My Indecent Valentine: Ablaze #2

1. Chapter 1

Ileft my home in Winter Bliss and came to Chicago three years ago, following a golden-horned demon. Samite. I was at my lowest when he showed up one winter”s day right before Christmas. I was lost in a frozen winter of solitude, crushed by disappointment, and with little more than his hungry tongue and his sassy mouth, he stoked a raging fire inside me that burned it all away. Now, he’s my business partner and, more recently, my husband. We co-own this place.

Welcome to Ollas Encendidas, the first and only entirely open-flame restaurant in all of Chicagoland. I hope you have a reservation because we’re fully booked tonight.

“Flare up!” I call out just as the rotisseur chef on my right makes a clumsy move and sloshes her basting pan. Hot grease hits the fire, and tongues of flame leap three feet into the air. My pulse spikes, and my breath catches at the intoxicating mix of danger and beauty. I have to tear my eyes away. I know better than to let myself get drawn in. It’s easy to get lost in a moment. I love the flames.

“?Donde está el plato vegetariano?”I yell at my legumier. I need that damn vegetarian plate. It’s holding up this ticket.

“Ahí te va,”he assures me on a hasty breath. It’s coming, but everyone’s in the weeds.

“?Apúrate!”I shout back. “I needed it three minutes ago!”

Ollas Encendidas is not like other restaurants. The kitchen isn’t housed in the back, hidden away with its culinary magic concealed and underappreciated. Here, it’s on display, elevated on a circular stage at the center of the dining area with hungry, cosmopolitan guests seated in the round. Cooking is magic. It’s art. It’s a wonder worthy of an audience, especially when done like this.

Everything on our menu is cooked on a traditional hearth over logs, coals, and open flame. The circular hearth, made of cast iron, steel, and brick, is divided into cooking stations, and above it is the halo. That’s what we call the gigantic custom hood hanging overhead. It’s a gleaming metal ring, twenty feet in diameter, that draws the smoke from the hearth. Samite designed it. It’s a work of art, elegant in its simplicity, yet a statement piece that transforms the space. It was his idea to light it like this so that the guests see the swirling of the white smoke as it’s sucked up by the fans hidden inside the halo. It’s just a trick of the light, but it adds to the magic.

On a good night, this place is everything I imagined it would be. A dream come true. Unfortunately, the jury is still out on what kind of night this will be. I can feel the chaos simmering below the surface, ready to erupt. I can only tighten my grip so much.

I glance around the crowded room. Waiters are sprinting and bumping into each other. There are too many tables. I keep saying that, but Samite insists we need them. The bar is slammed. Cocktail shakers flash through the air like bullets, and still, our team of elbow-to-elbow bartenders can’t keep up.

We’re at capacity again tonight, and despite the two-month waitlist, walk-ins have formed a line out the door. They’re hoping no-shows will free a table for them. It’s unlikely, but they order drinks and wait anyway, adding to the backlog at the bar and the general chaos.

“Las tapas para la mesa veintitrés.” My saucier hands me a beautifully arranged plate. Not a spec of food or drop of sauce out of place. Perfect. She is an artist.

“Appetizer up! Table twenty-three!” I shout, and the dish is whisked from the pass by a server I didn’t see coming but knew would be there because I’ve trained them well.

The kitchen glows brightly, but the rest of the dining room is dimly lit, adding to the theatrical effect. And our guests have picked up on the vibe. They come dressed to the nines like they’re headed to the opera. Full-length gowns, bow ties, sequined jackets, and gilded horn adornments glitter like starlight across the room. We don’t cater exclusively to demons, but they are the bulk of our clientele. It’s the flame as much as the food that draws them here, an attraction I understand even though I’m human.

“Compliments to the chef from table sixty-six,” a waiter shouts as he hurries by. I glance toward the far corner of the restaurant, expecting to see a group. Table sixty-six is our largest booth. It seats twelve, but tonight, it’s occupied by a lone demon, a hulking figure swirling a cocktail. I catch the glint of multiple gold rings and bracelets.

I make a mental note to chew out whoever sat him there, but then our eyes meet, and he grins, flashing me a row of sharp teeth. The thought fades as his eyes come to life, flickering with the orange glow indicative of arousal or excitement. I feel an odd tug in my gut, and despite the fact that I’m already sweating, I flush warm under my collar.

I don’t recognize him, or at least I don’t think so. He’s not the sort I’d easily forget. I glance at him again. He’s still looking at me, eyes glowing impossibly bright. His horns are black with a wicked double curve that must make navigating doorways difficult. He’s dressed head to toe in white, and the effect is striking against his deep red skin, almost purple.

