Chapter 3 #2
I’d never seen so much cheese in my life. Every time I thought I was done, he handed me another couple of blocks.
“Can’t we just buy bags of this?” I asked.
“You can,” Casey said without looking up from the green onions he was slicing, “but it doesn’t melt as well and tastes a little off. Freshly grated is better.”
As I kept grating, I had the chance to study him. His knife moved so fast I worried he’d take off a finger, but I realized I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. The man was a wizard in the kitchen. What was he doing waiting tables when he could clearly be cooking?
I caught myself imagining what he’d look like cooking in my house and shut the thought down fast.
After a while, he set aside his chopping to start a giant pot of gravy on the stove.
He grumbled about the cheater start and bone broths, but even without the perfect base, whatever he was doing smelled delicious.
When he decided I’d finally done enough cheese, I was directed to start washing and slicing potatoes in the fry slicer.
It was repetitive work that let me watch Casey.
It was the sweetest torture imaginable. He alternated slicing onions, which made the muscles of his forearms pull and stretch.
The steady thunk of the knife hitting the cutting board became the rhythm of the blood pounding through my veins.
Then he’d move over to the stove, stirring the pot, every so often tasting and adjusting.
Watching him at the stove gave me prime viewing, and damn if that wasn’t the prettiest sight.
Casey’s bubble butt was, quite literally, the peach I wanted to eat.
“Did you mean it?”
“Uh, sorry, what? I zoned out there for a second.” At that moment, it was hard to believe I’d ever been a professional anything. “Please repeat whatever you asked.”
“I asked if you meant it when you said I was the boss in here tonight.”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Good, then stop daydreaming and finish the potatoes. Myla said earlier that by eight, people start getting hungry, and I want to be able to give them something that doesn’t suck.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Thanks for the reminder to focus.”
Casey didn’t look like he was sure I meant it, but he gave a curt nod and returned to his work.
“You figure out what we’re making tonight?”
“Uh, yeah. Poutine with Beecher’s cheese since we don’t have curds. Onion rings with beer cheese and garlic aioli. We have pork butt, but it won’t last long, so we can do shredded with naan sliders.”
Every instinct I had was shifting toward him and pretending otherwise was getting harder by the minute.
“How come you’re not in the kitchen at Stone and Vine?”
“They weren’t hiring for the kitchen, and I actually don’t like being in the back of the house that much.”
“But you clearly know what you’re doing.”
“I’ve learned a few things, but I’m not a chef.”
“Did you go to school for it?”
“Nah, just picked it up. I mean, I like to cook, but I don’t like being shut away in the kitchen where I can’t see people. There’s only so much the chef or the dishwashers want to hear me talk.”
“You’re a talker? You seem pretty quiet tonight.”
“That’s because we don’t have time to talk.”
“Meh, the kitchen doesn’t open until after seven anyway, so we’ve got time. Tell me more about this cooking.”
“There’s not much to tell. I’ve worked in a couple of restaurants, and I like to cook. The end,” Casey said as he moved between his gravy and his onions. Somehow, the pile in front of him had grown exponentially. He set it aside and started on a sauce with garlic and mayo.
“Have you ever thought about going back to the kitchen?” I asked.
“Not really. I like my job at Stone and Vine, and the tips are great.”
“Is that why you stay there?”
“I mean, that’s part of it. I wouldn’t stay if I wasn’t making enough to support myself, but the people are amazing. My coworkers are fantastic, and my customers are the best. I don’t think I could ask for more.”
Casey returned his attention to the job in front of him, and we slipped back into working quietly, elbow to elbow. Casey had answered my question with such simplicity that I forced myself to wonder if I had ever been willing to be that comfortable in my own life. The answer was a clear no.
After high school, I went straight into the minors, did a couple of years there before I moved on to the show, and never looked back.
I was lucky to spend most of my career in two cities.
Most people don’t get that chance. I was never a superstar, but I held my own on the ice.
