My heart rate escalates as the minutes tick by. Five o’clock comes, and I hear the shuffle of guests arriving for their reservations. Did this guy have to pick a Saturday night?
We’re halfway between appetizer orders when the door opens. From the click of his shoes, I know who it is. My heart plummets to my stomach.
“Care to tell me what the fuck this is?” Davis places the menu on top of the scallion I’m cutting up.
“New special. The scallops were bad. Who did you get them from?”
If my hands weren’t in plain sight, I’d cross my fingers.
“Let me see them.” Davis rests all his weight against the counter, practically towering over me.
The joke is on him. I’m still two inches taller.
“I threw them out. They’re in the dumpster.”
Instead of standing there to continue this interrogation, I shuffle back to the stove.
Davis releases a huff, and I sense him behind me, his eyes boring into my back. But I can’t show any signs of weakness, so I continue to go about my business.
He figures out I’m not coming back over to the counter, so he breaks the distance, leaning over my shoulder. “Sous chefs aren’t hard to replace,” he whispers. Then, his heels click on the floor until he’s out the door.
My shoulders lower, and the breath that was stuck in my throat releases. He bought it.
“Hey, Todd,” Noodle says.
What a nice voice to hear instead of Davis’s.
I glance over my shoulder. “What’s up?”
“I have a guest at the bar who is asking for something not on the menu.”
She comes over to me and inches up on her toes to whisper in my ear. “It’s a guy, and he is very straight-faced.” She hands me a piece of paper where she’s written ‘New York strip, medium rare’. You choose the sauce and side.”
Shit, this guy is serious. I changed the whole special for nothing.
“Good luck.” Noodle pinches my arm and moves toward the door.
I make my way to the refrigerator to grab the best strip we have.
Noodle stops. “Todd?”
I come out of my fog to find her smiling face in the doorway.
“You’ve got this.”
The door swings closed, and I wish she could stand next to me the entire time I cook this meal. It’s one that could change my life, and I need her belief in me nearby.
I’ve got everything out and ready. The skillet is heating, and my sauce is simmering. It’s game time, and I’m the pitcher. There’s one last batter to strike out, and then the title will be mine.
Half an hour later, the perfectly prepared steak is alongside broccoli au gratin and shrimp pasta. I wish Noodle could take a picture of this, but my phone will have to do. I’ll want to remember the meal that got me the break. I’m fucking brilliant, I think after I snap a picture with my phone.
“Todd.” Noodle comes alongside me.
I move to hand her the plate, but she places her hand on it, pushing it back down.
“He left.” The smile from earlier has vanished. “Davis went over to say hello. I guess they know each other. They had words, and the guy threw a twenty on the table and left.”
The plate drops from my grip, and the steak slides out of place. I’m speechless. My only saving grace is that I won’t let Noodle see me lose it.
“I’m sorry, Todd.” Her arm reaches around me and she squeezes me to her shorter frame.
Shawn steps through the door. “Amelia, a customer needs you.”
She scurries off. We don’t need both our jobs on the line.
“Shit. That looks fucking awesome.” Shawn stares down at the dish.
Moments ago, that meal was going to be the one that gave me everything, making all those dreams from when I was younger come true, like my own damn fairy godmother.
“Thanks. Have at it.” I push the plate his way.
“If it makes you feel better, we’ve gotten rave reviews about the shrimp pasta.” He pats my shoulder and leaves.
Orders continue to stream in, and I have no choice but to finish the night. My stomach drops every time the door opens, as I’m waiting for Davis to interrogate me on the special change or the investor he knew was here.
My phone dings in my pocket, and my night goes from bad to worse with a voicemail from Jim.
“Hi, um, Todd. Can you come over tomorrow?” His words slur with long pauses.
Carol might as well have left the bottle of vodka next to the note.
“Sorry to bother you.”
Click.
Fuck, now I have to pick up the pieces after Carol. Maybe I’ll be forever destined to be a broke foster kid not worth his dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Amelia
“Good night, Heather.” I wave to the cute redhead as she exits through the front door.
“All right, everyone.” Davis emerges from his office, venturing down the hall.
The five of us who are still cleaning up grace him with the attention he demands.
“We have a little competition tonight,” he says, rubbing his hands together and smiling widely at me.
“What’s up?” Todd asks from the barstool across from me.
“Amelia here thinks she can make a better hot chocolate than me.” He leans across the side of the bar top. “Come with me,” he instructs while nodding. Then, he disappears through the swinging kitchen door.
“When did this little bet happen?” Todd stands up and raises his eyebrows.
“At the dog park the other day,” I admit. I hope Todd can keep that information quiet.
He grips my upper arm and holds me back. “You’re seeing the boss after-hours?” he whispers as he narrows his eyes.
Isn’t this what he wanted?
I shrug out of his hold. “No, we ran into one another.” I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Amelia!” Davis hollers from the kitchen.
Todd follows me into the kitchen. The room instantly fills with tension, and I’m not sure if Todd is playing the protective brother role or what.
Davis points to Todd. “Just me and Amelia. You and the others will be the judges and can wait at the bar.”
Todd glares over to me one last time then plows through the door.
“So . . .” I place my hands in my pockets, perusing all the ingredients he’s placing on the stainless steel table.
“Ladies first.” He props himself up onto the counter.
I take my hands out of the shelter of my pockets and clench them to stop from shaking. “You can’t watch me. You might copy my method,” I joke.
“Don’t worry about that. I’m not a cheater.” He leans back on his hands, his eyes brimmed with enjoyment because I’m his entertainment for the next twenty minutes.
My trembling fingers grab the cocoa powder—probably the most expensive one I’ve ever used—the sugar, and other ingredients. Davis already has a pot for me to use on the state-of-the-art stove. I make my way to the refrigerator and pull out the milk.
“I like you in my kitchen,” he says.
I dig in his cabinets for vanilla.
You can do this, Amelia. Ignore the fact that he’s probably staring at your body—either appreciating it or judging it. Regardless, his eyes might even be fixated on your ass right now.
“Don’t get used to it. Other than hot chocolate, everything else I eat or drink comes from a box or a take-out bag.” I whisk the milk and cocoa before adding in hot water.
“Much like you with your art, I love to make people appreciate the beauty of my talent as a chef. I’m addicted to seeing the enjoyment people get when they bite into my dish.” He hops down from the counter after I pour my concoction into the mug he already placed nearby. “I’m guessing you feel the same when someone truly sees what your art means.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ve experienced that feeling much more than I have.” I occupy his spot on the counter, mimicking his former position. The scenery is nice up here.
Yes, he was most likely staring at your ass, because your eyes won’t leave his.
He opens a drawer and takes out a bag of chocolate.