Chapter 18
RAINA
It’s our last week at Haus of Sin.
Alex, Max, and Vincent have been quieter than usual. Something’s going on that they won’t tell me about, but I’ve learned that persistence isn’t a favorable avenue in these matters.
As far as our relationship is concerned, we’re good.
We’re only getting better. Tension lingers somewhere below the surface, and I’m not sure if it’s my doubt about us or if it’s whatever they’re keeping to themselves.
Either way, the show must go on, and I’ve got a few dishes I’d like to practice before the grand finale for this “sinful winter,” as their elated guests have called it.
“Ugh,” I grumble as I remove the lid from a box of truffles I pulled out of the cold storage pantry. “I don’t remember white truffles stinking this much.”
The smell is so powerful, in fact, that it makes me queasy enough to take a couple of steps back and look around.
“Matty?” I call out, hoping he’ll come in. He should’ve been here already. “I need your help; I think the white truffles have gone bad.”
As soon as I say it, I realize that can’t be right. I check the dates on the box’s labels. I checked them when they were delivered yesterday, too, for good measure. And their expiration date is still very far away. Then why do they stink?
Carefully, I take one of the truffles out and analyze it under a white light.
It looks clean. There’s no sign of damage or anything potentially rotten.
Heck, these are some of the prettiest, highest quality white truffles I’ve ever seen.
My nose must be playing a trick on me, much like my taste buds did the other day.
A clatter from the dry pantry startles me.
“Matty?” I call out again.
Forgetting all about the truffles, I swing open the pantry door and gasp at the sight before me. Matty’s on the floor, his head lolled to the side, and there’s a stainless steel bowl upended next to him, along with a small bag of flour and a bag of brown sugar.
“Oh my God!” I rush to his side. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely able to look at me. His eyes are bloodshot. His breath reeks of whiskey. The smell hits me so hard, I almost get a contact high by being so close to him.
“Matty, what happened? Do you want me to call you an ambulance?”
“Nah, I’m… I’m fine. I just… I thought I could sleep this off.”
He can’t even sit up straight, so I rush back into the kitchen and run a towel under cold water, then pat it across his pale face.
“You’re drunk,” I conclude.
“I was even drunker last night.” He chuckles dryly. “Fire me, if you want. I know you’re dying to get rid of me.”
“What? No! That’s nonsense,” I reply. “You need coffee and a greasy breakfast.”
“Or more sleep.”
“How many hours did you get?”
Matty gives me a confused look, then looks around. “Wait, where am I?”
“You’re in the pantry. I just found you in here, passed out.”
“What time is it?”
I check my watch. “It’s about nine.”
“Ah, that tracks. I think I fell asleep at, like, six? My alarm rang at seven, as usual.”
Shaking my head slowly, I realize that whatever this is, it’s stemming from a much deeper problem.
Matty doesn’t drink, for starters, and he’s always on time.
He’s never been late and never anything but the most professional sous chef I’ve ever worked with, which has made his usual snark a lot more tolerable.
“What happened?” I ask and help him get up, then guide him to one of the worktables in the kitchen. I don’t leave his side until he’s securely slumped in a chair, elbows and head resting on the stainless-steel tabletop.
“Nothing happened. Can’t a guy get drunk once in a while?”
“Not you, no. Something happened. Spill it.”
“The only thing I feel like spilling right now is my actual guts.” He laughs with bitterness dripping from his voice.
I pour him a cup of black coffee, then rush to the fridge to get some ingredients out for a quick and greasy omelet. Bacon, butter, cheddar cheese, and eggs aplenty meet in an iron skillet on a hot flame while I steal worried glances at Matty.
“Come on, man, talk to me. I need you sharp today. We’re testing some new recipes. I wanted your input on those white truffles,” I say.
“What do you want me to say? ‘Cause all I can say right now is thank you for not canning my sorry ass.” He groans but manages to take a long sip of coffee, just enough to make him shudder.
“Attaboy,” I say, one eye on the skillet.
“Oh, that smells nice,” he says, his gaze wandering over to my work in progress. “I think it would work great with some bread. I could toss a baguette in the oven.” Matty tries to get up and fails miserably.
“Or maybe just sit your ass down and don’t move. I’ll handle it,” I reply, then turn the flame off and fetch a raw baguette from the freezer.
