Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Alivia
The last thing I should be doing was staying past my shift at Charred, standing at a counter, far from the prep station and where the chefs worked, practicing my cutting skills. I needed to be up in six hours to go to my other job, and I still had to drive home.
But home was the last place I wanted to be.
It had been a week since I’d started here, and things were getting even tougher at Dean’s.
Every night, when I walked through his door, I was immediately accused of being a slut.
But that was the nicest word Dean called me; the others were much worse.
Because hooking up with strangers was the only possible explanation for my whereabouts so late at night.
No one would date me, according to him, so I couldn’t be with a boyfriend.
I also couldn’t be at the assisted living facility—he knew my position ended at four.
I wasn’t sure why he never considered I had another job. Of course, I was careful. I changed my clothes at work. I had bought perfume and sprayed it on me so I wouldn’t reek of food. But when he was spewing hate, those weren’t words he ever mentioned.
Every day, he was wearing me down a little more.
But the one-month deadline I had given myself was proving to be almost impossible, and it would likely be closer to two months before I was able to move out.
I never considered that a landlord would want last month’s rent in addition to the first month’s rent and a security deposit. I just didn’t have enough money saved.
I will get there, I promised myself.
I would even pick up an extra shift at the assisted living facility if I had to—
“What are you still doing here?” Walker asked in his deep, gritty tone.
I was so lost in my thoughts; I jumped like an alarm was running through me.
With the knife still in my hand, the teeth piercing the tomato I was holding, I slowly glanced over my shoulder at him. “I didn’t realize you were still here. Rachel told me she wasn’t closing up for another thirty minutes and would come get me when she was leaving.”
“I sent Rachel home.”
“Oh.”
His eyes narrowed. “You haven’t answered my question.”
I was in the section of the kitchen that housed the pots and pans, and this restaurant had hundreds. Between us, hanging from the ceiling, was a collection of copper ones, and Walker was so tall that they weren’t far from his head.
“I wanted to work on my cutting skills.” I shifted a few inches to show him what was behind me on the counter. “Don’t worry, none of these are from your stock. I took them off uneaten plates.”
“You did what?” When I didn’t immediately reply, he added, “Dirty fucking plates, Alivia?”
“I wouldn’t call them dirty. Someone sent back their food tonight, and that’s where I got the cooked tomato.
” I pointed at it. “The steak was from a kid’s plate.
He didn’t even eat a bite of it, and his parents didn’t take it to go.
Rachel said it was okay if I kept the food—she knew I wasn’t going to eat it, that I was just going to practice cutting. ”
He nodded toward me. “Show me.”
“The food?”
“No. Show me the way you’re cutting.” As he spoke, he came closer.
And with every inch he moved, more goose bumps rose across my skin.
This wasn’t just the man I’d spent two nights with. A man I craved beyond words. A man I spent hours glancing at almost every night I was here, knowing I would never get to touch him again.
This was also Walker Weston. No one in this world could cut like him.
I knew because I peeked whenever I was in the kitchen, and the things he could do with a knife was beyond comprehension.
At some point while I had been talking to him, I’d set the knife on the counter, and as I stared at it, the last thing I wanted to do was pick it up. “Do I have to?”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
I looked at him, holding my breath. “If I can’t say that to you … you can’t say that to me.”
“You’re testing me in my own fucking kitchen. There are consequences to that.” His green eyes were the color of emeralds tonight, his stare almost rabid while he gazed at me.
I didn’t want to focus on them—they were too beautiful to continuously admire—but I couldn’t look anywhere else.
“Walker, the thought of showing you how I cut makes me so nervous that I can’t even breathe.”
That wasn’t the only thing making me jittery and breathless, but I wouldn’t admit the other reasons to him.
He went totally silent. “Then at least show me how you hold a knife.”
“Why does that matter?”
“Show me, Alivia.”
As I turned toward the counter, he came over to the back of me, and I slowly picked up the knife, sliding my grip toward the blade.
“Now hold the knife against the cutting board.”
I did as he’d ordered, setting the serrated edge along the wooden block.
“Pretend you’re chopping a green onion—a vegetable that takes very little movement. Show me how you’d cut it.”
I lifted the back of the blade and lowered it, continuing that pattern, using a fast rhythm for about ten chops before I glanced at him.
But I didn’t have to look far; he’d slid in directly behind me. And although he wasn’t touching me, his presence was wrapping around me. I could practically feel the hardness of his chest. The power in his fingers. The heat from his skin.
“Has anyone ever taught you how to properly hold a knife?”
“No.”
He repositioned my fingers, adjusting my placement, and once he had my wrist arched, his hand surrounded mine, locking ours together.
“You don’t want to lift the blade up and down.
