Chapter 12
TWELVE
Alivia
My hands went straight over my ears once Walker shouted in the grittiest voice, “You … what?”
I knew he wasn’t asking me to repeat that I worked here. His choice of wording was because he was in shock that I was his employee.
Regardless, there was no way I’d let him treat me the same way he’d chewed up not one, but two of his employees tonight.
“Don’t yell at me.” My eyes briefly squeezed shut. “I can’t handle it.”
I’d had all night to think about what this conversation would look like.
I just didn’t expect for it to happen so soon.
I was positive I could do an excellent job at avoiding him for at least a few more shifts.
In the meantime, I could get my thoughts together and figure out what I was going to say.
But what I hadn’t anticipated from any of this was anger.
And that was the emotion that was staring me right in the face.
“What are you, a fucking child?”
My hands fell to my sides. “I’d really like to tell you to fuck off for saying that.”
He glared at me, the heat from his stare coming over my face like a backhanded slap. “No one tells me to fuck off in my restaurant.”
“I didn’t. I told you I’d like to. What I’d also like to tell you is that I’ve been surrounded by screaming assholes for most of my life and I can’t take the shouting.” I shoved my hands into my apron. “I want to talk to you, Whiskey, but I’m not going to talk to you if you keep up that tone.”
He crossed his arms, his body towering over me as I stood before him. I felt like the size of an actual contact lens. “Talk.”
I glanced around, as there were noises coming from other parts of the kitchen, telling me we weren’t alone. “Wouldn’t you like to go somewhere private so we don’t start any rumors?” I’d only been here for two shifts, and I’d already heard months’ worth of drama.
His head shook as if he couldn’t believe he was even entertaining my suggestion. “Follow me.”
He led me through the front section of the kitchen, past the walk-in fridge and freezer, and into one of the back offices.
A quick scan of the room told me this wasn’t just any office; it was his, his accomplishments framed and displayed.
As I closed the door, he moved toward the back wall and faced me.
“Talk,” he repeated.
“Why are you so angry?”
“Why?” His expression showed me I’d asked the dumbest question. “I’ve had people lie to me throughout my entire career, their motives sketchy from the very beginning. But I’ve never had anyone fuck me to get clout in my restaurant.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.
That, out of all accusations, was the one he was throwing at me.
“God, it’s so sad to me that your brain went there. That you never even considered I had taken this job because I wanted to be here and you had absolutely nothing to do with that reason.”
He raised his chin. “Bullshit.”
I leaned against the door, the hardness of the wood holding me up. “Our situation at the hotel and my presence here are complete coincidences. One is not because of the other.”
“You want me to believe that this”—he traced the air between us—“is a coincidence? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”
I pushed myself off the door and walked toward his desk, holding the top of the chair instead of sitting in it.
“Yesterday was my first shift. Today’s my second.
I had been hired a week ago, and that was before anything happened between us.
Go look in my file—I’m sure you have one on every employee.
” I took a breath, my entire body vibrating from the emotions that were coming on so thick.
“On the flip side of that, Hooked doesn’t give out personal information. Your account name is Whiskey35. You never told me your real name when we met, and I never asked for it. You never once spoke specifically about your business or your industry.”
My eyes stayed locked with his. “I didn’t know you were Walker Weston at the hotel.
I also didn’t know that when I came in yesterday.
I didn’t even know ‘Walker’ ”—I air-quoted—“was the executive chef here. I just assumed the owner worked elsewhere or in some office somewhere. Until I saw you screaming at that poor chef, I had no idea that Walker, the owner, was the same person as Whiskey35, the man I’d slept with. ”
He didn’t even take a breath when he said, “You said I looked familiar at the hotel …”
I squeezed the cushion of the chair, my nails going into the fabric.
“And you told me that this was LA and everyone looked like someone. When I pushed the topic a little more, you told me you were sure I’d seen a hundred dudes who looked like you.
Or even one of your siblings since you had a few of those. ”
“You’re telling me out of the two nights we spent together, you never figured it out?” His stare narrowed.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“My face is on the goddamn cover of cookbooks.” He pointed at his cheek. “It’s on the packaging of my line of cookware.”
