Chapter 5
ASPEN
“Do I look okay?”
Jude grumbles, pulling the covers over her head. “What time is it?”
“Six thirty.”
“Oh, fuck off. Why the hell are you waking me up at this ungodly hour? I thought we were friends.”
“I’m going to cook for Chef Stevens today. Does my outfit look okay? I don’t want to seem unprofessional.”
She makes a big show of throwing the covers back, her hair going in all directions as she rubs her eyes before looking me up and down.
“You look amazing. The top is highlighting your killer rack without being slutty. And your pants are cute. They show off your sexy hips and ass. It’s a yes from me. ”
“Are you sure? Maybe I should change my top to something more conservative.”
“Unless you’re going to wear a habit, there’s no hiding your figure. Don’t go changing for some guy. Contrary to popular belief, they can exercise self-restraint.”
“A man like him wouldn’t look twice at a girl like me.”
“That’s bullshit. You’re gorgeous, and I don’t care how many Michelin Stars he has or how his food makes you weak at the knees, there is no man on this earth who is worthy of you, Aspen. Remember that.”
“Thanks, Jude.”
“Wear the top. You look amazing. It’s actually sickening at this time in the morning.” She slumps back down onto her pillow before pulling the covers back over her head. “Now, get the fuck out of my room and let me sleep, woman.”
“Love you, bestie,” I say as I leave her to the rest of her morning.
“Yeah. Yeah. I want details when you get back.” I don’t answer, knowing that she’ll be bored to tears when I wax lyrical about Chef Stevens’ food.
As I grab my purse and head for the door, butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach. What if he hates my cooking? Is he going to give me dishes to make, or will he let me concoct my own? Maybe this was a bad idea.
The subway ride seems longer than usual, my mind racing with trepidation as I near Dulip, but I’m going to be fifteen minutes early to meet Chef Stevens.
Just the thought makes me nervous. So nervous, I’m not sure if my feet will take me the last few blocks as the train pulls into the station.
I navigate my way up onto the bustling streets of Manhattan, filing into the crowd of people with places to be and jobs to do.
When the elegant entrance of the restaurant comes into view, my heart lurches up into my throat at the sight of Chef Stevens, ready and waiting for me. I steel myself when his gaze meets mine, picking me out in the crowd.
I can do this. I just need to remain professional. This could be my start as a chef. When I realize how much is riding on today, my hands begin to shake, so I take a few deep breaths as I close the gap between us.
“You’re early. I like you already.” His smile is disarming, and outside of the kitchen, he seems younger, closer to my age. It is both impressive and depressing. He was well on his way to being the hottest chef in Manhattan by my age.
“My dad always said being early is on time, and being on time is late.”
“Good. You need that work ethic if you want to be a chef. This isn’t an easy road, and you’re always going to be working when everyone else in your life is enjoying their time away from work.”
“I’m used to that already, sir.” He breaks eye contact, his brow furrowed. This isn’t a great start. “Waitressing for you is a nighttime pursuit, and I don’t shy away from a hard day’s work.”
“Let’s go.” I get in step behind him as he leads me to his car. Although he’s quiet, he’s a perfect gentleman, opening my door for me before getting in himself.
“Do you do this every day?” I say as he pulls into traffic.
“I used to. I tend to split it with my head chef now.” He keeps his eyes on the road with his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel.
“I love that you still run the kitchen. So many chefs who’ve made it to this level of success don’t even cook in their own restaurant anymore.”
“Everything else is just white noise. If I don’t get to cook, then none of this means anything.”
“I really admire that, Chef.” His shoulders loosen, and he affords me a quick glance.
“Please just call me Ryder. I’m not Chef, Mr. Stevens, or… sir.” The furrow of his brow mars his chiseled features.
“I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just that… I respect you.”
“And if I were fifty, I’d accept it, but we’re close to the same age.
For this exercise, consider us peers. At least for today.
Anyway, let’s talk about what we’re looking for this morning.
” We fall into easier conversation as I absorb everything he says.
His enthusiasm is contagious, and by the time we reach the market, my nerves have settled.
I’ve never been here, and the second we walk in, the hustle and bustle is electric. Restaurateurs from all over the city are picking out the best ingredients to create a culinary masterpiece.
When Ryder—I need to get used to that—finishes getting everything he needs for Dulip tonight, he turns his attention to me. “So, what are you going to cook for me today?”
