Chapter 10
TEN
Alivia
“How’s everything going?” Hilary, one of my coworkers, asked as she stopped by the table where I was sitting at work.
I was folding napkins and making sure the silverware was clean and not spotted with food or dish soap. As I finished a fold and set the napkin in a bin, I picked up another heavy black cloth and began weaving it into the pattern I’d been taught to use. “Perfect.”
She hovered by the edge of the table, straightening her apron, and once that was adjusted, she moved on to her tie, making sure it was tight against her throat. “When you finish, meet me in the back of the kitchen, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
She smiled, and as she walked away, I tried to pick up my speed. I was just exhausted. This was only the second day of my new schedule, and I already felt like I was drowning.
Yesterday, I had worked almost fourteen straight hours, and it had, quite possibly, been the longest day of my life. What made it worse was that I barely got any sleep.
Dean and Mom fought all night. I didn’t know what they were arguing about. It sounded like a mesh of words and nonsense. But I could guess it was about money and rum and beer and cigarettes and not having enough.
My documentary played in my ears as soon as I crawled into bed, the volume extra high so I wouldn’t hear them shouting. The problem with that, it was too loud, and I couldn’t sleep. And when I had taken out my earbuds, I couldn’t get any rest because of their yelling.
I needed out.
This schedule, as daunting and difficult as it was going to be, was the only thing that would get me there.
Since I hadn’t yet completed a full week with the increase of hours, I didn’t know how much I would earn.
But I’d already started looking at apartments, and I knew I couldn’t afford one on my own.
What could possibly be in my price range was renting a room and having at least two or three roommates.
A situation that sounded heavenly.
I didn’t care how many people lived under my new roof. As long as one of them wasn’t Dean or my mother, I’d be the happiest person in the world.
I finished fanning the last napkin, and I pulled out my phone from my apron to quickly check the notifications that had come through in the last hour.
Not a single one was from Hooked.
Part of me thought Whiskey would reach out again.
Part of me wanted him to.
And part of me knew that would be the worst idea ever.
Was that why I hadn’t reached out to him? Because neither of us was in a place where dating was even possible?
Or was it because I wanted to feel wanted?
Whatever the answer was, I couldn’t help but feel the sting of disappointment when I shoved my phone back in my apron and carried the bin of napkins to the drink station.
I made several more trips, bringing the bins of forks, spoons, and knives, and once those were stacked in place, I went into the kitchen to go find Hilary.
There were two sections of the kitchen. The front, where I was entering, was one massive rush of employees.
Everyone was moving in different directions at a pace that was several notches above normal.
This was where all the cooking and prep went down.
The back of the kitchen was for sanitation, where the overstock was kept, where the offices and the employee lockers were located, and where we ate, if there was time for that.
To the side, between the two areas, housed the giant walk-in refrigerator and freezer.
I was just passing where the cooking and prep happened when I heard, “What the fuck is this?”
A question that hadn’t just been yelled, but growled. The tone so loud and so sharp that it sliced through my chest and made my feet stop moving.
My hands immediately went to my ears.
I wasn’t home, and that wasn’t Dean who had screamed those words—I had to remind myself of that.
I was at work, a realization that made my hands drop, and that voice …
“It’s a béarnaise sauce,” a different man replied.
“Like I just fucking said. What. The. Fuck. Is. This? You do know that a béarnaise sauce shouldn’t be lumpy and congealed, don’t you? How the hell do you expect me to serve this?”
As the man’s screams moved through me, I made eye contact with the faces around me, everyone’s expression far different than mine. Where I knew I was showing how startled I was, they looked unbothered.
But why?
Did they hear this kind of tone all the time?
“I’m sorry,” was said just loud enough for me to hear.
“Don’t fucking apologize! Just do better!”
Out of curiosity, I turned to see who was arguing.
The men were in front of the gas range, and the prep station was between us, blocking my view of them.
The long counter with two shelves above it and heating lamps hanging from the ceiling made it difficult to see anything on the other side.
I had to duck under the bottom shelf, and as soon as I did, I could see the profiles of the two men.
The blond was wiping sweat off his forehead, looking wickedly stressed, while the dark-haired man, with his lips curled, had his finger pointed at the blond’s chest.
It wasn’t their interaction that kept my eyes locked on them.
It was the dark hair I couldn’t look away from.
The beard.
The slope of his nose.
The curve of his lips.
Oh my fucking God.
My eyes bulged.
My heart pounded.
My mouth fell open.
Wait …
How?
Why?
This can’t be happening.
This can’t be …
The blond countered, “I’ll do better—”
“Do better now. I needed that sauce twenty fucking minutes ago.” As the demand left the dark-haired man’s mouth, he turned his neck, as if he sensed I was staring at him.
Inches before his eyes landed on mine, I threw myself down on the ground.
The reaction was far more dramatic than I’d intended, and when my knees hit the hard tiles, I yelped, “Ouch,” and I knew I was going to be covered in bruises.
“Are you okay?”
When I glanced up, one of the waitresses was kneeling beside me.
“Yeah … I …” What could I even say? What was even happening?
Was she the only one who had seen me fall?
Or was everyone staring at me? A quick peek around told me it was only her.
But I still had to come up with a reason why I was on the ground and why I wasn’t standing back up.
“I … lost my contact.” I tapped my hands on the floor as I pretended to look for it, all the while staying low and out of sight.
I had perfect vision; I hated that I even had to fib.
“I’ll help you find it. Hang on. Let me grab my phone and use the flashlight. That’ll make things easier.”
“You don’t have to do that.” I kept one eye closed as I looked at her to make it seem even more believable, feeling worse by the second from everything that was developing. “I’m sure it’ll pop up. If not, I have extras with me.”
Was that even how it worked with contacts? I knew nothing about what I was talking about.
“It could have fallen under the prep station.” She was crouched down, shining her phone under the metal base.
I can’t believe this.
I can’t even process it.
I …
“Can I ask you something?” I had stopped pretending to look but kept my body down.
“Of course.”
I drew in some air, trying to calm my heart so she wouldn’t hear the trembling in my voice. “The guy who’s yelling—who is that?”
An expression of shock came across her face. “That’s our executive chef. How do you not know that?”
I shook my head as her words hit me like baseballs from a pitching machine. “Yesterday was my first day here, and … he wasn’t working.”
“Oh yeah, he was on a staycation. That’s the rumor anyway.” She slid one of her bracelets further up her arm. “He got called in for tonight because it’s going to be buck-wild busy. His name is Walker Weston.”
Walker Weston …
The executive chef of Charred, where I’d just taken on a second job, working a minimum of five nights a week as a water girl and food runner, combined with my job at the assisted living facility, giving me the most packed schedule ever.
He was Walker Weston to them.
But he was Whiskey35 to me.
The man I’d just spent two nights with at a hotel.
Who had looked familiar. I just couldn’t place him because I’d never seen photos of him where he wasn’t in chef’s whites and deeply involved in some type of cooking.
Whose mouth had been on every inch of my body.
Who was now … my boss.