“I don’t own a cookbook, Walker. As for cookware, I don’t own any of that either.” I could feel my skin start to redden. “The one frying pan I have access to doesn’t come from your line, I assure you.”
He held the back of his neck, his head facing down as he looked at me through his lashes. “You really didn’t know who Walker Weston was?”
“Oh, I knew you and your family owned Charred, along with Toro, Horned, and Musik. I try to keep up with restaurant news as much as possible. Besides, you’re one of the most famous chefs in the world; most people in the industry know your name, I’d assume.
I’ve also seen random pictures of you, but could I have told you what color eyes you had?
Or that you were this tall? And built? Or that you had a beard?
Definitely not. What I could have told you—and did—was that you looked familiar.
” I shrugged. “How though, I didn’t know.
You’re certainly not the face of the cooking videos I watch online or the cooking mentoring accounts I follow.
Those are the faces I see every day in your industry, not yours. ”
His head nodded, but it didn’t seem like he was agreeing; it seemed like he was processing. “This is all a coincidence …”
“Yes. I swear on my life—and that’s something I don’t swear on.”
He slowly licked his lips. “Why are you here? Why Charred?”
So, he got it, and that part of the conversation was dropped. A relief, for sure. But I wasn’t surprised at all that he hadn’t apologized for his incorrect assumption or for yelling at me.
In the little time I’d spent with him, I knew that much about him.
I ran my hand over the top of my head, feeling like the hairs had started to lift from my bun.
“I needed a second job. I applied to at least twenty high-end restaurants around LA. I got three offers. I chose Charred because of its reputation. I wanted to know what a five-star restaurant felt like since I’d never had the opportunity to eat at one. ”
He stood like a statue against the wall, anger in his eyes, like it lived there permanently. Regardless of what I said, it didn’t lighten at all.
Had I missed that during our time at the hotel? Or had it been absent from his eyes?
“What’s your full-time job?”
I shook my head. “Why does that matter?”
“Alivia, what is your full-time job?” His voice was deeper this time, but he didn’t raise it.
“I work as a waitress at an assisted living facility.”
His gaze traveled down my body, but it wasn’t like he was mentally undressing me. It was like he was confirming what he already knew. “You’re dressed as a food runner and water girl. Why aren’t you serving here?”
“Your manager wouldn’t hire me as a server. She said I didn’t have enough experience for your clientele. She wanted me to build up to that role.”
He pushed off the wall, came over to his desk, and sat down. It was then that I realized how different he looked in chef’s whites. How the professional version of Walker—or Whiskey—was equally as handsome as the personal one.
“Why do you want five-star restaurant experience?” He waited, and I said nothing. “Why are you watching cooking videos? That’s your thing when you get tired of true crime docs? Or was that a lie?”
“Nothing I’ve ever told you was a lie.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
My heart began to pound, or maybe pound harder—I couldn’t tell at this point. “Why is that any of your business?”
“Answer the question.”
A knot was moving its way into my throat.
I didn’t want to go there with him.
Or anyone.
“Is this one of those situations where you don’t like to let it all out, in fear that once those words are spoken, you can’t take them back?”
He was using my words against me.
And I couldn’t breathe.
“Walker”—my head shook—“you’re an asshole.”
“Am I right?”
“Screw you.” My head dropped. I couldn’t even hold it up anymore.
“You want to know the truth? Fine. I grew up poor. Not the kind of poor that could somehow make ends meet. I mean the kind of poor who lived with her mother in her car for long periods of time. Who bathed in the sinks of public restrooms.”
I finally looked at him, and his eyes were just as hard as before.
“We didn’t have money for anything, including food.
” I swallowed, trying to lodge the knot out of my throat, and when that didn’t work, I tried again.
“But you know … food would have helped us back then. I truly believe that. There were so many times when a meal would have made Mom and me feel better. Going to bed with a full stomach would have been like a wool blanket—something else we didn’t have on the cold nights we slept in parking lots.
” I wrapped my arms around my stomach, where there was such a deep ache inside.
“Because I think food would have healed us a bit, I want to heal people with my food.” My voice went to a whisper. “I want my cooking to be their warm blanket.”
