“I’d thought it would be more of a…sexual collection,” he whispered as he leaned across the table toward her.
“That’s your bad. I talked to Bill and Paulette while you went to the bathroom and they are so stoked.” She sent him a smug smile. “Grab your chef hat, baby, and get your hot ass in the kitchen.”
“I haven’t been in an industrial kitchen in four years.”
“So? You haven’t been back to Kansas in four years, either. Seen a tornado, slept with a woman, or returned to your hometown. You’ve done all that now.” Seriousness crossed her face. “Mac, of all you lost, this is the only thing left to reclaim. Go take back your talent.”
Inhaling, he held her gaze for a moment, then nodded and slid out of the booth.
Her muttered, “So hot,” pulled a smile out of him as he strode toward the kitchen. Though it slipped a little as the stainless steel appliances came into view. Okay, more than a little. He’d been trapped under one of those, pinned helplessly as a car’s bumper inched closer and closer, intent on crushing him—in that very kitchen.
Working his shoulders, he pushed open the door, his gaze immediately landing on the area under the sink. Prickles of panic made his hands go numb and he could feel the tornado-force winds, hear its roar, as if it were happening at that exact moment.
“Mac, so glad you decided to cook for us!” Paulette’s excited voice jerked him out of the horrific memory.
Forcing a strained smile, he glanced over at the older woman. In her early fifties, she had blond hair secured back in a bun and the typical white dress shirt and black slacks uniform of an establishment like this. She and Bill had been married over twenty years now, and had owned this restaurant for most of it. She ran the place, while Bill was the businessman. Neither one of them had any culinary skills, but they did have superior taste in hiring chefs.
“Are you sure your head chef doesn’t mind?” Mac asked. The kitchen was the head chef’s domain. There was a sense of possessiveness that went along with it, if the chef really valued his restaurant. Mac used to be anal as hell about his.
“Not at all. Michael is very excited to meet you. He used to eat at your restaurant.”
Well, there went that out.
He followed Paulette to the back, where a man, maybe in his early thirties, with black hair, was waiting with a chef’s jacket.
The man offered his hand as soon as Mac stopped in front of him. “I’m Michael Ross. It’s an honor to meet you, Chef. I used to eat at your restaurant all the time. The food you create is inspiring.”
Ross’s use of the formal address took him aback for a second. Damn, it was weird to be recognized for his culinary skills instead of his fighting skills. He couldn’t remember the last time a stranger had approached him without referring to him as “The Snake.” It was quite refreshing.
He took Michael’s hand and shook it. “From the Coda Di Rospo I just tasted, Chef, I’d say you’re the one who is inspiring.”
Pride illuminated the man’s face as his chest puffed out. Man, he used to feel the same way anytime a customer had wanted to compliment the chef. He’d loved those moments. Still had them occasionally—like when he watched Gayle eat his food.
The other chef lifted the white jacket. “For you.”
Overwhelmed by conflicting emotions from hesitation, to need, to excitement, he took it and slipped it on. As he stood in front of a mirror, he fastened the pearl buttons, then tugged on the hem. The reflection staring back was like coming home. Chef Mac Hannon.
And he grinned.
For three hours, he lost himself in the chaos of an in-the-weeds kitchen, making dishes he hadn’t in so long, calling out orders, expediting and beautifying plates. Not once did the horror that had happened in that very room cross his mind. He was in the moment and no longer in the past. After he finished the final ticket of the night, he realized how much time had passed—and he’d left Gayle by herself. Excusing himself, he hurried out of the kitchen.
She sat back in a booth, playing around on her phone. She looked up, her brows shot up her forehead as she said, “Damn,” appreciatively. “Baby, we need to do a little roleplaying.” She motioned up and down with a finger. “You wear that, and I’ll be the disgruntled customer, and you’re willing to do whatever the customer wants to make her happy. Mmm-hmm. That’ll be fun. That jacket is rrawr.” She made a feline motion with her fingers.
Grinning like a fucking fool, he strode over to her. “Get up.” When she did, he tugged her to his chest and kissed her gently. He gazed down at her. “You are the most amazing woman I have ever met.”
And he meant it. Ally had been wonderful, would always be remembered. But Gayle, with her unwavering patience, her support, and unflappable personality…no one topped Gayle. No one.