“Sort of. We used to live in Connecticut with our parents, but they died in a car crash. Our family lives in Spain and we went to live with them, but Tess, my sister, wanted to come back to the States. So, here we are, I guess.”
Jesus Christ. I reach over and touch his arm. “Hey, man, I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me all this.”
“It’s okay. You’re cool. You live across from here, right?”
“Yeah. I live above the restaurant.”
“I see you going in and out sometimes early in the morning.”
“I usually leave at around five thirty for the docks to buy fish, and then go back to bed to catch a few more hours of sleep before I start working.”
“You work at the restaurant?”
“I’m the chef.”
“Chill,” he says. I can even detect a small smile. “So you’re in charge of everything? You tell others what to do and stuff?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Do you yell and curse, like the chefs on TV?”
I stare at him, smiling, liking the fact he’s interested in cooking shows as a sixteen-year-old. “I can get intense and drop a few F-bombs when they’re cutting up and pin boning a beautiful perfect salmon and start hacking into it and then end up destroying it, but on a regular day I don’t yell or scream. I want them to listen to me and respect me, and they only will if the respect is mutual.”
He nods as his eyes lower again, admiring my tattoos. Smiling, I tilt my head back and let the beer run down my throat. Better not tell him I went under the needle for the first time when I was seventeen and in juvie before he gets any ideas into his head. It wouldn’t surprise me if he smoked pot. I feel sorry for his sister, because if her brother is anything like me when I was sixteen, and so far it appears that way, she’s in for a hell of a ride.
“So, who’s your sister? I’d like to congratulate her with her restaurant, and then I’m off to my own.”
Felipe narrows his eyes. “But you already talked to her.”
“What? No, I haven’t been here before. I don’t know your sister.”
“Yeah, you do.” He gestures his head toward someone in the room and I glance to the side. “Tess is the one in the red dress. I saw you guys talking to each other earlier.”
“Right. I thought she was a–” I shake my head. “Never mind. I mistook her for someone else.” How could I have missed this for fucksake? The color of their eyes and skin, their Spanish background... Even Mink Deville’s music is a friggin’ sign!
And just a moment later, my nightmare is complete when Teresa steps in front of us, hands propped on her hips, looking down at the both of us with an expression as if we’re rolling a joint. I guess that means no sneaking out through the back door.
“Felipe, bring more desserts out here, por favor. Especially the tiramisu, it’s popular.”
I can’t help but smile. I deserved that.
“Oh, man,” he complains. “Can’t you do it yourself? I’m talking to a guest.”
Teresa’s eyes shift my way. “This guest had his fill of old and tired clichés. He was just about to leave.”
I keep my eyes on hers as I take her beating like a man.
“Tess, chill,” her brother whispers, clearly ashamed. “He’s a chef.”
“Do as I tell you, Felipe. Ahora!” she says softly but severely, while keeping her eyes on me.
Sighing, he rises to his feet. “See ya!”
For the second time tonight, I tear my gaze away from this exceptionally beautiful woman. “Take care, man! It was nice talking to you.” I lift my bottle. “Thanks for the beer.”
He drags his tall, lanky form to the back, and when he disappears, I gaze back at Teresa. Her eyes are even frostier than a moment ago. “Look, I’m s–”
She shows me her palm. “Save your apology for someone else; I don’t want it! I believe you know your way out. Don’t bother coming back anytime soon, or check your attitude by the door if you do.”
I open my mouth to react, but she turns around and walks off toward the bar where she starts a conversation with one of the shaker boys. Right, that puts me in my place.
For a while I sit there, staring at the bottle and biting my lower lip. I don’t know which offense was worse: me implying she’s a lousy cook, or my subtle proposal to stick it in her. Well done, Vandenberg! You really outdid yourself this time. Fuck!
I get up and follow her to the bar. She may not want an apology, but she’s getting it anyway.
