Chapter Four
Aubrey
March
Ten seconds. That was how long I’d allow for self-pity before I dragged my forehead off the counter and resanitized the kitchen.
You’d think the concept of a wipe-down rag and a sanitizing rag wouldn’t be difficult for a grown chef to manage, but it sure had been for the chef who’d just finished his trial shift.
He was not getting the job.
And not merely because after three detailed explanations, including a visual demonstration, he’d continued to dunk the dirty wipe-down rag into the sanitizing solution until it was filthier than the counters it was supposed to be cleaning.
It was because every other task I’d asked him to do throughout the day had gone the same.
I wasn’t looking to hire perfection. I was more than willing to train someone still a bit green. I didn’t even care if they’d gone to culinary school. But I couldn’t have someone on my team who couldn’t follow basic instructions. That was the bare minimum.
Twelve interviews in two months, and no prospective chef had hit it.
Which meant I’d be working tomorrow’s event alone. Again.
Six events Arden Catering had done since New Year’s, and all but one of them I’d worked by myself. The exception had been the first and only time I’d conducted a trial shift at the event instead of during prep the day before—a mistake I’d quickly learned from.
But the longer I went without a team, the longer Arden Catering would go without turning a profit.
Three events a month wasn’t enough to cover overhead now that we were renting a separate prep kitchen, and I wasn’t willing to risk taking on much more on my own.
Not when establishing a strong reputation was Jillian’s top concern.
She didn’t care about the money yet. Especially with how well the restaurant was doing. First and foremost, this catering operation’s mission was to amplify the impression Ardena had made, which meant doing things right.
But we couldn’t go on not making money forever. I refused for Arden Catering to become a burden for Ardena to carry. So if I had to suffer through a thousand more failed interviews, that was what I’d do.
Ugh.
I hauled myself to standing and filled a new sanitizing bucket while I tried to decide which was worse: hiring staff or my attempt at finding a hookup the other night. Another first and only to add to the list.
The going-out part hadn’t been bad. I loved going to clubs, dancing and singing in a sway of bodies until my voice was hoarse and my feet were ready to fall off.
I usually went with Evan, who kept an eye I was safe while finding his own dance partner to take home at the end of the night.
Or sometimes I tagged along with Zach at a gay club where our tattooed, dancing duo would sweat through our clothes and laugh as hard as we sang.
This time had been different. I’d been on a mission: get laid.
Much as Evan tried, he didn’t really work as my wingman.
Guys either assumed we were together or secretly in love because apparently the concept of male-female platonic friendship was as baffling to some as a sanitation rag.
That or the guys would get hypercompetitive with him in a macho, walking-red-flag kind of way, which was helpful to weed out in the long run but didn’t solve my current problem of being very, very horny.
Like clockwork, another flashback to Gabe’s New Year’s kiss gripped me as fiercely as he had my waist. The warm heat of his body pinning mine to the wall, the round muscles of his shoulders and biceps flexing under my palms, our mouths locked in a perfect rhythm my hips had no choice but to chase.
“Did it meet expectations?”
Ha.
It had been good, all right. More like better than any kiss I’d had, ever. It didn’t help I’d dreamed about kissing Gabe since I was nine.
Except the Gabe of my teenage dreams had kissed me like I was sweet and innocent, a fragile thing to be careful with.
Gabe in real life had kissed me like he wanted to ravage me. Like it took everything in him not to rip off my clothes and fuck me over the counter.
Heat rushed between my legs as the image of him fucking me over this counter filled my head, and I squeezed my thighs together, swallowing a moan of frustration as I scrubbed the prep table harder.
This was the problem. This constant ache I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how many times I wore out the battery on my vibrator.
It used to be I’d power the thing up once a week and be set. Now, I was whipping it out morning and night and still had the urge to slip into the bathroom at work to rub one out.
I was going crazy with horniness. Craving the experience of being with another person that a vibrator could never give. The skin-on-skin, feeding off each other’s arousal, having the weight of their body on you, hearing them groan kind of experience. The sensory high of it all.
Something physical.
It was what I’d imagined sex would be like until I’d had it, and the all-consuming whirlwind of pleasure turned out to be more of a light breeze.
Let’s just say my vibrator had been more than enough in comparison.
Apparently not anymore. At least not with Gabe sending me shirtless pictures of himself all sweaty and toned from a workout.
That had been the straw that led me to reach out to Dani and her friend Kelly, who I’d learned liked to socialize with the opposite sex as frequently as Evan did.
