t catch the motion, standing stock-still with wide-eyed shock as the Chef continued to insult his lineage and question whether the poor man would be capable of siring any children.
Fiona sidled up to me, whisking a creamy pomegranate sauce to be drizzled on the duck later that night. “Oh, how I long for the days of Chef Myra. She was a letch, to be sure, but, at least, the kitchen was somewhat peaceful.”
To think that any kitchen was peaceful was something of a joke in and of itself, but she was right. Chef Myra had raised her voice on occasion, but typically her barbs were well-shot harpoons, and no one argued with her judgment. Chef Craymore, on the other hand, was like a raving lunatic. I smiled at my friend and continued my work, revolving around the stations and offering guidance and assistance where needed. I glanced at the clock in between stations.
Only six more hours to go until closing, I thought dully. I need to find another job.
The biggest problem with that was that I had battled long and hard to reach this position. Le Poisson d’Azur is the best French restaurant in the San Francisco Bay Area. It was French cuisine which had drawn me to the culinary field, and I had looked at a position here as the penultimate in my career. Women were more common in this industry but, even still, it was a boy’s club. Sometimes I wondered if it was just because Chef Myra ran the place when I was first hired. It was her who had promoted me to Sous Chef, recognizing my hard work and dedication.
But one of these days, I would get the financing I needed to open a little place of my own. I didn’t want to compete with the prestige of Poisson, but I wanted to serve food that was just as good—no, better. There were a few little tweaks I would love to make to some of these recipes, but tweaking was one of the ultimate sins in this kitchen. Chef Craymore did not share the spotlight.
“Idiot! Do not stand there like a dumb cow stirring and stirring! What is the matter with you? You must let the sauce rest. How long have you been cooking?” He did not wait for a reply, “Obviously your instructors took pity you, for I can think of no reason why someone would give you the idea that you were a cook, never mind a chef.” He threw up his hands. I noted, not for the first time, that he wore no wedding ring on his fingers.
Figures, one part of my brain brought up. I can’t imagine what he would be like at home.
Home has beds, thought the sexually starved side of my brain. And wouldn’t he look good all tangled up in some sheets?
“What!” Chef yelled, startling me once again. “Do I have to spell everything out for you?” He clapped his hands loudly, “Everyone, look at Julio here. Now tell me, what has Julio forgot on the wine selection?”
“The Beaujolais, chef?” One of the cooks called out.
“Good! Thank you! See, Julio, someone without your, what did you call it? Considerable experience with proper vintage pairings? Where did you learn that, the Welch’s factory? Get out of my sight!” The man in question started to hurry off, but chef shouted after him, “And do not forget the Beaujolais!”
Time passed in a similar manner until even Chef Craymore fell silent as the customers started to pour in. We hosted a private event, an engagement party, in half of the dining room while the other half was open for normal business. It was a difficult affair, balancing the pre-ordered dishes of the large reservation with the on the fly orders of our usual night’s allotment.
And then, in a moment of silence, the bride and groom-to-be burst into the kitchen, led by the Manager, Mr. Simmons. “Ladies and gentlemen, this fine couple would like to congratulate you all on such a lovely dinner.”
I looked up, and my heart did a little start-stop.
The first thing I thought was, I look awful. I knew, from long years of experience, that my face was splotched red, I had sweat beading around my hairline and down my neck, and that my hair had become an unruly rat’s nest of golden curls even under the white hat. My apron was spattered with various foods and sauces.
And then Jason—Jason, love of my life, the man that I had thought I would marry—looked around and his gaze passed over me like I didn’t even exist. I stood there like a mannequin while he and his bride-to-be, Fanny, lauded our cooking skills with a concise, gracious little speech.
When they turned to leave, Fiona touched my arm and I jumped. “He’s watching you. Go into the freezer for a bit until you’re ready. I’ll cover for you.”
I sent her a grateful smile and fled. I glimpsed, out of the corner of my eye, Chef Craymore scowling, his arms folded across his wide chest, his eyes tracking my movements. I looked away and bolted into the freezer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ethan
I tracked Veronica as she made a run for it. Her eyes like clear, Caribbean Sea-blue topaz, sparkling with pain and fury when she gave me a quick glance on her way to her refuge. I swept my gaze over the kitchen and noted with some satisfaction that everyone was working their stations and keeping their head down. It’s good to be King, I thought, but I didn’t like that Veronica had looked so upset. What about that nouveau riche couple troubled her?