I stand next to her, and our eyes meet briefly before she focuses back on the man behind the bar who’s whipping up a cocktail. She ignores me completely, and I don’t think I get very far tonight, so I place my bottle on the countertop. I briefly touch her upper arm as I mutter a poor apology. “I’m sorry, Teresa.”
I cut through the crowd toward the exit.
Feeling fucking miserable.
CHAPTER TWO
teresa
I glance to the side, feeling someone standing beside me, and catch Josh’s extremely pale green eyes that seem to penetrate mine. Never seen anything like it before. It’s scary how someone can have an effect on you with just their eye-color. I turn back to the bartender. Only plain blue on that side, which is less dangerous, I’d say.
Also, I meant what I said when I told him I didn’t want his apology. And I don’t care for his opinion either, no matter how many stars Michelin awarded him.
From the corner of my eye, I see him placing the beer bottle on the counter. I stiffen when he suddenly touches my arm. His fingers and the palm of his hand press gently into my naked skin as he softly murmurs, “I’m sorry, Teresa.” I don’t have to turn around to see how he strides out of my bar.
Good riddance.
Who does he think he is, coming in here, trashing my dessert menu, telling me he wants to fuck me in his stockroom – oh, yeah, very charming – and showing off his sleeves to my drooling brother? At least he could have had the decency to cover his tattoos when he’s accepting an invitation to a restaurant. I’m sure he lets his wait staff cover their tats, if they have any. God forbid if any of his fine-dining customers got confronted with angels holding crosses, a freaking compass, and whatever else is inked on those arms. Okay, his sexy-as-hell arms that show off his hard labor in the kitchen. And that simple black t-shirt that cuts around his wide chest and shoulders as though he was born into it. I’ll give him that. But sleeping with him? A mocking laugh escapes my mouth. I’ve had my fill of bad boys, thank you very much, and right now I’m busy saving the world from yet another one named Felipe. The girls will thank me later.
Checking him out when he came in… Yeah, right! “Qué cabrón!” I grumble softly, even though he got that part right.
“Who’s a jerk?”
I whip my head to the side and stare at my brother, who has grown quite a bit over the years. What is he, six-foot-three already? Now I only need to feed him more because he looks underweight and he could use a little muscle mass, and make sure he keeps on the straight and narrow. That’s all there’s to it. Easy peasy.
“Your new best pal,” I inform him casually.
Felipe rolls his eyes. “Because he’s tatted up?”
“Because he didn’t think very highly of my desserts.”
“Well, the guy’s a chef,” he says with a shrug. “Maybe you should listen to him.”
I send him a nasty glare. “And maybe you should go around with those desserts before I’ll make you do the dishes for the rest of the night, smart ass.”
“I don’t care,” he says nonchalantly before disappearing into the crowd. I stare after him, shaking my head. God, I hope I did right by coming back to the States. All I want is for him to be happy and get the best chances in life.
“Two lemon drop martinis.”
The bartender hands me the cocktail glasses with the lemon twist and sugary rim. “Thanks!” I walk toward the two women who own a bookstore down the road and hand them their drinks. “Here you
go, ladies. Enjoy.”
“Thank you, Teresa. And that crème brûlée is to die for. I’ll come back with friends for that one.”
“Great, thanks, Patricia! And spread the word. I’ll get you flyers.”
“Lovely, we’ll put them in the store.”
“That would be great.”
My gaze wanders outside, just in time to see Josh brush the snow from his hair and step inside his restaurant. Oh, hell, who am I kidding; I’d love to check out his stockroom. It’s easy enough to imagine him all over me. If only he could have said something nice about my dishes, something better than an okay-dish. It pains me to think he mistook me for a food critic and gave her a piece of his mind, telling her she could quote him on top of that. Who does that? No, a mere, “I’m sorry” doesn’t cut it. He managed to ruin my euphoric state of mind, and I won’t easily forgive him for that.
