33. The One In Blue
Chapter 33
The One In Blue
LENA
“ O uch!” The sharp sting of hot oil on my skin snaps me out of my thoughts as I burn the side of my palm on the fryer. I mutter a curse under my breath, quickly moving to the sink to run cold water over the tender spot. The stream feels like tiny needles against the burn, but I welcome the sensation—anything to keep me grounded.
My mind’s been buzzing ever since my conversation with Hunter. The idea of revamping the menu at Blue Whiskey is exhilarating, a chance to prove myself and bring something fresh to the table. This place is no Zagat-rated steakhouse, sure, but I know I can do better than wings and fries.
“You alright?” Gage’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Yeah,” I say, waving him off as I inspect my reddened palm. “Just not paying attention. What’s up?”
“Some dude at Table 21 has questions about the food.”
“Questions?” My tone drips with irritation as I dry my hand.
“I know,” he says, holding up his hands defensively. “But it’s Table 21.”
I frown. “So? This isn’t The Four Seasons. I don’t personally answer questions about wings.”
“You’re becoming a real snob, you know that?”
“Whatever,” I mutter, turning back to the fryer. “Isn’t dealing with customers your job? Especially since Megan’s on extended maternity leave?”
“Do you want to be the one to tell your brother you couldn’t be bothered with customer service in his club?”
I glare at him, but Gage stands firm, his smirk almost daring me to argue.
“Fine,” I huff, untying my apron. “But you owe me.”
“Sure thing, chef,” he says with a wink.
As I step into the main room, the steady hum of conversation and clinking glasses fills the air. The dim, moody lighting casts a warm glow over the sleek tables and dark wood accents, a far cry from the chaos of the kitchen. Gage gestures toward Table 21, where two men sit surrounded by plates of food and imported beer.
“The one in blue,” he says, pointing subtly.
I let out a slow breath, still cradling my burned hand in a tea towel. If I’m going to turn Blue Whiskey into something better, I have to learn to deal with situations like this. Plastering on a professional smile, I approach the table.
“Hello, I’m Lena, the chef here,” I say, my voice polite but firm.
The man in the ink-blue jacket turns his head, and my breath catches. He’s… striking. Dark hair, almond-shaped eyes, and creamy tan skin that suggests a mixed heritage—maybe Asian and Latino, or Black? His broad shoulders and sharp jawline only add to the effect, and for a moment, I’m speechless.
“Lena,” he repeats, his voice rich and smooth.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my composure. “Yes. You had a question about the food?”
“Not a question,” he says, his tone casual but edged with arrogance. “A comment.”
The man beside him snickers, clearly anticipating what’s coming next.
“Oh?”
“Our meal tastes like we’re paying you for a heart attack.”
My smile falters. “Excuse me?”
“It’s ridiculously salty.”
His words land like a slap, and suddenly, he’s not striking—he’s infuriating.
“You brought me out here to tell me that parmesan wings and truffle fries from a nightclub are salty?”
“I thought you should know.”
“Order something else.”
“I would,” he says with a smirk, “but I’m afraid for my life.”
His friend snorts, barely containing his laughter.
“Sorry to hear you don’t like the cuisine,” I say, my tone icy. “Why don’t you and your friend go somewhere else?”
“Is that how you talk to your customers?”
“Just the rude ones.”
“You don’t take criticism well, do you?” he asks, a dimple appearing as his smirk deepens.
I resist the urge to slap him. “I’ll tell the manager to comp your check.”
Turning on my heel, I make a beeline for the kitchen, my heart pounding. Criticism has always been my weak spot, and his smug delivery hits a nerve. But as I walk away, Hunter steps into my path.
“Lena,” he says, gesturing toward the table. “I see you’ve met Oliver.”
I whip around, my eyes narrowing. “What do you mean, met Oliver ? How do you know these jerks?”
“Hey,” the second guy protests, raising his hands. “I’m innocent. He’s the jerk.”
“This is Oliver,” Hunter says, his tone patient. “The guy I was telling you about.”
My stomach drops. “ You’re Oliver?”
Oliver stands, and my brain short-circuits. He’s tall—ridiculously tall—and his tailored jacket only emphasizes his lean, muscular frame. He looks like he stepped out of a high-end fashion ad, rugged and polished all at once.
“I am,” he says, his voice dropping an octave.
Focus, Lena.
He’s a dick.
“You insult my food and think you’re going to help me run my kitchen?” I snap.
“It wasn’t an insult,” he says, his cool arrogance unshaken. “Just an observation.”
I turn to Hunter, lowering my voice. “You said it’s up to me.”
“It is,” he says gently. “But you’ve known Oliver for five minutes. You can’t make a decision yet. Let him come back tomorrow, show him around the kitchen, and then decide.”
“This is not what I agreed to,” I hiss.
“He’s got the experience we talked about.”
“How? He can’t be that much older than me.”
Oliver steps closer, his presence commanding. “I have a baby face,” he says with a faint smirk. “But I know my way around a kitchen. It’s the family business.”
“Then why don’t you go back and work for your family?”
“Lena,” Hunter warns, his tone sharp.
Oliver raises his hands in mock surrender. “Listen, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I’m a straight shooter, and sometimes that comes off as… overbearing.”
“You think?”
“Let’s try again tomorrow,” he says, extending a hand. “If you still hate me, I’ll move on. No hard feelings.”
Before I can respond, my smartwatch vibrates with a call from Christian. It’s the perfect escape.
“I’ll give you an hour tomorrow,” I say, ignoring Hunter’s disapproving look as I answer the call.
“Hey, Christian…”