4. Lennon
4
LENNON
“C
hef Maddox, come to my office when you have a moment. Chef Dorsey will cover you.”
I hated that phrase. It could be about something mundane, or I might be about to get fired. We had prepared all week for the grand opening, and things had been going well. Still, I felt like I was being called to the principal’s office.
“Yes, Chef,” I said as I lowered the flame on the burner and babysat the skillet until Maddie hustled over. The last thing I wanted was for service to slow down.
I pulled off my apron and hung it by the door, uncuffing the sleeves to my chef’s coat as I hurried down the hall to the administrative offices. I paused at the door to catch my breath before letting myself in.
“You wanted to see me, Chef?”
Chef Luca DeRossi looked up from the laptop perched on the otherwise empty desk. “Yes, you can leave the door open.”
My stomach sank. That was never good. Was HR about to come in? Did the restaurant even have HR yet?
Luca chuckled. “Relax, Lennon. You’re not in trouble.”
I let out a breath.
I didn’t know why I assumed the worst in Chef DeRossi. Maybe it was because I assumed the worst in everyone.
But he had never been anything but good to me. Great, even. His wife was the same—talented and driven as hell, but kind.
People like that were rare, which was exactly why I didn’t trust them.
No one was that good.
I glanced over my shoulder toward the kitchen. “Is something wrong? I thought you wanted me running the line.”
“I do. Chef Dorsey and I are about to go upstairs for dinner with the Griffith family and some opening night formalities. Jessica said the last of the reservations just checked in with the hostess, so?—”
“Get ready for another wave for the front line, then start prepping for the staff dinner while the pastry team is doing dessert service.”
He cracked a smile. “You’re doing great. Are you ready to take over when Madeline and I leave next week?”
“No,” I said, quick and firm.
Chef DeRossi, the executive chef and restaurateur for The Kitchen at the Griffith Brothers Ranch, had been hands-on all week. He had been working to the bone to get my team up to speed in a new kitchen. His wife, a badass pastry chef, created the dessert menu and trained the pastry team.
Still, I knew I wouldn’t be able to rely on him for much longer. He had other places to be.
“Yes, you are,” he said. “You kicked ass for me in New York and everywhere else. I have no doubt you can handle this. The hours are better and the menu is simpler. This is child’s play for you, Lennon. And you’ve got my number and Maddie’s. Call whenever.”
I clenched my jaw to keep from saying something that would have him questioning if I was the right fit. I knew I wasn’t the right fit.
The devil on my shoulder had chipped away at my confidence on the 1,500 mile trip from New York to Texas, reminding me I was nothing more than a pity hire.
I cracked a smile. “You’re sure the Griffiths know you hired a jailbird to run The Kitchen?”
His eyes softened. “They’re good people. They want good people to work for them. You’re good people.”
I didn’t say anything, and Luca knew why.
His eyes narrowed. “The appropriate response is ‘Yes, Chef.’”
He was forcing me to believe in myself, and I hated that. It was also why I had never tried to work for anyone else.
Some chefs spent a year at a restaurant, then moved on for a year-long stint somewhere else to get different experience. I had always worked within the safety of the DeRossi Hospitality Group.
I nodded. “Yes, Chef.”
He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Come up to the rooftop dining room before you start prepping the staff meal. I want to introduce you to everyone.”
“Yes, Chef,” I said as I hurried out before he could get another word in.
I narrowly avoided two bodies as I ran out of Chef DeRossi’s office—my future office—like my ass was on fire.
“You okay, Chef Maddox?” Hands clasped around my arms to keep me from crashing into the wall.
I fought the urge to jerk away and forced a smile at Hannah Jane Hayes. She was an event planner that Chef DeRossi had brought in to assist the front of house manager during the grand opening.
Jessica, the front of house manager, beamed. “I’ve heard nothing but raving reviews all night. Y’all are crushing it.”
“Thank you,” I clipped as I hurried back into the kitchen, grabbed my apron, and kicked Chef Dorsey out of my station.
I pressed the top of a ribeye to check its doneness, then added a splash of whiskey, tipping the skillet into the flame. I let out a heavy breath as I dropped a knob of butter and a pinch of herbs into the pan and started basting the steak.
There was safety in the fire.
Fire was predictable. There was no pretense that it was anything other than dangerous. It behaved exactly as expected. If you fucked with it, that was your own damn fault.
I fell into the routine of dinner service, sending plates flying out the double doors.
Thanks to Chef DeRossi taking me under his wing, this was my third grand opening. Launching a restaurant was a strange sort of beast. Chef DeRossi’s hospitality company used staff from his existing restaurants to work alongside the new hires until everyone got enough experience. Chefs, managers, and servers formed a dream team of food and hospitality professionals. But this time, I wouldn’t be flying back to New York with the sparse team from Nonna’s—the Manhattan eatery where I had just gotten my final paycheck. I’d be staying.
This was home now.
I worked behind the rookie expediter, scrutinizing each dish before they went out to the guests.
Jessica popped her head in. “Chef Maddox?”
I glanced up as I used a side towel to clean the rim of a deep-bowled plate. “Yes, Ms.Powell?”
“Chef DeRossi is ready for you to join everyone upstairs.”