A pot lid slips, and reflexes kick in. I reach out to catch it, forgetting my mitt. “Puta Madre,” I hiss as I drop the lid back on the pot and slap the pain away. It’s a minor burn. I’ve had much worse, and I have the scars all along the left side of my body to prove it.

“?Estás bien?” My sous chef asks if I’m hurt with a worried glance.

“Estoy bien.”I’m fine I tell her as I shake my head at my own stupid slip up. I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted. “?Todos enfóquense en sus estaciones!” I shout, reminding my team of nine to focus on their stations, advice they don’t need. But apparently, I do.

I glance toward table sixty-six again. I can’t stop myself. His intensity draws my attention over and over. And because I keep looking, I can’t help but see all the other sets of eyes watching me. Across a sea of faces, I note every squint and every creased brow. They lean and whisper to each other, making their judgments and forming their various opinions.

Of course, they’re watching. They’ve paid good money to watch my chefs and me, I remind myself. This is what I wanted. My entire restaurant concept boils down to this: an open kitchen, dramatic flame, and the skills of talented chefs on full display. It was a dream for a long time before it was a reality, and naively, I couldn’t imagine a single person not enjoying it. What is there not to like?

There are ample reasons kitchens are traditionally housed behind discreetly swinging doors. No sophisticated diner wishes to bear witness to a wheezing, red-faced female chef seasoning their food with the copious sweat of her brow (even if she might, on a better day, be considered beautiful.) I have no notes on the cuisine, as I could not bring myself to eat it. And the ‘entertainment’, if it can be called that, was likewise stomach turning. A predominantly female kitchen full of vulgar, high-pitched screeching. My ears were ringing by the end of the night, and I couldn’t understand a word of what they said as it was all in Spanish. Whatever entertainment I was supposed to have gained from their exchange was entirely lost on me—

I know that damned critic’s review by heart. When Samite told me not to read it, I should have listened. It was paragraph after paragraph of confidence-corroding poison. A clammy chill breaks out across the back of my neck, and my hands start to shake. Fuck. Not now.

I need a minute, but I don’t have it. There’s no slowing down when diner service is in full swing, no time to step aside and get a grip. Static fills my ears, and through it, I hear my sous shouting, trying to get my attention. A plate is ready to go out. It hangs in my peripheral, but I’m frozen. She curses under her breath as she bumps past me and slides the plate across the pass, shouting out the table number. I haven’t inspected it. I inspect every single plate before it goes out. No exceptions. She knows that. She does it again. And again. I’m furious. My blood is boiling, and still, I can’t move.

My eyes dart back to table sixty-six. He doesn’t look away or make any attempt to hide the fact that he’s watching me. A hawk eyeing a paralyzed mouse. He could be another food critic, I think, and my heart races even though it’s unlikely. They’re rarely so obvious. They tend to hide in plain sight and judge from behind a paper screen of anonymity. But not everyone has to be a food critic to be critical. All opinions are formed under a harsh light and through a narrow lens. I want to hide, but I can’t. His gaze holds me the same way flame catches me sometimes. Entranced and unmoving, I watch as he lifts his cocktail, nods to me, and drinks.

A sickening metal groan screeches overhead, startling me and freeing me from my stupor. Next to me, my sous chef throws down her towel in furious defeat and lets fly a string of curses followed by, “?Otra vez no!” Not again. “Fuck!” She kicks at the metal apron that lines her station.

I glance up. There are five fans inside the halo. Two just went out, and not for the first time. Without the fans, the smoke is free to go where it pleases, and if I don’t act fast, it won’t be long before the room is filled with a dense, savory cloud.

“Fires out!” I shout. I don’t have to worry about the guests. Samite will take care of them. My job is to shut down the kitchen before we set off the sprinklers and turn this ruined dinner service into a real shit show. My chefs move lightning fast, whipping out their fire blankets and smothering the flames in seconds.

It’s depressing how good we’ve gotten at this, but the damn replacement fans have been on backorder for months. They won’t tell us what the hold up is. The same two fans keep going out, and our technician warned us we’re on borrowed time with the other three. “You probably should have ordered a few backup units and some extra components if you were that worried about downtime. Your original contractor should have told you that.” There’s nothing like good advice that comes a few years too late.

Our front-of-house staff performs a miracle. They box up dishes table side and dote on the guests, smoothing ruffled feathers. Their practiced attentions, on top of the fact that the meals will all be comped, works wonders. Guests are smiling and laughing even as they’re rushed out the door.

“Someone wants a word with you,” the head server stops by to tell me. I’m about to remind him that Samite deals with the customers, but then he points. “He’s waiting for you at table sixty-six.”

