The Mysterious One (The Weston Group #3)

Chapter 1

ONE

Walker

“Fuck this!” I flung the frying pan like it was a Frisbee across the kitchen of my family’s restaurant.

The mushrooms that I’d been sautéing splattered everywhere, even covering my chef’s whites.

The stainless steel pan hit the counter across from me as though it were a bowling ball, taking out the rack of spices like they were pins, the hot metal continuing down the line until it was stopped by my sous chef.

My sous chef grabbed his dominant hand, bent over in pain, and shouted, “Ahhh,” filling the silence in the room.

I didn’t have an apology in me. I didn’t even know how to say those words. All I had was, “I’m fucking out of here.”

I stormed off past my sister, Eden, and brother Colson, who had arrived a few minutes ago to speak to me, and headed to my office in the back.

I pushed the door open with so much force that the wood threatened to snap from its hinges.

I flipped on the light and went over to my chair, my bag sitting on top of it, and I grabbed the strap and tossed it over my shoulder, kicking the chair into my desk when I was done.

As I turned around to leave, Eden and Colson were standing in the doorway, blocking it.

“Sit down.” Eden’s blue gaze was so sharp that I could feel it slice through my skin.

My top lip curled. “I know you’re not talking to me.”

“Sit. Down.” She even pointed at my chair.

The thought of putting my anger in a seated position made the blood inside me boil to the brim.

I backed up until I hit the wall behind my desk, sandwiching the framed awards and photos, giving zero fucks if the weight of my body or the pressure from my bag caused them to fall or their glass to shatter.

“What the hell do you want?” I roared across the small space.

“I want you to relax for a second.” Colson’s stare was piercing when it was normally so calm. “I want you to take a deep fucking breath before you explode.”

“I’m beyond exploding.”

My younger brother came closer and put his hands on the edge of my desk. “I understand you’re crashing out—”

“You understand nothing. You’re not in my shoes. Your feet aren’t even in the same fucking room as them, so don’t you dare say that to me.” I shoved my hands into my pockets before I did something with them—something I’d regret.

“And don’t even think about bringing up the conversation from earlier.

” I didn’t need to define when earlier was—they knew what they’d said in the kitchen that set me off.

“If you want to add more cooked dishes to Toro’s menu because you think our customers who don’t eat raw fish aren’t satisfied with the current offerings, then you fucking create the dishes.

I’m done.” I banged my fist against the wall. “Done!”

The reason my siblings were here was to discuss the menu of our seafood and raw bar restaurant.

A menu I’d curated when we opened in LA, despite already having two other locations.

A menu I’d spent months perfecting, one that wasn’t even broken in yet—the LA restaurant was still too goddamn new to have data on what our patrons loved, hated, or desired.

What I did know was that the wait list to get a reservation was almost two months long and diners were doing everything in their power to get through our door.

Reviewers were saying Toro was the best thing that had ever hit Southern California, and Dear Foodie—one of the top food influencers in the country—had given us her highest rating.

So, Eden and Colson had had some fucking nerve to come into Charred tonight—the steak house where I worked as the executive chef—and ask if they could talk to me.

They thought they knew everything when it came to food. They thought they knew more than me.

Fuck that.

Fuck them.

And fuck their ideas.

“Just hear me out, Walker.” Colson’s voice was low and calm.

I wanted to pick up the stapler from my desk and throw it at his throat.

“We want to capture a larger audience than just sushi and seafood eaters. If there isn’t an adequate selection of cooked items, giving them a bit more than the handful that’s on the menu now, they’re not going to come—”

“Didn’t you hear a goddamn thing I just said?

I’m not talking about this.” With my head pressed against the drywall, my eyes closed, and my teeth clenched like I was at the dentist and he was taking an impression of my mouth.

“There are seven cooked dishes on that menu. That’s more than a handful.

Each one is different. How many more do they fucking want? ”

“We need a chicken option—”

My eyes burst open. “Chicken? Are you fucking kidding me?” My fist, now in a different spot than before, nailed the wall. I waited to feel glass or metal or some sharp material stab my skin. Miraculously, I felt nothing but wall. “Take your fucking chicken, Colson, and shove it up your ass.”