You want to swing it forward and back, like a wave.
” He shook my hand until it relaxed, and while he held me, he took over, showing me the exact motion.
“When you’re cutting things larger than a green onion, you just adjust the height of the swing.
It’s all in the wrist. Let that guide you, and your fingers will follow. ”
I was soaking in every bit of instruction, memorizing his words as though I would have an exam later. Visually calculating how high the blade rose and the precise location of my fingers.
But there was far more to this than that.
Because I couldn’t ignore how his hand felt on top of mine. How I could feel his breath against the side of my ear. My eyes briefly closed from the way his arm was wrapped over me.
Protective domination—that was what this was.
What I needed.
What I wanted.
“Let me see this knife.”
His demand caused my eyes to flick open. He lifted his hand off mine, waiting for me to give it to him.
When I did, he studied the teeth, running his thumb over the side of the steel. “This isn’t one of mine.”
“No. It’s mine. I’ve been keeping it in my locker here, so I can practice.”
“When was the last time you had it sharpened?”
“Never.”
His arm stretched over me and grabbed the steak. His other arm went around the opposite side of me, and he sliced the edge of the thick beef while I was caged within him. “Look how dull it is. It barely cuts.” He dropped his arms, leaving the knife on the cutting board.
But more importantly, his arms were no longer hugging me, my body free of his.
When I turned around to face him, he took in my eyes, and in that brief couple of seconds, he reignited another round of tingles.
“Where did you get that knife?”
I searched for my voice, my breath, my memory to remind me what he’d even asked. “It was a hand-me-down from the chef at the assisted living facility. He gave me two—this one and an eight-inch chef knife.”
“Is the chef knife just as dull?”
I shrugged. “Probably.”
“You need to get them sharpened to be able to practice properly.” His stare dipped down my face, stalling on my lips, and he took a step back. “Clean up here. It’s time to go.”
When he began to walk away, I said, “Walker, can I ask you a question?”
He looked at me from over his shoulder, but didn’t take another step. “What?”
“What’s it like, having James Ryne-Young eat in your restaurant? And specifically ask for you to cook her food? And devour every bite of what you made her?” I shoved my hands into my apron. “What does that feel like?”
He huffed. “You could have asked me anything … and that’s what you want to know?”
I gave him a soft smile. “You do know who she is, right? I know you’re not a movie person, so I wasn’t sure. And I only say that because when I joined you to deliver all the plates of scallops, you seemed really unaffected by her—and all the other A-listers in your private dining room.”
“They’re just people, Alivia.”
“Yeah, I get that. Or maybe I don’t get it. I don’t know … I’d never met anyone famous.” I attempted another breath. “Until you.”
He finally turned toward me, his arms crossing. “You’re going to see a lot of celebrities in this restaurant. I’m sure Rachel told you that when she hired you. Don’t ever lose your cool. No signatures, pictures—nothing like that. Treat them like you would treat every other customer.”
“Of course.” I nodded. “Yes.” He began to walk away again, and I added, “But, Walker, you didn’t answer my question.”
When he stopped, he glared at me. “You’ve got balls.”
I laughed even though his words were beyond serious. “You love to call me out when I don’t answer you. It’s only fair that I do the same to you.”
“There’s nothing fair in this fucking kitchen.” He bared his teeth. “It’s mine.”
“I’m not trying to take it away from you. I don’t even want a piece of it.” I tilted my head to the side, knowing there was a gentleness to this beautiful man, and I was determined to find it. “I just want to know what it feels like to have someone like her love your food. Describe it to me.”
He rubbed his lips together and then wiped them with his thumb. “If you want to know the truth, it pissed me off.”
I felt my eyes bug out. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t work in this restaurant to cook for her—or for anyone. I’m here to make sure things run the way they need to. Charred LA is the busiest out of all the Charreds we own. We do triple than any other location. For that reason, I’m in the kitchen.”
Maybe he didn’t understand my question.
So, I said, “Then what is it like when you’re not in the restaurant? Say … you’re at home, having your family over for dinner, and they’re raving about what you cooked. What does that feel like?”
“I don’t cook for my family anymore.” His tone was sharp.
“Why not?”
He sucked his lips inward, the muscles in his jaw flexing, his stare staying on me until he said, “Because I can’t fucking stand being in the kitchen,” and then his attention moved to the ground.
What?
How could he say that?
It couldn’t be true.
Walker was one of the most respected chefs in the world. I’d now done my research, and I knew a lot more details about his history and accomplishments than when I had first started here.
The kitchen was his place.
His home.
Where his creativity thrived.
And he … couldn’t stand it?
“Walker, I’m—”
“You’re leaving,” he barked. “I’m going into my office. When I come out, you’d better be gone.”