I freeze, not looking up, as I consider the request. I could still direct him to Samite, but for whatever reason, my gut is telling me not to. “I’ll go talk to him,” I say with a firm nod, then I shuck my whites and smooth my hair. He’s just a customer, I tell myself. If he were a critic writing a bad review, he wouldn’t ask to talk to me.

“Do you want me to go with you?” the head waiter asks with a nervous edge in his voice as he glances toward the far booth.

“No need. I’ll be fine,” I say. I’m not afraid of my own customers.

I make my way across the rapidly emptying dining room, and the closer I get, the more my pulse kicks up until I can hear it beating in my ears. I’m not afraid, I remind myself. I don’t know why my heart is beating. I’m keyed up from a night gone bad, and I’m curious, that’s all. Whoever sixty-six is, he’s had the pleasure of watching me fuck up dinner service, and now his meal has been comped. He’s had a full night. What else could he possibly want?

“Your waiter is refusing my payment.” His eyes flash at me with irritation the moment I come to a stop. I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this, and all I can do is blink in surprise as I mentally adjust. This is about the bill? “I am not accustomed to being refused,” he adds with a rumbling growl in a voice so deep, I feel it in my toes.

“I’m–er, my apologies for any miscommunication, but there’s no need for payment. We’ve comped everyone’s meal,” I explain with a practiced service-industry smile. “We hope you’ll be back on a better night when everything is working properly.”

“I ate a truly delectable meal, and I will pay for it.” He growls and slides a sleek black credit card across the table. There’s a discreet red logo in the corner, the mark of a private bank, demon-owned, very exclusive. I’ve only ever seen it a couple of times in all my years working in fine dining. I silently consider letting him pay. Tonight is going to be enough of a financial loss for us anyway. There’s no reason not to accept, is there?

“That’s decent of you. Thank you,” I say, reaching for the card. His hand comes down on top of mine, flattening it against the table with its hefty weight. I flinch.

“Decency is a human notion, antiquated and priggish. There is nothing decent about me.” He snarls the word ‘decent,’ holding my eye for a beat before he continues. “You should know that up front.” He lifts his palm and waves at the card. “Have one of your servers run that. I have something else to discuss with you. Take a seat.”

I motion a waiter over, and after handing off the card, I slip into the opposite side of the booth. This table is the largest in the whole place and still too small to create the illusion of a safe distance. A nervous tingle runs up my spine, but I straighten in my seat, determined to hide it.

I would ask his name, but I’m not sure he’d tell me. The richer the demon, the cagier they can be about their personal information. I know from experience. Although, there is one trick I’ve learned.

“What can I do for you, Dramoth?” I say, pulling a name out of thin air. Demons might not like giving out their names to strangers, but they absolutely hate being called by the wrong one.

“The name is Magleon,” he corrects me with an irritated snort.

“What can I do for you, Magleon?” I ask again, hiding my smile. While I wait for his answer, I study him, taking in the details I couldn’t see from further away. His appearance is not nearly as flawless as it seemed from across the room. His jaw is large and heavy, like the rest of him, but even though he’s expensively dressed, his chin is scruffy, and his hair looks mussed like he’s been running his hands through it. What on earth could be unsettling enough to cause this mountain of a demon to touch his hair nervously all night?

He takes the same amount of time studying me in return until finally, he chuckles, and as he does, the glow in his eyes dances. “You’re a smart woman. Care to hazard a guess?” He glances over my shoulder as his hand swipes through his hair again, and I note the hard swallow bobbing in his throat just before I turn to see what he’s looking at.

Samite. My husband.

My heart squeezes at the sight of him. He is the shoulders and backbone of this place. So much rests on him, my insufferably snarky rock of a partner.

Tonight, he’s dressed in a black-on-black tailored suit that fits him like a glove, equal parts dapper and devilish, and my eyes take a moment to eat him up. It’s only been a few hours since I last saw him, but I’ve missed everything about him: his orangey-gold horns, neatly trimmed beard, strong hands, and perfect mouth.

A shuddering breath escapes my lips.

Samite has posted himself at the front door, graciously bidding guests a good night, and I can’t help but note that he’s a full head shorter than the tallest demons filing past him. Whether he doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, I may never know. He’s never mentioned his height, not once in all the years I’ve known him, and there’s a part of me that truly believes that Samite has no idea that he’s shorter than the average demon. I doubt he would want to change it even if he did know. What must that be like? To feel so secure in your own skin that the opinions of others cannot shake you, can’t leave you frozen where you stand? I wish I knew.

“He’s beautiful, isn’t he? Truly one of a kind,” Magleon murmurs from across the table.

The warm glow that bloomed at the sight of my husband gives way to a cold chill, and my spine stiffens. “What do you want with him?” I ask through clenched teeth, turning back to glare at the black-horned demon. I don’t care if I am merely human. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to protect what’s mine.