I waited about twenty seconds before I followed.
“Chef!” Her friend called out to me, “I can get something if you need me to, chef!”
“No need,” I barked. “Get back to work.”
I entered the freezer, swinging the heavy metal door shut behind me. Veronica looked up from where she was sitting on the floor, her hat crumpled in her hand, her remarkable hair floating around her face like a living thing. For a single, unguarded moment, I caught a glimpse of the woman behind the professionalism and false courtesy. My heart lurched in response to that moment of truth, but I swallowed the smile.
“Ms. Delaware,” I said, and folded my arms over my chest. “Are you abandoning my kitchen?”
Her professional mask flowed back over her face and she stood, using her legs to slide the rest of her body up the wall. She was fit, and these small demonstrations of her flexibility set my mind to wondering. Everything about her screamed woman.
She smacked her hat against her leg and slid it back atop her head, “Of course not, chef. I just needed to cool down.”
She started toward the door, but I stopped her, raising a hand. She paused a bare inch away from my palm, the heat of her like a warm wind against my skin. “Wait,” I said. I tried to swallow back the commanding veneer I wore whenever I was at work. “Something troubled you. What was it?”
She looked up at me, the fire flashing in her eyes again. “Why do you care,” she paused. “Chef.”
I held her gaze. “I don’t want your performance to suffer. There is difficulty enough controlling this kitchen without my second going into hysterics.”
A red flush crawled up her neck to blossom high in her cheeks. “I do not,” she spat. “Go into hysterics.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked up at me. She only had a little ways to look. My God, I thought, she’s almost as tall as me. “Now I need to get back to work, chef.” She said the last word like a curse and pushed past me.
Startled at her touch, I let her move me aside. I watched her go. As the door swung shut behind her, a smile curled the edges of my mouth.
“Well then,” I mused aloud. “So nice to see that someone in this kitchen has a spine.”
CHAPTER SIX
Veronica
It took me a minute to realize what I had said and who I had said it to. I spent the rest of the night jumpy as hell. Between the knowledge that my ex was in the reserved area celebrating a future with his bride-to-be, that I still had a charred mess to clean up when I got home, and now telling off my boss, this was shaping up to be the worst day in my personal history.
I jumped a little each time Chef Craymore barked an order or started in on someone, certain that I would be next. I took particular care with each dish I supervised and each task I completed as the orders flowed, then trickled, and then stopped. By the time closing arrived and we began to clean up, it was like I was walking on a bed
of nails.
It’ll start tomorrow, I thought mournfully. He’ll start picking apart my work and frame me for incompetence. I’ve pissed him off, I know I have.
I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. He was at the finishing station, placing the garnish on the two last desserts to leave the kitchen. If I had not been completely terrified of the man—and pissed, if I were honest—I would admit that he had a gift for all forms of the culinary art. The precision with which he went about creating a dish or adding a flourish was like watching a master sculptor at work. Chef Myra said that he was classically trained in France, and had lived there for years honing his skills.
“Veronica,” Fiona hissed. “You have to cover me, I need to give Kevin a ride home.”
I startled and almost dropped the bowl that I was moving to the sink area. Fiona helped me catch it and gave me a searching look. “I’m fine,” I whispered to her. “Just go before he sees you.”
My friend gave the head chef a quick glance, nodded once to me, and bolted. Her younger brother, Kevin, was a struggling musician and ‘temporary’ bartender at one of the joints downtown. They lived in the same building, so whenever he could, he would beg a ride.
The kitchen continued to wind down, until the sounds from the dining room were nonexistent. Chef Craymore and I went to our nightly meeting with Mr. Simmons.
Mr. Simmons had inherited Le Poisson from his uncle several years ago. A short, kind-looking man with pale brown eyes and thinning black hair, he was the face of the restaurant. But where he performed well with personal and public relations, he lacked in his knowledge of the kitchen. Chef Myra had drawn the line between her work and his, and Chef Craymore had held up the tradition.
As the owner, he came and went as he pleased, but Mr. Simmons always appeared when the kitchen was about ready to close for the night. He liked to know what had gone on during the day, and if there was anything he could do to assist. All things considered, he was an excellent boss.
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