The plan had been simple enough. Go to a bar, meet a few guys…
I hadn’t thought beyond that, seeing as I figured I’d be ready to jump on the first thing with two legs and a penis. But evidently, even supercharged horniness had its limits.
While Kelly had been in a lip-lock with her catch for the night within twenty minutes of arriving, I’d sat awkwardly at the bar with the guy’s friend, two seconds from flashing Dani our “Get me the hell out of here” signal.
It wasn’t an appearance issue so much as the way he kept eyeing my tattoos and asking me questions like, “So you’re into pain?”
I really wasn’t. I just liked tattoos. Liked how they could capture even a fraction of nature’s beauty in my skin. How with each new flower or herb or creature, my body became that much closer to looking like a real-life fairy garden.
At one point, he followed me to the bathroom as if he assumed “I have to pee” was code for “come have sex with me in the corner stall.” Which, why would that be a thing? What about public bathrooms made anyone go, “Hell yes, I for sure want to have sex beside this well-used toilet”?
But seeing as sex had been my goal, I let him lean in for a kiss. Maybe there was something to it I just hadn’t discovered yet. Only the second he got close enough for me to smell his sour breath, I’d recoiled.
I didn’t get it. How come Evan and Kelly had no problem making out with strangers, but I couldn’t? It was like I was turned on by the idea of sex but not the reality of it.
My relationship with Patrick had pretty much checked that box. I’d wanted to have sex with him, but every time I did felt like me hoping this would be the time that felt good. That I would finally understand what everyone else was so excited about.
I still didn’t, despite being a straight woman who’d spent most of my life surrounded by men.
My social life growing up had been whichever of Evan’s guy friends we hung out with at the time, since I’d been too shy to initiate my own friendships. I’d gotten along with some girls in school, but never to the point of real connection.
Then I went to culinary school and entered a male-dominated industry where every kitchen I worked in was a boy’s club. According to mainstream television, that scenario should have landed me enough sexual partners to fill an advent calendar.
Meanwhile, I hadn’t had sex for the first time until I was twenty-four, had slept with a grand total of one man, and hadn’t seen a penis in real life since we broke up three years ago.
If I was on a sitcom, my vagina would have shriveled up and died by now.
I might have thought it had if it weren’t for that kiss with Gabe.
It had been so easy with him. Automatic, almost. Like my body knew how to move and respond to his touch to the point I just sort of sank into it.
I wasn’t trapped in my head worrying whether I used too much tongue or if I should use more, or where to put my hands and what sort of noise I should make.
I hadn’t been in my head at all. My body had been in charge, and for once, it hadn’t tensed like a rabbit that spotted a hawk.
I wanted to see what else my body could do. What else came naturally when my defenses fell away.
But it wasn’t like I could waltz up and ask Gabe to have sex with me.
He didn’t view me that way. The kiss on New Year’s had just been him helping me out.
One of what had to be a dozen New Year’s kisses he’d likely had that meant nothing to him.
The fact that it hadn’t come up in any of our texts during the past two months essentially confirmed as much.
And really, I didn’t have time for sex anyway. Until Arden Catering was on its feet, the only thing I needed to score was a competent sous chef.
And maybe a second vibrator.
I fed my frustration into my cleaning, polishing the counters until my reflection shone back at me. Ten minutes later as I was putting on my coat, Jillian walked through the door.
She was the same height as me, a mighty five-two, yet with how her presence filled the prep kitchen, you’d think her head scraped the ceiling.
“Oh good, I caught you,” she said, placing her purse on the spotless counter and removing her leather gloves. “I thought you might have left.”
It was a little after five, the time service started at Ardena. I was still adjusting to the fact that, except for the nights I had events, my evenings were now free.
“I just finished prep for the Cimorelli bridal shower tomorrow,” I said. “We’re all set.”
“Excellent. There’s something I need to discuss with you.”
I nodded for the door. “Should we go to Ardena?” The catering prep kitchen was a short walk to the restaurant, and we’d had a few quick-brainstorming-turned-long-planning sessions there already.
“No need.” She retrieved a folded pile of papers from her purse and slid them across the counter.
I pulled them apart and read the top page: Pennsylvania Dining & Hospitality Association (PDHA) Flavor of Philadelphia Catering Competition.
Arden Catering’s information had been filled in, and at the bottom of the application, the status read: ACCEPTED.
My stomach tightened as the rest of my body braced as if sensing an oncoming train. I glanced at Jillian. “You entered us into a catering competition?”
A mischievous glint filled her eye.
Oh boy.