Love on the Rocks (Taste of Love #2)

Chapter 1

Mia Morgan had never felt so out of place.

Nervously, she sipped at her champagne and tugged at the too-tight bodice of her borrowed dress.

She peered around the ballroom, wondering if the wealthy guests would see her for the fraud she was.

A lowly maid in a ballgown, pretending she still belonged at elite charity events like this.

- One Week with the Greek

CALLIE

I closed my eyes and brought the warm spoon to my mouth for another taste. Shallot. Tarragon. White wine. Just the right amount of salt.

But it needed something . . .

Blocking out the noise and activity of the busy kitchen, I tried to go to that special place in my mind where it was just me, my food, and the story I wanted to share with our diners.

In my mind, I saw a cozy fishing village on the coast of Brittany, platters of fresh shellfish on rustic wooden tables, and sail boats silhouetted against the setting sun.

But the lobster bisque I’d been working on all day simply refused to comply with my vision.

The problem was, this wasn’t just any lobster bisque.

It was a three-star Michelin chef’s signature dish—one that had made Chef Marcel’s reputation, that had left food critics speechless, and that had tourists booking tables months in advance, their black American Express card in hand, ready to shell out the 300￡ for his tasting menu.

Today, with almost zero notice, Chef Marcel had left me in charge of the soup with the explicit task of modernizing it without changing its essence, an enormous responsibility and a challenge that I was one hundred percent up for.

I’d been waiting for the chance to prove myself for the past six months since I’d been working here at Marcel, the top French restaurant in London.

And I was not about to blow it. I needed to figure out what was missing, fast.

“Two tournedos and three lobster bisques!” shouted Marcel’s sous-chef, Roman, as I reached for my prepped ingredients—the slivers of pickled apple and marigold oil that I’d let infuse overnight.

Except that, goddammit, my prep had suddenly disappeared.

This wasn’t the first time this had happened this week.

I was seriously off my game and couldn’t figure out why. I was starting to suspect sabotage.

I threw a quick glance at Roman, the last person I wanted to know that I’d fucked up again. Somehow, I had to leave my station and get back before he noticed and started to gloat again.

When he moved off to the other side of the garde manger , I darted through the kitchen, zigzagging around hot pans filled with oil and rapidly moving hands wielding incredibly sharp knives.

“Behind! Behind!” I warned, moving like a dancer in an intricately choreographed ballet, except here a wrong move could result in third-degree burns or blood on the floor.

This. This is what I lived for.

The heat, the energy, the smell. God, I loved that pinch of anxiety followed by that hit of dopamine, the rush of feeling that made me feel invincible.

Like I was all atoms, everywhere at once, and yet hyper-focused on my task, which, right now, was making sure that the food critic in the main room would write odes to my deconstructed seafood bisque in tomorrow’s paper.

If I didn’t find my missing ingredients, though, that was not going to happen.

Through sheer luck I spotted the stainless-steel bowl with my pickled apples stashed in the cold-prep area.

Had I put it there? With no time to think about it, I raced back to my station to find Roman hovering over my pot, a deep frown on his face.

Then before I could stop him, he poured an obscene amount of cognac into the bisque I’d been slaving over all day.

“What the hell, chef?!” I pushed him out of the way with a stiff elbow to the ribs, making him inhale sharply. “That’s my bisque!”

“It was a little bland.” He shrugged, his eyes cold and emotionless beneath his heavy dark eyebrows.

He was annoyed that Chef Marcel had put me in charge of the bisque when he’d been dying to revamp it for months and had been giving me the evil eye all day.

Pretty fucking petty, if you ask me. Wasn’t it enough that he’d been promoted to sous-chef over me?

No, he was one of those guys who wasn’t content reminding you that you shit on the floor, he also had to rub your nose in it.

He’d been like this since we’d apprenticed together at the Plaza Athénée in Paris.

Paranoid that everyone was out to get him, he had this huge chip on his shoulder and, at the same time, an ego the size of the Eiffel Tower.

This was my night, and if he ruined that bisque any thoughts of a promotion were off the table for me. I brought another spoonful of bisque to my mouth. Dammit! He was right, it did taste better, but there was no way I was going to admit it.

