Chapter 9 – Roman
ROMAN
The kitchen of Decision pulses with a controlled frenzy that sets me right at home.
I move between stations, tasting, adjusting, nodding approval as Leaf oversees and executes each dish with the focus and detail I’ve demanded.
Tonight is the soft opening, which is essentially for press, critics, and VIPs.
Despite having done this dance dozens of times before, the high never gets old.
This restaurant is different somehow. It’s the distillation of everything I’ve learned and everything I’ve become.
It’s Vegas. A place where there’s no shortage of dining excellence, so this restaurant, this opening, it has to be everything.
It has to be the best in town. Europe will be Europe, and I’m excited for that, but there’s just something about Vegas.
I straighten my jacket and catch the healing cut beneath my eye in the ornamental mirror in the corner. It’s faint now, barely noticeable. It makes me smirk and my fists buzz. My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, expecting it to be Braelyn but finding it to be my parents instead.
“Hey,” I answer.
“Hi!” my mother chirps. “Happy soft opening.”
I smile and laugh lightly. “Thank you. Where are you?”
“Budapest,” my father answers. “Otherwise, we’d be there.”
“It’s fine.” They were all over me about changing their plans, but that seemed ridiculous.
It’s not my first restaurant opening, and it won’t be my last. My parents and I have a good yet strained relationship, and I know that’s my fault.
Their favorite son is dead because of me, and I watched them fall apart when he died.
I watched their agony and devastation, and it made mine that much worse.
“We miss you,” my mom says, and I rub the back of my neck that’s suddenly prickling.
“I miss you,” I tell them. “How are the concerts going?”
“Fabulous. They’re a lot of fun, and your father is eating his way from country to country.”
“Hey, I haven’t had a break from the OR in how many years?”
I smile, happy to hear them like this. “Then I’m glad you’re finally doing it.”
“We get home right before you leave,” my mother states, sadness in her voice. “I hate that you’re moving, Roman.”
“It’s only for a year and a half. It’ll give you another excuse to go to Europe.”
“True,” my father agrees.
“How’s Braelyn?” my mother asks. “We spoke to her parents the other night. Poor girl. Is she holding up okay? She must be so heartbroken.”
“She’s okay. She’s tough. I brought her to Vegas with me, and she’ll come to Mexico too.”
“Good. That’s wonderful. She needs her friends right now.”
Bitterness hits me, but I brush it away.
“Chef, the first guests are arriving.” Lydia appears at my elbow, her iPad in her hand, her normally unflappable demeanor charged with electricity.
“I gotta go,” I tell my parents. “It’s showtime.”
“Break a leg. You’re amazing,” my mom asserts.
“Have an incredible night,” my father follows that up. “We love you.”
“Love you.” I disconnect the call and turn to Lydia. “All right. Let’s do this.”
I adjust my dark suit jacket and head out into the main dining area to look for her.
Braelyn is waiting by the host stand, her brown eyes taking in the buzz of the restaurant while an appreciative smile tickles her lips.
The sight of her stops me mid-stride. The gown of midnight blue follows the curves of her body like water, with a deep V-neckline that reveals the inner slopes of her breasts and cinches in at her waist, only to flow down along her hips to the floor.
Her chestnut curls are swept up and pinned behind her, and her makeup is heavier than usual, her eyes smoky, and her lips the same deep red as the walls.
Jesus.
My typically cool and steady heart has never heated and thundered like this.
I take her distraction and run with it, studying every line, savoring every curve, waiting for the moment when her eyes finally turn to meet mine like they are now.
A dazzling smile curls up her lips, and fuck, I can’t breathe.
It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest. She gives me a long, approving once-over and crosses the room to me.
“You’re stunning,” I tell her before I can stop it, bending to kiss her cheek but somehow growing closer to the corner of her lips. She’s wearing perfume. It’s not something she does with any regularity, and it’s light and airy, but it’s making my blood thrum and my cock throb all the same.
“You clean up nicely too,” she tells me, running her hand down my black shirt and suit jacket that’s missing a tie because ties aren’t what I do. “This is very… you.”