“Are you saying you want to be a chef?”
“Do I want to? Yes. But I don’t know if I’ll ever be that.
I don’t have money for culinary school. I don’t have real experience in the kitchen.
Some of the places we lived didn’t even have appliances.
I’m just … taking in and learning as much as I can, and sometimes, I get to practice at the assisted living facility. ”
“Practice?”
My fingers rubbed across my ribs. “I get there extra early, and I help prep the food for the day. When time allows for it, the chef lets me cook with him. I’ve learned all about allergies and different diets and how our residents’ health affects what they can eat.
And sometimes, when the chef goes on vacation or calls in sick, they allow me to fill in. ”
“Is that why you’re here?” He rocked in his chair. “To try to slide in somewhere in my kitchen?”
“No. I’m here to learn. The assisted living facility isn’t exactly an unforgettable culinary experience, but what it has done is give me a tiny foundation.
Here, I want to see how some of the best accomplish the level of excellence that this restaurant, and ones like it, reach.
To be around a quality of food I can’t get unless I’m working here. ”
I didn’t know if I wanted to admit this part, but I let it fall from my lips.
“If I had known the famous Walker Weston was the executive chef here, I would have applied years ago.” I held up my hand as his mouth parted and it appeared like he was about to say something.
“Let it be known, I expect nothing from you. I’m not looking for special treatment.
I’m not looking for your time. I’m not asking you to ever pull me into the kitchen.
I will be a water girl and a food runner, and I will watch from afar. ”
His chair stilled. “And you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
It felt like the entire room shifted in temperature, and where his temperament before had caused steam, now the air was ice cold. “Excuse me?”
“If a single person in this establishment found out we’d fucked, that would set things on fire.” His hand landed on top of his desk with a thud. “I don’t need that drama, Alivia. There’s enough drama here already.”
“You have my word.”
He leaned in closer, but there was still a large distance between us. “I should make you sign an NDA.”
“If that’s what you want, I’ll sign it.” My fingers clenched. “If you want me to leave and never come back, I’ll do that too. It’s your business. I respect whatever decision you make. But I hope you don’t want me to go. I really need this job.”
He went silent as he stared at me. I couldn’t even begin to guess what was running through his mind.
“Have you eaten tonight?”
I rolled my eyes. “Stop.”
“Have you eaten tonight?” His voice was so stern.
“No, I haven’t.”
He crossed his arms on top of his desk. “You’re telling me you’ve put nothing in your body, and you’ve worked two jobs today …”
“I downed a protein bar when I was on my way here from my other job.”
He wiped the corner of his mouth. “There’s a rib eye on the gas range that’s been sautéed in butter with fresh herbs and mushrooms. Put it in a to-go container and take it with you.”
“I don’t need your handouts—”
“I made it for myself, and I couldn’t eat it. When I saw you, I was taking it to the sink to throw it away. Either you eat it or it’s getting trashed.”
I set my hand on my chest.
I couldn’t believe this man knew my body intimately.
I couldn’t believe I had shed even a single tear when I left his hotel room.
“Is that my parting gift?”
“It’s my attempt at not wasting food. Whether you have a future at Charred”—he took a deep breath, but it didn’t look like it hurt him—“I don’t know. I need to think about that.”
I rubbed my lips together, the panic of job hunting already setting in. “I’m scheduled to work here tomorrow night.”
“Take it off. I’ll approve the request.”
“I can’t take it off. I need the money, Walker. If I’m not working here, then I need to immediately find another job.”
His gaze turned even more intense.
It was a look I remembered.
But the last time I’d seen it and felt it, I hadn’t been wearing any clothes.
“Fine. I’ll let you know in the morning.”
“Okay.” My arms loosened. “Wait … how are you going to let me know? Don’t you need my phone number?”
“I don’t want your goddamn number. I’ll send you a message the same way I messaged you before. And once that message is sent, you’ll delete our entire chat history. I don’t want those words existing, not even in cyberspace.”
Why did everything hurt?
Even when I said, “Okay.”
“Don’t forget the steak on your way out.” He nodded toward the door. “Now go.”