Roman folded his arms over his chest, gloating. The little weasel. “What, no thanks?”

I narrowed my eyes at him then turned back to my charred Cornish crab claws, slicing them into tender medallions.

After two years in some of the most prestigious kitchens in France and England, I was done with men trying to intimidate me.

This profession wasn’t easy for a woman.

We had to work twice as hard to prove ourselves.

But I was up for the challenge. In fact, I craved it.

“Looking for this?” He held up my plastic squeeze bottle with the bright green marigold oil.

I snatched it from him. “Where were you hiding this?”

He held up his scarred hands. Like all chefs, he had battle wounds: burns, scars, pink indentations where the knife had shaved off bits of skin. “It was in your bottom drawer. You’re too distracted lately, chef.”

If anything was distracting me it was the frustration with giving my all in this kitchen and still being left behind. Sometimes it made me want to throw in my apron and go back to Ohio and open a Chili’s.

I turned my back to Roman again. Once I felt him move away, I released a deep breath. Cocky young guys were awful. Cocky young chefs, the worst.

I put the finishing touches on the new bisque—a drizzle of the marigold oil, the crisp pickled apple, and the crab—then watched as the first tureens went out, praying that the food critic would love it.

Thankfully, the rest of my shift went smoothly. Compliments started trickling back from the front of the house, and the tension in my shoulders subsided. And then it happened.

“There’s someone asking to speak to you out front.” Lori, one of the servers came rushing back to me, a grin spread across her face. “A journalist.”

“Okay. Tell them I’ll be right out.” I ducked into the back office to make myself presentable, straightening my chef whites and checking for unseemly stains.

Then I smoothed a few wayward strands of blonde hair back into my ponytail and swiped on my favorite lipstick, Guerlain’s KissKiss red; if it was good enough for Marilyn Monroe, it worked for me.

“Lookin’ good, girl.” Lori whistled as I winked at her, trying to project a cool I definitely did not feel, and opened the door to the front of the house.

The main dining room was decorated in a classic French style with white tablecloths artfully draped over round tables, thick red jacquard curtains framing the marble columns, and understated chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

I made my way over to the corner table where a well-known journalist, Anne-Sophie Granger, was sitting in all her Jaquemus glory.

I recognized her immediately, not only from Instagram, where I followed her—she was an It girl on both sides of the Channel—but I’d met her before through connections in Paris.

“The chef is a woman!” She flashed a brilliant white smile at me as I approached. “They told me you were the one responsible for the bisque tonight, and I just had to meet you. It was excellent. I’ve been here before, but there was a little je ne sais quoi this time. I suspected it wasn’t Marcel.”

I could tell that she didn’t remember me and I tried to brush it off. The last time we’d met she’d been equally complimentary, but I apparently hadn’t made a lasting impression.

“We’ve met before, actually.” I smiled. “At the white picnic in Versailles last summer. And you wrote an article about my friend’s husband, Jake Vos.”

She frowned. I knew she had a thing for Jake, who was not only a big name in the wine world but also drop-dead gorgeous. According to my bestie Olivia, Anne-Sophie still shamelessly flirted with Jake every time they met.

“Of course, how could I forget when you’re as stunning as your food. So tall like a model.” She looked me up and down, all five foot ten inches of me (six feet with heels).

“Thank you.” I preened internally, a little annoyed at myself for being so damn eager for compliments. “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal.”

“More than enjoyed it. I was transported!” She invited me to sit, and I caught Roman’s murderous stare from the kitchen window. I smirked at him as Anne-Sophie asked me about my inspiration for the bisque.

“It’s too bad that this is only a temporary assignment for you. I’m working on a new documentary series on women chefs,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’re only featuring head chefs.”

My stomach clenched as if she’d taken that soft hand of hers and dug it in right where it hurt. After being passed over for sous-chef in favor of Roman, I didn’t know when I’d get my next shot. Not before my thirtieth birthday like I’d planned, at any rate.

Anne-Sophie pulled out an elegant silver cardholder from her purse and extracted a gold-embossed business card. “If your situation changes in the next six months, let me know.”