My lips twitch. “You approve then?”
“Of you in an all-black sexy suit? What’s not to approve of?”
“Did you just call me sexy?”
She laughs lightly, her tone teasing. “I called your suit sexy. You’re… adequate.”
“You’re not. You’re insanely sexy. I’ll have to keep you by my side all night or I’ll end up murdering someone.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t shift or shy away from it. “It’s the dress.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever spent money on.”
She does a twirl, giving me a nice view of her ass in the process. “Well, when a famous chef insists on buying you couture for his fancy restaurant opening, it’s rude to say no and disappoint him.”
“Kid, there is nothing about you that could ever disappoint me.” The words come out rougher and more intense than I intend. Thankfully, Lydia comes over and interrupts us with people I unfortunately have to meet.
No hiding in the kitchen or avoiding pictures tonight.
The next hour dissolves into a series of introductions, handshakes, and literal wining and dining.
Critics from every major publication circulate through the space, scribbling notes and feigning nonchalance as they sample dishes and sip on drinks.
Celebrities and social media influencers position themselves strategically for photos that make them appear important.
Through it all, Braelyn stays by my side, and I hold her there, keeping her close.
She’s brilliant at this, always good with talking to strangers and making everyone feel like the most special person in the room.
I have no doubt she’s like this as a nurse, instilling care and comfort in her patients.
She deflects questions about our relationship with humor, asks insightful questions about the food that makes the critics take a second bite, and charms models and actresses with wild stories about the ER.
“The secret to the pesto is the olive oil, I think,” she muses, taking a taste as she chats up a critic.
“Roman insists on using a specific olive oil from an orchard in Spain where the trees are older than most other countries. I’m convinced that’s also why his homemade pasta is as incredible as it is. ”
“That’s not precisely—” I begin to correct her, but the critic is already nodding appreciatively and jotting something down on his phone.
“Don’t ruin my stories with facts,” she murmurs when the critic moves on. “I’m playing on your mystique.”
“I wasn’t aware I had mystique.”
I get a serious eye roll. “That’s because you don’t see it.
But you’re as elusive as they come. Quiet.
Introspective. Brilliant. Annoyingly gorgeous without trying to be.
And besides, it’s not entirely fiction. You are ridiculously fastidious with your recipes and ingredients.
It’s also what makes you so good in the ring.
Your attention to detail allows you to see what others miss. ”
I used to be more reckless. Always chasing something I couldn’t quite grasp.
Then my brother died, and it was my fault, and after that, I didn’t want to be reckless anymore.
I wanted to control everything, see every potential risk from ten miles out.
But the restlessness never faded. It’s why I box.
Yet somehow, Braelyn manages to calm me in a similar way.
Her presence has always been a balm to my unsettled, ravaged heart.
Kind of like what she’s doing for me here.
I hate everything about the forced socialization and smiles, but she draws the latter effortlessly out of me.
My fingers sweep along her cheek. I shouldn’t be moving as fast as I am with her.
I’ve been testing boundaries and blurring lines.
Lines I don’t want to redraw. Lines I want to keep pushing.
But she’s not ready yet, and I have to remember that and respect it.
Moreover, she’s my best friend’s ex. A best friend who is desperate to win her back.
And I’m leaving. How can I push for something real when I won’t be here to see it through?
I’m here to be her friend. The guy who helps her get over her heartache. I don’t want to be a complication or a confusion.
“I’m going to grab another drink,” she declares. “Do you want one?”
“Sure. Get me whatever you’re having.”
She snorts a laugh. “Mine is going to be girly and strong.”
I smirk. “I’ll take the strong part.”
“You got it, Chef.”
She leaves me here, lost in a mental fight I feel like I’ll lose either way the decision comes. I watch her moving, her effortless smile and adorable curiosity as she people-watches. She casts a spell of fire and heat in me that I no longer know how to extinguish.
“She’s beautiful,” a woman says from behind us, and I turn around to find a blonde in a red dress approaching me. “Is she yours?”
I frown. “I’m sorry, I don’t believe I know you.”