Ten minutes later, Matty looks a lot closer to human. The color is slowly returning to his cheeks while he scarfs down his breakfast, taking greedy bites out of the baguette between hefty, greasy morsels of egg, bacon, and cheese.
“Damn, you were right. This stuff slides right in and cures everything,” he says with a mouthful, then chugs more coffee.
“Do you want to talk about it now?”
Matty shakes his head. “Why bother? You don’t like me, anyway.”
“Matty, you have the potential to run your own kitchen maybe someday soon, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let you throw it all away on booze. Whatever this is, we can work through it. We can address it. Now.”
He exhales sharply and keeps eating, so I pour him some ice water to go along with the coffee. Hydration is key.
“She dumped me, okay?”
“Deanna?”
“Yeah. She dumped me. She’s the one who came to me, who made me feel all sorts of things. She made me think we could actually be together, long after Haus of Sin. And then she started giving me the cold shoulder.”
I sigh and shake my head. “She made you feel like nothing you did or said was good enough, no matter how hard you tried.”
“That’s right. And then she dumped me. She said I’m never going to make it on my own; that I got my ass handed to me in the kitchen by a f—” He stops himself, wide-eyed and horrified by words I know weren’t his own.
“Say it. It’s okay.”
“No. I can’t…”
“By a fat bitch. That’s what she said, right?”
He nods once. “And I got into it with her. I mean, I know we got off on the wrong foot, but you’ve been more than okay to work with.”
“Thanks, Matty. You’re okay to work with, too.” He smiles for a brief moment before it vanishes from his face.
“I was miserable last night. She has a way of making me feel like I’m worthless. I actually believed her, and I needed to numb the pain.”
“Which I completely understand. Hey, man, I’ve been dumped. I know how that feels.”
“I just didn’t realize it was six in the morning ‘til it was six in the morning. I passed out and… well, I came in and tried to work, to be honest.”
I laugh lightly. “Which is why I found you on the floor, struggling with that bowl and the flour and sugar, right?”
“Yeah.” He gives me a sheepish grin. “I wanted to get a pie crust together. You had those blueberries delivered yesterday, and I figured I’d bake you a fancy pie to give you a base for a reinvented dessert. You’re annoyingly good at that.”
For a moment, I’m rendered speechless by his unexpected kindness and appreciation. “A reinvented blueberry pie?”
“Why not? You knocked that tiramisu out of the park. Your strawberry cheesecake was a work of art.”
“Hmm, I can do a blueberry pie. We have fresh lavender sprigs, too.”
“And cinnamon buds.”
“Plus, that fancy bourbon vanilla Chef Matisse accidentally left behind.”
Matty laughs and leans forward with a devilish grin. “Wanna know a secret?”
“What’s that?”
“He called sometime last week, asking about his box of spices. The whole crate, that is. And I told him he must’ve taken it with him and lost it somewhere along the way, given his tendency to drink himself into a stupor.”
“Matty, you naughty minx!” I laugh.
“We deserve that crate. The bourbon vanilla alone is worth the lie, not to mention those Indian cardamom pods!” Matty defends his deed.
I pat him on the shoulder. “You’ll be okay, Matty, I promise. It’ll hurt for a while. You’ll feel like crap for a time. But you will get over it. And when you do get over it, you’ll start to heal, too.”
“The only thing I want to heal right now is this hangover,” he says.
“I’m pretty sure you’re still drunk right now. One hour of sleep doesn’t cut it.”
Matty nervously looks around and notices the box of truffles. “Oh, crap, you said you were going to test some recipes today. And the breakfast service—”
“It starts in thirty minutes,” I tell him. “Cool your heels; we’re fine. We’re doing a light breakfast this morning, remember? Alex said they want us to go heavy on the lunch menu instead: the roast, the rosemary and parmesan baby potatoes. The feast of kings and queens, as we called it.”
“Oh, thank heavens,” he says.
“So let’s get some more coffee into your system, and you can assist, okay? We’ll wrap it up real quick, and then off to bed with you until precisely noon. I’ll come and get you.”
Matty frowns at me. “Or we could call someone from the auxiliary team.”
“No, I want to work with you, Matty. And you need to work in order to keep your mind off other, less pleasant things.”