And I’m spending too much thought already on this terribly confusing man. I need to focus on my guests. These people are my target. It’s their opinion I value the most, not of a glorified know-it-all executive chef; despite how cute he looks with those untamed chestnuttish brown curls.
I avert my gaze, and plaster a smile on my face. “So, what do you girls think of the tiramisu?”
***
It’s way past eleven when the last guests leave, but not without a goodie bag, flyers, and brochures to remember Camila’s Kitchen. And when the band members and cocktail boys have packed their things, it’s just me and Emma, and a room full of dirty glassware. I have no idea where my brother hangs out.
“Em, why don’t you go home? You’ve been here since eight this morning. You must be dead on your feet.”
“So are you, honey. I’m not walking out on you and leave you with this mess.”
“But I need you bright and early for the cupcake decorating workshop tomorrow. So please get some sleep. I’ll finish up here with Felipe.”
“Where is he? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Oh, probably ‘chilling’ somewhere. I’ll find him, no worries.”
Emma looks at me with soft and gentle eyes. She’s my best friend since high school. We even stayed in contact after my parents died and I moved back to Spain for a few years. I’m so lucky to have her, and that she’s willing to help me set up shop. I couldn’t do this without her. She’ll be overseeing the baking classes so I can do my thing in the kitchen. And since I’m not rolling in money, I can’t pay her much, but hope that will soon change.
“Okay then, if you’re absolutely certain.”
“I am. Go! Get your feet up.”
She steps behind the counter to get her bag. “You were a big hit tonight, Tess. Your desserts were flying off the shelf.”
I wrinkle my nose. “The tiramisu was a huge failure. I forgot to dip the ladyfingers in the espresso.”
“Shit, really? Mine tasted pretty good.”
“Fortunately, it was only one batch, but it was already out here.”
“Don’t worry too much about it. People were smiling, and the vibe was good. They’ll remember Camila’s Kitchen. A few women already made reservations for the workshop, and one woman is about to hire you for her wedding cake.”
“Ah, perfect. You let her taste the samples I prepared?”
“I did, and she was very enthusiastic, so forget about the ladyfingers. You rocked tonight. By the way, who was that guy with the sexy boyish look I saw you talking to earlier? Was he hitting on you?”
I sit down and slide off my heels. I’m convinced high heels were invented by a male, more appropriately, a male sadist who becomes sexually aroused by watching women suffer.
“Don’t even get me started. He’s far from charming, trust me,” I say as I start massaging my numb foot. “If I thought I was in trouble with that tiramisu, I better think again. My crème brûlée wasn’t to his satisfaction, and my rice pudding was an okay-dish. Can you believe that? An okay-dish? Who does show up in a restaurant all tatted up anyway? This guy is seriously lacking manners, I’m telling you.”
“And there’s clearly something wrong with his palate. That rice pudding was the best I ever tasted. Who is he?”
I clear my throat. “He’s the executive chef of Suite 63. You know, that Michelin-starred restaurant across the street.”
“Oh, shit. Are we in trouble?”
I laugh. “No, we’re not in trouble. I’m not aiming for stars, so who cares what he has to say about my food? I don’t.”
“That’s my girl. I’m proud of you, and your parents would be too.”
I rise to my tired feet and hug Emma. “That’s a sweet thing to say.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Thanks. Now, off you go.”
“Yeah, I’m off,” she says, digging up her car keys. “See you in the morning, and in the meantime, stay away from those bad boys across the street, you hear? They’re no good for you.”
I flash her a tiny smile. “You of all people know my weakness for the sort, but believe me, I’ll make a serious effort this time. I draw the line when they start insulting me.”
“Pollo.”
I cock my head, smiling. “You know you just called him a chicken, don’t you?”
“Right, I meant polla. That’s a dick, right?”
I nod, waving my thumb through the air. “In all its divine glory, but that’s usually not the word we hurl in someone’s face when they’re behaving like one. We say gilipollas.”
“Sounds awfully good to me.” She narrows her eyes. “Although the whole pollo/polla thing is confusing. Why is a dick feminine in Spanish?”