A smile draws up her face, showing perfect white teeth. “Ah, but I know you. I’m Anne Sharpe. I’m a talent manager for Boston Nine’s entertainment division.”
Boston Nine. That’s Adam’s network. I shake her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Sharpe.”
“You as well, Chef Fritz. I have to admit, I’ve followed your career very closely. It’s more than a little impressive.”
“Thank you,” I reply cautiously. There’s something about her that doesn’t sit quite right. Her smile’s a little too friendly. A little too knowing. The gleam in her eye a little too calculating.
“I’ve got an idea I’m going to pitch to my bosses, and it involves you.”
“Except I’m not interested in TV.” And I know your bosses, which I wonder if she’s aware of.
She pouts prettily and steps into me, her tits brushing against my chest ever so subtly as if that’ll sway me. “You haven’t heard my pitch. I can be very persuasive.”
“I won’t change my mind.”
“It’d be a new series starring you.” She tickles a flirty finger into my chest. “Half Gordon Ramsay’s Hell’s Kitchen and half The Bear. With your fame, good looks, and talent, I know you’d be a perfect fit for—”
“I’m flattered,” I sharply interrupt, “but again, I’m not interested in television.”
Anne’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, she looks more dangerous at my refusal. “Perhaps we could discuss this over coffee or a drink? There are aspects of the opportunity I believe might change your mind.”
Not only do I have zero interest in being the star of anything, but there are other pieces to the puzzle that come with this sort of gig.
Things like dredging up Nash’s death for emotional content that will pull on the heartstrings of viewers.
Things like editing and spinning my interactions and personality any way they choose.
Things like deeper dives into my personal life than I can afford.
My boxing would come out. It wouldn’t be tough to discover that the root cause of the names of my restaurants is more than simply my form of exercise or an at-home hobby as I’ve said in interviews in the past.
It would be exposed.
My restaurants could weather it. Hell, it might even boost them.
But there are other factors like the illegality of it.
The betting. The ability to continue doing it since once exposed, it would be shut down.
Not to mention I could go to fucking jail.
At the very least a criminal investigation would be started.
It’s why I stopped doing Food Network guest spots, and those were only about cooking and not me.
“My focus is on my restaurants,” I tell her firmly, shoving my hands into my pockets. “I’m not looking to diversify beyond that.”
“Everyone has their price, Chef. Or incentives yet to be tapped into.” She hands me a business card that I accept purely out of reflex. “When you change your mind, give me a call. As I said, I’m very interested in bringing you in for this show, and I think we could work very well together.”
She glides away, and a moment later, Braelyn is back holding her pink drink and my bourbon. “This is so good. You have to taste it.”
A real smile returns to my lips, and I lean in and wrap my hand around the glass she’s holding. Our fingers brush, half interlocking, and I draw the pretty glass up to my lips to sip from it.
I let go of the glass and her touch, even if I can still feel it on my fingers. “Very good. What is it?”
“A bourbon Cosmo. I’ve never had one before, but I might be converted. It’s one of your specialty drinks. Yours is straight bourbon as you can see.”
“This drink was Lydia’s idea. I’m glad you like it.”
“She picked a good one. Who were you talking to? I only saw a lot of red and blonde.”
“A TV producer looking to have me as the star of her show.” For some reason, I don’t mention that it’s Adam’s company. She said she wanted to pitch it to the higher-ups, which means he likely doesn’t know about it yet, and I don’t want to bring Adam up right now.
Not when we’re having such a good night and she looks happy.
“She’s barking up the wrong tree there, though I’m shocked you’ve never agreed to do your own show since you have done some guest spots on others.”
I drink down half my bourbon. “That was a long time ago. Besides, I like my privacy. Come on,” I say, offering her my arm. “Let’s get you some dessert.”
She loops her free arm through my elbow and rests her hand on my forearm. “I never say no to chocolate. How late does this event go?”
“Another hour, but I was told we have to stay for drinks after the soft opening ends, and then we might be dragged to the club to celebrate more, so it could be a long night for us. You up for a little fun and adventure Vegas style?”
“Tonight I’m up for anything.”