“Stop!” Eden put her hand out like she was preventing me from coming any closer, but I hadn’t moved. “We didn’t come here to argue or upset you, which we’ve clearly done. And, shit, your poor sous chef is probably on his way to the hospital as we speak.”

When I could think straight, I’d check on him. And when my hands stopped shaking, I’d tell my assistant to send my concierge doctor to his house whenever he returned home to make sure the wound—if he had one—was wrapped properly and treated well.

But right now, I saw far too much red to do either.

“Walker, I need you to take a breath.” Eden sounded like she was speaking to Ellie, Colson’s four-year-old daughter. “And then I need you to tell us what’s wrong.”

“Eden”—I tore at my hair—“I’ve reached my limit.”

Now standing at Colson’s side, she held the top of the chair in front of her. “I assumed that’s what was going on.”

Out of all my siblings, she understood this feeling more than anyone.

“I want to ease things for you, so here’s my idea: instead of coming to the San Antonio opening of Horned, which will only add more to your overflowing plate, you’re going to stay home.

But I don’t want you working. You’re going to take a week off.

Maybe two. And in that week or two, I want you to get your head straight.

I want you to unplug and relax and find a normal blood pressure rather than living like you’re on the verge of having a stroke.

” She gave me a soft smile. “When you come back after your break, we’ll discuss Toro’s menu, along with the other plans we have in the works. ”

The blood pressure, the stroke—those were my siblings’ fault.

I’d told them countless times that Charred, Toro, and Musik—our dance club—were more than enough for our brand.

Those three strong arms made up The Weston Group, and we needed nothing else.

At least not now. But they didn’t listen, and they purchased Horned—an existing restaurant in Laguna Beach—with plans to open many more, not just the San Antonio location.

They were also working with a real estate attorney to buy additional commercial spaces and convert those into restaurants.

What that would do was increase our need for employees, well-trained kitchen staff, food and beverage ordering and distribution.

When you combined that with changes to Toro’s menu, the logistical nightmare of getting those new food items to our restaurants worldwide, the launch of Toro in LA and Horned in San Antonio, and a new cookbook deal—I was fucking done.

There was a fire every goddamn day. One so major that it threatened the vitality of our restaurants.

And every fucking day, the red in my vision grew.

The anger built.

It wasn’t because of Horned. Charred. Toro. Or Musik.

And two weeks off wasn’t going to fix it or tame it.

It certainly wasn’t going to mend me either.

How do you put the pieces back together when they’re not only shattered, but unrecognizable, and they no longer fit perfectly together?

“If you think this little break is going to make me feel better, then you’ve ignored every-fucking-thing I’ve said to you the last several months.”

Colson’s head dropped.

But Eden stayed focused on me, her hands moving to her sides, and when that didn’t work for her, she crossed her arms. “I’ve listened to every word.

I hear you. I just don’t know what else to do, Walker.

The Weston Group is going to continue to expand, and we need you to be a part of it.

We can’t operate without you.” She exhaled.

“We’ve built our entire company around you. ”

“I never said I was leaving.”

“You didn’t have to.” Her head tilted, and her lips pursed. “I can see it in your eyes.”

Hundreds of restaurants and clubs around the globe.

Cookbooks.

Cookware.

All on me.

Me.

And more fucking me.

“Yet you keep throwing more shit at me, expecting me to catch it. Don’t you realize that therein lies the problem?

” My voice was rising. “Not a single Weston can do what I do. Which means everyone in our family, everyone in our corporate office, and everyone in our restaurants needs me.” At some point, my fingers had straightened.

They felt much better clenched in a ball, so that was what I did with them.

“What about me? What about what I need?” My stare shifted from my sister to my brother.

“Do any of you ever consider that? By the amount of shit you put on me—not weekly, but hourly—the answer to that is no.”

“That’s why I’m telling you to take a couple of weeks off,” Eden countered.

“You say this now.” I bent my knee, my shoe flattening against the wall. “What about last week, when I told you—”