“Thanks,” I say, a little growl edging into my voice as I look down at the marbled meat. It’s all juicy softness, outlined by the prickles of peppercorns and grill lines, the red wine sauce glistening so that it seems almost alive. The blonde’s gonna have to wait a little.
I slice a piece—pleased to find the knives have been sharpened as I like them—and reveal the center; red as lust. I spear it, take a piece of the crisp potato like an afterthought, and put it in my mouth.
It takes about a second for my brain to get the messages my tongue is sending it, but when I realize it I slam the cutlery back on the plate loud enough to make the diners around me turn in my direction. Ryan rushes over, his Ken-doll eyebrows shooting upward as he sees my tightened jawline, my fixed expression.
“Something wrong?” he says tentatively.
“Who’s working the vegetables tonight?”
“Um…Willow.”
“Willow?”
“Yeah…the new chef. We hired her last week, remember? While you were in Vegas.”
I frown. “Bring her out here.”
Ryan hesitates for a split second, forcing me to look at him and erase any doubt that I’m being 100% serious. Then, he bolts. After tapping my fingers on the fine tablecloth for a few moments, Ryan returns, the chef in question following close behind him.
She walks elegantly, proud. Shoulders back and chin high. The chef whites and baggy black slacks hiding her body, dark blonde hair twisted up and buried under a hairnet, but the long neck and delicate features of her face all the more striking for the outfit’s plainness. Doe-brown eyes set in an oval shape, lips that pout like they’re mid-kiss, and a slightly upturned nose so demurely imperfect that only an artist could have made it.
“Is there a problem?” she asks, glancing from me to Ryan and back again. Her hand is on her hip, exhibiting a flash of attitude.
I take a second, frowning at her. She clearly has no idea who I am…
“You cooked these potatoes?”
“Yes…” she says, frowning back. “And?”
“Can you tell me which herbs go into them?”
“Uh…sure,” she says, shooting a confused look at Ryan. “There’s a little sage, some thyme—”
“Thyme.”
There’s a slight tilt of her head when I interrupt. Enough to show me that she knows where I’m going with this, but the fierce defensiveness doesn’t leave her expression, or her voice.
“Yeah. Thyme.”
“The menu says thyme,” I announce, then point contemptuously at the potatoes on my plate. “But this? This is lemon thyme.”
She sighs quickly, a slight admission, but there’s not an ounce of regret about it.
“We’re out of regular thyme, sir.”
I can tell she’s trying to appease me, using her soothing ‘customer service’ voice. Unfortunately for her, it won’t work on me. Because I’m the boss, and this is my recipe.
Ryan leans toward Willow and murmurs, “It’s probably at Leo’s station, he always forgets to put stuff back when he’s done.”
“I didn’t know that,” Willow answers under her breath, then looks back at me as if expecting it to satisfy. “Honestly, I think the lemon thyme makes the dish work better anyway.”
The smile that cracks on my face, an incredulous chuckle, is involuntary. Even if this girl doesn’t know who I am, that’s a ballsy thing for a cook to tell a customer.
“Do you, now?” My voice is like ice.
“I do,” she says firmly. “The citrus clears the palate a little better. Since the steak sauce has a strong aftertaste it brings out the flavor a little more with each bite. Especially when it’s served that rare.”
“Willow,” Ryan cajoles quickly, “I can handle this now, maybe you should—”
“You don’t just throw whatever you think works into a recipe,” I say, my smile gone now. “If I want a mystery plate I’ll go to the jambalaya place down the street. This is a three-star restaurant. If I order something I expect it to be exactly the same as it is on the menu.” She’s gritting her teeth now, her fake smile gone tight. I don’t let up. “If you were out of mussels would you give me pistachio nuts and tell me they’re the same because they come in a shell?”
“Wow,” Willow says, folding her arms and shaking her head detachedly. “You really are a special kind of asshole.”
Ryan’s face goes white. “Um, Willow—”
“I’m an asshole?” I interrupt.
“Yeah. So you don’t like the lemon thyme—does that mean you have to bring me out here to ream me out and try to embarrass me in front of the other diners?”
“Willow, stop—” Ryan reaches for her arm but she brushes him off.
I’m out of my chair and staring her down now, drawing myself up to my full height of six foot two. “It’s not a matter of whether I ‘like’ lemon thyme or not, it’s a matter of you doing your job properly.”
“And what’s your job? You some kind of big shot actor? With your attitude and your fancy suit and your massive…jawline? What do you do that makes you so big-headed you think you can just come in here and speak to me like that?”
“Willow!” Ryan says, with just enough force this time to draw her attention. He points at me and looks at her. “That’s Cole Chambers. He owns this restaurant.”
2
Willow
So this is it. This is how you fuck up your dream job. By serving the wrong ingredient to your boss, one of the best chefs on the west coast, an infamous perfectionist, before calling him an asshole to his face.
And now his narrow blue eyes are fixed on me like searchlights. That broad, handsome face that I suddenly, and all too late, recognize with full clarity. I’ve seen that face too many times to count, pointing at me from the covers of cookbooks or celebrity gossip magazines, or twisted with hellish anger as he chewed out chef trainees on TV—and now that same face is staring at me with judgmental amusement. I feel even more ridiculous and exposed for not realizing it was him, but that tailored suit and combed hair makes him look more like a laid back movie star than the sinewy-armed force of nature that spins and shouts around the kitchen on TV or escorts the hottest models and actresses all over L.A. on dates.
My heart sinks, my blood runs cold, and the realization that there’s no turning back now stretches the moment out to an eternity. Cole looks at me blankly, making it clear that it’s my move, so I do what I always do when the chips are down and I’ve made an idiot of myself: I turn my chin up, put my shoulders back, and stop giving a fuck.
“Well,” I say, pulling off my hairnet and letting my chin-length bob fall down around my face. “At least I can say I met the ‘great’ Cole Chambers.”