Laughing, I push her out the door. “We’ll get into the grammatical genders some other time. Just remember never to order polla in a Spanish restaurant, unless you want to make the waiter blush. Been there, done that. Very embarrassing. Chau!”
I close the door after her, and then go to look for my brother. “Felipe?”
Sighing, I search for my phone.
Where r u?
Outside
I roll my eyes. What the hell is he doing outside in the snow? Getting high?
Need yr help cleaning
Coming
“You better,” I mumble, scrolling through my playlist. I put on passionate flamenco and turn up the sound. That will get the job done neat and tidy. I tie an apron around my waist, and start gathering all dishes and silverware in a bus pan while I hum along with The Gypsy Kings.
“If I can hear you sing outside, so can others.”
I look up at Felipe, smiling. “I don’t care.”
He flashes me a fake smile. “So funny.”
“Just compensating for your crappy mood. What were you doing outside?”
“Hanging out.”
“All by yourself, in the snow?”
He shrugs as usual. He’s donned a cap to prevent me from seeing his eyes.
I put the tray on the counter and walk up to him. “Let me see your eyes.”
“Jesus, get away from me, Tess!” he says as I try to grab his cap, which isn’t easy when someone’s a head taller.
“Have you been smoking weed?”
“Oh, please, not again. I’m outta here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re staying right here, and you’re going to help me clean up this mess. I have six women coming in tomorrow for a workshop, and need this place as clean as a new pin before they arrive.”
“I helped you the whole goddamn day with your stupid desserts. I’m done. I’m going to see a friend. I promised I’d stop by later today.”
“Lose the tough words, pal. Those stupid desserts pay the rent, and it’s almost midnight.”
He laughs in jest. “That’s usually the time when young people get to hang out together. Chau!”
He strides trough the restaurant, opens the door, and has the nerve to step outside. I follow suit, furious as hell. “Don’t you chau me, Sainz! Escuha me!”
“No, I’m done listening. Get of my back, Tess! Leave the damn tables, o
kay? I’ll put them away when I get back.”
“You better not be stoned when you get back, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you, loud and clear. So did the whole neighborhood. Nice, Tess. That’ll attract customers.”
I look around, but fortunately it’s quiet outside. The only noise is music playing from my phone. Just when I’m about to shut the door, I spot Josh in the doorway of his restaurant, leaning against the frame with his hands in his pockets. He’s talking to a blonde woman in a winter coat standing in front of him, but his eyes are on me.
I give him my what-are-you-looking-at look and close the door.
First, I walk behind the bar and fix myself a much-needed drink. I take a glass and pour in the orange juice, then add the sparkling wine. “To Camila’s Kitchen,” I say as I lift the glass. “To you, Mom.”
I turn up the flamenco beat and then put my back into it with a rag and a bottle of spray.
I look up at the jingle of the bell. “We’re all out of tiramisu,” I say curtly.
He flashes a smile as he walks up to the table I’m cleaning. “Good for you.”
“Yeah, how about that, turned out people loved it.”
“I’m glad for you, Teresa. I really am.”
I spray sanitizer onto the dirty tabletop. “If you’re here to apologize again, don’t bother. If you want to get into my pants, not interested.” Not tonight anyway.
“I’m here to help you out. I noticed your brother left you hanging out to dry, so I’ll take his place. You should lock that door, by the way.”
“Sounds like an apology to me.”
“You don’t give people second chances?”
I glance up. “Not after they insulted me.”
“Okay, let’s get something clear here. I’m not here to get into your pants, nor am I apologizing again. I was just being honest. You could have told me you were the owner, so I would have given you constructive feedback. It’s too late for that, and you won’t accept an apology. The way I see it, that’ll be the end of that. Now we move on. So, where do you want me to put these tables?”
I stop cleaning. “I introduced myself to you. I told you my name was Teresa. The same name as in the invitation.”
Joshua Page 3