“I wasn’t sure if you would task me with making one of your dishes or creating one of mine.”
“There’s no point in having you follow a recipe. Anyone can do that. I want to see if you have the chops to be in my kitchen. What is your favorite dish?”
“I’m partial to Italian food. Authentic Italian.”
“Them’s fighting words. Freshly made pasta?”
“Yes, sir. Ryder. I make a good lasagna.”
“Say it with conviction. It’s not enough to say it’s ‘good.’ It needs to be fucking great.
If you don’t have confidence in your abilities, then no one else will.
This job is so much more than just cooking.
It’s imaginative and instinctive, but if you want to run a kitchen, you need to command the room.
You have to be a leader. Can you do that? ”
“Yes.”
“Better. Now, I’ll follow you. Time to pick out your ingredients, and we can go back to Dulip and see what you’re made of.” A thrill courses through me. I can do this.
I wander through the market, finding everything I need to make a lasagna worthy of Ryder Stevens. If I were smarter, I probably would have steered clear of Italian food. He’s studied under some of Italy’s finest chefs.
“Did I just shoot myself in the foot by choosing Italian?”
“No.” He smiles. “I think it makes you ballsy. And that makes me predisposed to go easy on you.”
“That doesn’t help me. I want your honest opinion, no matter how harsh. It’ll make me a better chef.”
“And if my honest opinion is that your food is amazing?”
“Then, I’ll accept your praise gracefully.” Even the thought of it sends a shiver down my spine. He scrubs his hand over the stubble on his jaw, grunting under his breath.
“We don’t have all day. Grab the rest of your ingredients and let’s go.”
I make short work of gathering what I need, but whenever I attempt to pay a vendor, Ryder steps in and tells them to ignore my proffered payment.
“I can pay for my own ingredients. I don’t know if you know this, but I earn pretty great tips at this upscale restaurant I work at.”
“Is that right?” he says with a playful grin. “I know you’re more than capable. I’ve driven you home, remember. You live in quite the zip code for a waitress, but I would never let a woman pay for something when I’m around.”
“This isn’t the 1800s. I’m perfectly capable of paying my way.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I’m an old-fashioned kind of guy.” His eyes darken as he meets my gaze.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I want to pay for stuff. I want to hold out a chair for a woman at a restaurant. And, I protect what’s mine.”
“What’s yours? Are the women you date just objects to be owned?” What the hell did I just say? He’s my boss. I have no business chastising him for archaic behavior, and I’m not prepared for what he says next.
“I’m not a guy who dates.” I’m dumbstruck. It’s a crime against humanity that someone as handsome as Ryder Stevens doesn’t date.
“What? Are you celibate or something?” Why can’t I curtail my brain-to-mouth filter today?
A sexy-as-hell grin creeps at the corners of his gorgeous lips as he tilts his head, considering what he’s going to say next. “Not even close. I said I don’t date. I didn’t say I don’t fuck.”
I feel my cheeks flush at the thought of him fucking, the rise and fall of my chest betraying my attempt at nonchalance. “Oh.”
“Don’t ask questions you won’t like the answer to.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pry.” I tuck a loose curl behind my ear—a nervous tick that would give me away to anyone who knows me.
“You’re right. You shouldn’t.” I’ve messed this up before I’ve even started. “We’re wasting time. Let’s get out of here.”
I keep my mouth shut as we make our way to Dulip, my nerves getting the better of me. I’m lost in my own thoughts as we walk through the restaurant that I know as well as my own apartment, and yet it suddenly feels completely foreign to me.
“Time to show me what you can do,” he says as he flips the lights on in the kitchen.
Every surface is sparkling, ready for the night ahead.
This is the calm before the storm, and butterflies take flight in the pit of my stomach when Chef Stevens hands me chef’s whites.
Holy shit! I feel like I’m playing dress-up.
“If you’re going to cook in my kitchen, you’re going to look the part. This should fit.”
I reach out, trepidation in every move. My hand brushes his as I take it from him, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I’m freaking out inside, my entire body vibrating, every meal I’ve ever cooked leading up to this moment.
“Breathe, Aspen. It’s daunting, but you’re no use to me if you pass out.” I’m frozen to the spot. This is the worst possible time to choke. Say something. Say anything. “Do as you’re fucking told, Aspen. Breathe.”