Chef’s Special

Chapter 1

I’d been with Cedric since I was twenty-one years old.

Twenty-one years of my fucking life were spent building something I thought was solid, only to realize somewhere around year fifteen that I was the only one still building.

He’d checked out long before I was ready to admit it.

It wasn’t dramatic at first. I mean, it never really is, right?

It started with him forgetting my birthday three years in a row, not just the gift, but the actual fucking day.

I’d wake up hoping Cedric would surprise me, and he’d roll out of bed talking about a meeting or some project at work.

When I’d finally say something, he’d get defensive and tell me I was being too sensitive.

He’d say birthdays weren’t that important when you were adults with real responsibilities. That muthafucka.

Then he’d sit on his phone during dinner while I talked about my day at the nonprofit.

I’d be telling him about a kid we’d just placed in a mentorship program, something I was proud of, and he’d just nod without looking up.

When I’d call him out on it, he’d say he was listening.

He’d repeat back some half-assed version of what I’d said to prove it, but we both knew he didn’t actually care.

The nonprofit became a point of contention.

I’d started it because I wanted to make a difference and help at-risk youth find better paths.

Of course, Cedric saw it as competition for my time and attention.

He’d complain that I worked too much and cared more about other people’s kids than about our marriage.

Never mind that we’d agreed years ago we didn’t want children.

Never mind that he worked sixty-hour weeks and I never complained.

It was only a problem when I was the one busy.

By year eighteen, we were practically roommates.

We had sex maybe once every few months, and even that felt obligatory.

We’d go to events together, smile for photos, and everyone thought we were the solid, perfect couple who’d been together since college.

But at home, we barely spoke. We’d sit in the same room and exist in completely different worlds.

I kept trying, though. I’d suggest date nights, and Cedric would cancel last minute.

I’d plan trips, and he’d find reasons we couldn’t go.

I’d ask him to go to counseling, and he’d say we didn’t need it and that I was overreacting.

I bent myself into shapes trying to make him see me, and he just kept pulling further away.

The affair wasn’t even a surprise when I found out.

I’d suspected it for months. The way he’d started dressing better, smelling like cologne I didn’t buy him, and coming home later and later with excuses that didn’t quite add up.

When I finally confronted him, he didn’t even deny it.

He just looked at me with this tired expression and said, “What the fuck do you want me to say, Minnesa?”

The bitch was Amber, a twenty-four-year-old receptionist at his job.

I didn’t ask for any more details because I didn’t want to know.

All I knew was that he’d found someone younger who didn’t challenge him or expect anything from him.

She probably thought he was a catch because he had a great job in finance and could pay for fancy dinners. What the fuck ever.

After the emotions wore off, I filed for divorce two weeks later, and the bastard didn’t even fight it.

Cedric didn’t ask me to reconsider, go to counseling, or try to work it out.

He told me he’d gladly sign the papers when they came and moved into an apartment downtown with his little bitch as if our twenty-one years together didn’t mean a fucking thing.

Well, our divorce had been final for about three weeks.

I was officially single for the first time since I was twenty-one.

Of course, my friends wanted to take me out to celebrate, but I didn’t want to go to some loud club in the city where I’d feel old as hell and out of place.

I was forty-one. I wanted something different, so I was throwing myself a divorce party instead.

I’d rented this luxury Airbnb for the weekend and even hired a private chef.

I mean, this was a celebration, right? I was finally free to figure out who the hell I was without my ex-husband.

I pulled my Mercedes into the driveway and just sat there for a minute, looking at the house.

It was a beautiful modern house with floor-to-ceiling windows and a wraparound deck.

It was just the kind of place Cedric would’ve said was too expensive, but I didn’t have to worry about what his ass thought anymore.

I grabbed my overnight duffle and grocery bags from the backseat, then headed to the front door.

The lockbox code worked on the first try, and I stepped inside to hardwood floors and an open floor plan that made the whole space feel huge.

The kitchen was to the left, all stainless steel and marble countertops.

The living room was straight ahead with a massive sectional and a TV mounted on the wall.

I assumed the beautiful staircase led up to the bedrooms on the second floor.

I dropped my bag by the door and walked through the space, taking it all in.

This was mine for the weekend. No one to answer to, no one to check in with, and no one to make me feel guilty for spending money on myself.

I was just about to settle in when my phone buzzed with a text from Kela telling me she was bringing lots of wine. It was much needed.

I smiled and texted back that I was just getting there myself.

The party wasn’t supposed to start until five-thirty, and it was three o’clock.

I had time to put groceries away, decorate a little, and unpack before taking a bath in that ridiculous soaking tub I’d seen in the photos online.

After putting away the groceries, I started decorating the living room to get everything ready.

I wanted it to actually look like a divorce party and not just a regular girls’ night in.

I hung a black-and-gold DIVORCED AF banner across the wall behind the couch, then taped up a few gold balloons around it.

I also scattered balloons around the room and across the floor.

On the coffee table, I set out black napkins, gold plastic champagne glasses, and double shot glasses.

I put a little DIVORCE PARTY sign in the middle and surrounded it with confetti.

I stepped back and looked around once I finished.

It was cute without looking like I’d spent days planning it.

I was just about to head upstairs for that tub when I heard a knock at the door.

I frowned and headed back down, wondering if maybe the property manager needed something.

But when I opened the door, it damn sure wasn’t the property manager.

It was a man. A ruggedly sexy man. He was dark-skinned and tall, well over six feet, with braids that hung down to his broad shoulders and tattoos covering his neck and both arms. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows and jeans, and he had the kind of presence that made your heart rate speed up.

“You Ms. Charles?” he asked, and his voice was deep and smooth.