“Absolutely. I would love to be featured.” I should have been flattered by her offer, but I only felt defeated.

How many times had I envisioned the magazine articles and restaurant reviews in which I was singled out for my contributions to the new feminine revolution taking over European cuisine? This could have been my chance!

“Fingers crossed!” She held up her French-manicured hand and winked at me in a way that was almost condescending. Surely, she wasn’t taking the piss?

As I walked back to the kitchen, Roman blocked my way. “Distracted, chef?”

“Oh, bugger off, chef. You’re just mad because she didn’t choose you,” I snapped and went back to my station for the second service.

* * *

After my shift ended, I was too exhausted to take the Tube back to my tiny flatshare in Brixton, so I splurged on a late-night Uber. Though I was proud of what I’d managed to pull off tonight, I once again felt like it just wasn’t enough.

No, that’s not true. My inner pep-talk voice took over. Things are finally happening for you. This is going to be your year.

I just had to fake it ’til I made it. Like I’d done all my life.

I was going to be head of my own restaurant and be featured in that documentary.

Anything was possible in the next six months, right?

Sinking back into the leather seats of the Mercedes, I pulled out my phone and opened the group chat with my two besties, Olivia and Levi, and shot off a quick text.

Guess who was just singled out for praise by a well-known food journalist?

Levi: I’m going to go out on a limb and guess it was you?

I could just hear his deadpan response, and I chuckled.

Olivia: Congratulations, Cal. You deserve it.

I typed back: You might not be so happy when you hear about who the journalist was. Anne-Sophie Granger.

Olivia: Ugh! Do you know she still has the nerve to invite Jake over whenever he’s in Paris? Can you introduce her to someone else?

I thought about Roman. They’d be perfect for each other. I might have someone in mind.

No sooner had I sent off the message than my phone rang, flashing the one person’s name across the screen that could ruin my perfect night.

Gaz Greystone. Or, as he would say, God’s gift to modern cuisine.

“Yeah?” I quipped.

“Well, princess, don’t act too excited to hear from me.

” His voice oozed over the line. It used to make me weak in the knees, but not anymore.

I was over that addiction. Or at least that’s what I told myself when he wasn’t in front of me.

Whenever we got together in person it was a different story.

We’d had an on-again, off-again thing for two years.

And the bastard somehow always knew how to rope me back in.

“What do you want?”

“Is that any way to speak to your boss?”

“You’re not my boss. Your father is. You’re just the nepo baby pain in my ass.”

“Nepo baby?” He laughed. Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true.

Gaz’s father owned one of the biggest international hotel and food companies in the world, but Gaz was enormously talented and had proved himself as one of the hottest, most innovative young chefs in Europe.

“Wouldn’t that make you a nepo baby by association? After all, I did get you your job.”

I gritted my teeth. It was true. Everything I currently had was thanks to him.

He’d recommended me to Chef Marcel, the head chef at the crown-jewel French brasserie in their restaurant empire.

But I’d worked my ass off the past six months, and the chef asked me to update his signature recipe.

He was not going to take credit for that.

“Oh, fuck off, Gaz. And don’t even think of suggesting ways I can repay you.”

“Calm down, babe. This isn’t a call for sexual favors. Though I am in town, so if you wanted to pop ’round to mine . . .”

For a nanosecond I let my mind wander to his lean, tatted body. It had been a while since I’d gotten any. I’d been too busy with work to meet anyone new. Maybe just this once . . .

“No,” I said with more conviction than I felt. If I let that start again, I was only going to hurt myself. “What do you want?”

“A meeting. Tomorrow in Shoreditch with the old man.” I pictured his father, with his slicked-back, steel-gray hair and shrewd eyes, and shivered.

The man was hard as stone and cold as ice.

Before I could say hell no, however, Gaz continued, “He has a proposal for you—it has to do with one of the new hotels we’re opening. ”

My foot tapped on the floor, like it always did when I was nervous or excited about something. Was this really happening? I was finally getting a promotion. Maybe I had summoned the forces of the universe with my pep talk and my magical deconstructed lobster bisque.

Trying to sound less impressed than I was, I asked, “What time?”