I held back a groan and put on the stone-cold face of professional indifference. “Be right up.”
The last thing I wanted was to waste time playing twenty questions. I’d dodge anything personal, thank everyone for the opportunity to run the restaurant, then hightail it back to the kitchen where I belonged.
After all, I had already met most of them. Cassandra Griffith, a fire-breathing she-beast, was the ranch’s property manager. She had made herself available during the week of menu trials and the soft opening.
Christian, her husband, had said his hellos during my second day on-site, and then stolen a snack out of the communal fridge of staff leftovers.
Rumor had it, one of the Griffith brothers was some famous bull rider, but I didn’t know jack shit about the rodeo.
As far as I was concerned, if they weren’t working in my kitchen or signing my paychecks, they didn’t matter. But I owed Chef DeRossi everything. I could suffer through a few minutes of pleasantries.
“Julian, you’re on the grill,” I said to the new guy who had just joined the team yesterday.
I trudged up two flights of stairs to the rooftop dining area. The sun had set, and a chill bit my neck as I pulled my toque off and tucked it under my arm. I preferred working with a skullcap, but Chef DeRossi had insisted on the obnoxiously tall chef’s hats for the grand opening.
First impressions were everything.
String lights glowed overhead while small lanterns illuminated the tables. Standing heaters kept the diners comfortable as they finished their meal under twilight stars.
The Griffith family had a permanently reserved farmhouse table so they could gather for group meals without having to call ahead.
From what I saw on my daily drive, it looked like a lot of them lived on the ranch.
Heads turned as I came around the corner, but the old man at the head of the table continued speaking.
Chef DeRossi sat at the end of the table with his wife, Chef Dorsey, tucked under his arm. They were nauseatingly in love with each other.
Sitting on the other side of Chef DeRossi was Isaac Lawson. He was a billionaire with a capital “B.” Everyone gave him a wide berth, probably out of intimidation.
I would have been intimidated, had I not cooked for him a million times at my old job. He was a regular at Nonna’s.
Bodies shuffled around as the guy speaking took his seat and Luca stood up.
“There’s one more person I wanted to introduce.” He turned and motioned for me to join the table. “Chef Maddox, you’re just in time.”
All eyes were on me as I crossed the rooftop.
Cassandra and Christian Griffith sat together with their daughters squished on either side of them. A man in a wheelchair was corralling a toddler on his lap and had his arm around a very pregnant woman. A red-headed woman and a girl who was her spitting image sat together. The guy seated next to them had a presence that screamed “military.”
My gaze fell on the cowboy I hadn’t seen around here yet, and I froze.
Chef DeRossi buttoned his suit jacket as he moved to stand beside me. “If you haven’t had a chance to pop into the kitchen before tonight, allow me to introduce you to Chef Maddox. Lennon is my talented sous chef and will be the acting executive chef when I’m not present. Lennon, would you like to say a few words?”
“Lennon—”
But my name didn’t come from Chef DeRossi this time.
It came from him.
The cowboy from the bar.
All eyes turned to him. To CJ.
My cheeks burned, but I gritted my teeth and kept my face neutral. My body didn’t get the message that neutral was what we were going for, though. It vividly recalled the sensation of him trailing his hand down my back as I leaned over a pool table. How it felt when he pinned me up against the wall and fucked me senseless. The sound of his rough grunts and the way his brows knitted together. The way his strong lips parted, and how his sharp tongue turned soft when he came.
CJ wiped his mouth, tossed his napkin down, and pushed away from the table. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”
That wasn’t the reaction I expected. Not from the guy who had wanted another drink after our tryst.
“Pipe down, slugger. Ain’t nothing that serious,” I said with a playful smirk, tossing his words from the bar back at him.
CJ’s glare brimmed with vitriol and vinegar. The playful banter we had once shared had vanished. He nearly knocked over an empty chair as he barreled away from the table. “Let me guess. You hustled your way into this job like you were hustling everyone at?—”
“Excuse me?” I snapped. It was better than blurting out, “ What the fuck is your problem?”
“Carson James!” the oldest Griffith lady gasped.
He stalked toward me with a heat and violence in his eyes that I didn’t fully understand. Gone was the flirtatious cowboy who had fucked me in a bar hallway.
Lucifer wore a white Stetson.
Whatever his deal was, I didn’t care. I’d match his energy and make him regret it. I lifted my chin and met the embers head-on.
“Should’ve fuckin’ known,” he growled with a terse shake of his head. “Trouble always seems to find us here.”
Chef DeRossi glanced between the two of us. “Len?—”
“I should get back to the line,” I clipped, then nodded toward the family. “Pleasure to meet you all.” I turned and looked at CJ. “ Most of you.”
He clenched his fist and let a derisive sneer slip. “Bullshit.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You’d know a little something about that, wouldn’t you, cowboy?”
Murmurs rose from the table as I turned and stomped toward the door.
CJ’s shout caught me by surprise. “You don’t get to storm out. I’m the one who gets to storm out.”
“Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?” I snapped.
Cassandra snickered. “I like her already.”
Chef DeRossi’s wore a calm gaze, but I had been around him enough to know when he was about to smash a plate. “ My office ,” he clipped between smiling teeth. “Two minutes.”