“Yeah,” I confirmed, trying not to stare at the way his arms looked in that button-up. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Bishop Brooks,” he said. “The chef. I’m here to set up for the evenin’.”

“Oh,” I said, and I felt stupid for not putting it together.

I hadn’t expected someone who looked like him.

“Right. Come on in.” He stepped past me carrying two large insulated bags, and I caught a whiff of his cologne that made my stomach do a weird flip.

I closed the door and followed him into the kitchen, watching as he set the bags down on the counter and started unpacking.

“You got a nice lil’ spot here,” he said, looking around. “This where you stay?”

“No,” I chuckled. “I rented it for the weekend. I’m having a party tonight.”

“I know,” he said, glancing at me with a slight smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Right,” I said again, feeling like an idiot. “Sorry. It’s… been a long week.”

“You good,” he chucked his chin, and he went back to unpacking.

I watched him pull out containers of prepped ingredients, bottles of spices, and a few chef knives that looked sharp and expensive. His movements were efficient, like he’d done this a thousand times. “Can I get you anything?” I asked. “Water, or…?”

“I’m good right now, but thank you,” he replied. “You can just do whatever you need to do. I’ll be in here gettin’ everything ready.”

I should’ve left and gone upstairs to do my own thing and let him work. But something about the way he moved and the way he seemed so comfortable in this space that was supposed to be mine made me want to stay. “What are you making this evening?” I asked, leaning against the counter.

“Jerk chicken skewers, plantain cups wit’ pulled pork, crab cakes, rice and peas, cabbage, mac and cheese,” he said, listing it off without looking at me. “And rum cake for dessert.”

“That sounds amazing.” My mouth was already watering.

“That’s the goal.” His gaze was dark and direct as he looked at me this time, giving me goosebumps. “You celebratin’ somethin’?”

“My divorce.” I don’t know why I said it so bluntly.

Maybe because I was tired of dancing around it, or it could’ve been that I wanted to see how he’d react.

As I reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine, I poured myself a glass and noticed Bishop didn’t look surprised or uncomfortable. He just nodded.

“That’s what’s up. Congrats.”

“Thank you,” I said, and I found myself smiling as I sipped. “Most people don’t know what to say when I tell them that.”

“I’m not most people,” Bishop winked at me, pulling out a cutting board. “I’ve had to walk away from shit that no longer served me. I know what that feels like.”

I was curious now, so I narrowed my eyes and held my glass close. “Like what?” He was quiet for a moment, and I thought maybe I’d overstepped. “Oh, I’m… I apologize. I didn’t mean…” His mouth twitched, like he was deciding whether to let me off easy.

“Nah, you cool,” he reassured me. “Simply put, I’ve had to walk away from a whole life, everyone I knew, and everything I thought I wanted. Honestly, it saved me.”

I nodded, picking up on the fact that Bishop was one of those types of men who’d been in the streets before.

I worked with at-risk youth every day and heard horrible stories.

And there was something about the way he said it, so matter-of-fact and without shame, that made me respect him. “That must’ve been hard,” I said.

“It was,” he nodded again, and he started chopping an onion with quick, precise movements. “But it also gave me purpose. I do this full-time wit’ private gigs, caterin’, and all that. I’m savin’ up to open my own restaurant.”

“That’s really impressive. What kinda restaurant?”

“Soul food, but elevated,” he responded with a smile that warmed me up. I could hear the passion in his voice. “The kinda food I grew up eatin’, but done right. You know, quality ingredients, good presentation, but still authentic wit’ that home-cooked feelin’.”

“I’d eat there,” I smiled before taking another sip of wine.

“I’ll make sure you get a VIP table when it opens,” he told me, glancing at me with a smile that made my stomach flip again.

For a little while, I just watched him get into his zone by putting on some rap music while he prepped the food.

As I sipped my wine, I watched the way his hands moved as he seasoned the chicken and the way his muscles flexed under his shirt when he reached for something on the top shelf.

I hadn’t felt this kind of attraction in years, if ever.

Cedric had been safe and familiar, but this shit was different.

“I should let you work,” I said finally, pushing off the counter when I finished my glass. “My friends are gonna be here soon and I need to get ready.”

“Aight. I’m here, Ms. Charles.”

“Minnesa.” He caught the correction and nodded. I smiled, quickly rising out my wine glass before heading upstairs.

I unpacked quickly and then stood in front of the closet, staring at the red dress I’d brought.

It was tighter than what I usually wore, showed more cleavage, and hugged my curves in a way that made me feel self-conscious.

Kela had insisted I bring it because I needed to stop hiding my body like I was ashamed of it.

I was five-seven and weighed two hundred and eighty pounds, so I was far from a slim chick.

After relaxing in the huge tub for what seemed like forever, I climbed out and wrapped myself in a plush towel.

Walking out of the bathroom, I heard a knock on the bedroom door.

My heart thudded in my chest as I went to open it and saw Bishop standing there.

He was wearing just an apron and nothing else, showing off his entire chocolate, tatted body.

In his hand was a bowl of fresh strawberries covered in whipped cream.

“I hope you’re ready for this,” was all he said before stepping inside the bedroom.

“Oh, my God,” I snapped awake, skin wrinkled as a prune as my eyes bounced around the luxurious bathroom. “What the hell?” I panted, realizing I was still in the tub and must’ve dozed off. That shit felt so real. I had to shake it off and pull myself together.

Forty minutes later, I was standing in front of the mirror and had to do a double-take.

The red dress fit perfectly, showing off my waist, hips, and the fullness of my breasts.

My natural hair was down, falling past my shoulders in loose curls.

I looked good, not good for a big girl or good for my age.

I just looked the fuck good and ready to celebrate my divorce. Bring on the good vibes.