It was enough to set me up for the rest of my life, which was good because the rest of my life came fast. Pro hockey isn’t known for its longevity.
“But it’s obvious you’re an amazing cook.”
“Gravy and some sliced potatoes don’t make a chef. It’s about—”
“All right, I’m pulling the boss card,” I interrupted. “It’s not just gravy and fries. It’s poutine. It’s my national dish, and you’re creating it out of thin air and saving my ass in the process.”
While I waxed poetic about the dish that was proof the gods had smiled on Canada, Casey started a sauce on the stove that involved cheese, cream, and beer.
“If you’re done with the potatoes, can you grab the pork Gerry smoked yesterday? It’s the only pork in there.”
I cleaned up my area and followed the instructions. It was hard not to notice that every time Casey ordered me around, his cheeks tinged pink like he was embarrassed. Lordy, this man was fucking adorable.
I presented the tray with the slabs like it was a prize I’d captured outside my prehistoric den.
There was no explanation for how Casey made me feel equal parts caveman and tongue-tied schoolboy with his first crush.
Too damn bad I’d told myself I wasn’t going to act on my Daddy instincts—especially with the whole “he works for me” issue.
Trying not to be Daddy around him was becoming a losing battle, and the worst part was, I didn’t want to win.
“I need you to get the bucket of BBQ sauce while I start shredding this and get it on the stove. Use that pan,” he said with a jerk of his head toward the stack of warming pans. “We’ll heat them up together, and they’ll go further.”
“All right, gentlemen, what did you manage to pull together?” Myla asked when she breezed into the back. “It’s starting to pick up out there.”
“This is the Casey show tonight,” I said. “I’ll let him tell you.”
“We’re doing Beecher’s cheese poutine, onion rings with beer cheese and garlic aioli, and naan pork sliders. Crap, I need to get the onion soaking. Ugh.”
“How the hell did you pull this off?”
“Most of it was already here, and we just threw it together,” Casey said with a shrug, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with the modesty.
“Nope, he’s a fucking genius who’s going to save our kitchen sales tonight.
Tell anyone who bitches about how long it takes that no worries, you’ll be happy to cancel it for them.
We’re shorthanded, and the food will take as long as it takes.
No one is coming back here to complain because we’re going to do the best we can. ”
Myla’s smirk and glances between Casey and me had me thinking she knew something, but there was nothing to know. I hadn’t shared that I’d been having the best fucking dreams of my life since I’d met him, so I had no idea what she thought she knew. Regardless, she gave a small nod.
“No one is gonna say shit to my little boo baby back here.” She crossed the room to pat Casey’s cheek, and his instant grin both melted my heart and forced me to squelch the ridiculous pang of jealousy that she could touch him and I couldn’t.
“Aww, if only I were into girls.” What? I thought I’d been lusting after a straight guy. Well, damn.
“Dude, if only I were into guys. My boy says there’s small choice in rotten apples.”
“Is your boy Bill also known as Shakespeare?” Casey asked.
“Ha.” Myla laughed. “I might not teach high school English anymore, but I can still love me some Shakespeare.”
“Are we the rotten apples in this scenario?” I asked.
“You definitely are, but my boo baby might be an exception,” Myla cackled. Casey shook his head, but it was clear he took the teasing as intended.
“You know, there’s a lot to be said for dating men,” I suggested. “We can open things and reach the top shelf. That’s gotta be worth something.”
“I can invest in a footstool and bang a lid on the counter with the best of them. I’m good.”
“Casey, I tried.”
“For who? I like being gay.”
“Look at us all queer-y and stuff.”
“At a gay bar? What are the odds?” I asked drily. “All right, call me up front if you need me, but I’m going to be back here until you do. And when we run out, we run out.”
Myla gave me a salute and patted Casey on the cheek again before waltzing back out the kitchen door. Her humming was suspiciously in the direction of cherry ChapStick and kissing adventures.