Chapter 5 Emma
FIVE
EMMA
FEbrUARY
“You’ve got a new one tonight, Em.”
My knife roll was tucked into my forearm like a football. I slowed after swiping my badge at the culinary school’s entryway. I was reporting for another night of teaching a sixteen-week course designed to level up decent home cooks. “Oh yeah?”
Grace, the welcome desk attendant, giggled. “Yeah, he’s a real character. He was up here cracking jokes when he got his name badge. Had us all in stitches.”
“And,” Belinda, the school’s admin chimed in, “he had a motorcycle helmet.”
“Ooh, bad boy,” I joked, then let that sink in. “Also, it’s freezing outside?”
“Guess he’s a tough guy,” Grace said with a wiggle of her shoulders.
“As long as he paid, I can handle him. See ya, ladies.”
I strutted off down the hall, peeking into the other cooking hall as I went by. Students stood behind their work benches, while sizzling and chopping sounds filled the air. Home sweet home.
I stopped in the staff lounge and hung up my coat and purse.
I was thrilled when Cindy asked if I wanted to take over her position at the culinary school.
She’d gotten too busy at her restaurant to be able to handle the night gig, and my work with the Rusties gave me a lot of nights off.
Ideally, I’d use those nights to go to Liam’s games, and I did.
But his dad, Jeff, and I had practical things to consider.
Liam was at a crossroads. He was a senior in high school, and we’d been lucky that he was selected for a Tier I junior hockey program based in Columbus.
That way, Jeff and I still got our weeks with him and didn’t have to ship him off to live with a billet family at the tender age of sixteen.
Liam had to choose to continue playing junior hockey after graduation in the hopes of getting picked up by a D1 school’s hockey team, or give up hockey altogether and go on to college.
If Liam didn’t get a scholarship to his college of choice, we’d need more money to fund his education.
Picking up a second job just made sense.
Culinary school money was decent, and it gave me a chance to get back into a more advanced cooking setting.
Though I loved working for the Rusties, I missed fine dining, the thrill of running a kitchen with surgical precision and getting to flex my creative muscles with different ingredients.
I also enjoyed teaching and seeing what combinations students came up with.
I turned into my classroom and found a tall form standing at the front row work bench.
A motorcycle helmet sat on the stool with a leather jacket draped under it.
I walked through the rows to quiet salutes of “Chef” on my way.
That head of jet black hair looked awfully familiar, along with the slope of his toned, muscular shoulders.
A folded bandana tied his hair back from his face at his hairline.
When I got to his side, I took the rest of him in: bear paw-sized hands, a perfectly groomed mustache, and a smirk that never fully went away.
I addressed him like I would anyone working in my kitchen. “Chef?”
Round, stone blue eyes focused on me. “Oh, shit! Hey, Chef!” His whole attractive, smug face took on an incandescent glow, lit from within at seeing me. This shift in him was certainly . . . strange. “It’s so cool that you’re here! I thought you didn’t know this place.”
My lips twitched. “Surprise.”
“Wait,” Harlan lowered his voice, “are you stalking me, Chef?”
My teeth clamped together. “No! I have much better things to do than follow you around.”
He chuckled and trailed behind me to stand at the front table. He pointed to my knife roll. “Ooh, what kinda knives you got? Let me see.”
I laid my roll on the counter and untied it. Harlan looked them over with a critical eye.
“Miyabi?” he asked, pulling one of the handles to examine the brand on the blade.
“Global, actually.”
“Wait, the budget brand?” He looked aghast.
I pursed my lips and nodded. “They’re better than most people think. Still a Japanese knife.”
“Wow. Okay.” He leaned a hip against the counter and crossed one foot over the other, swiping a hand through his hair. “I think it’s so cool that you’re taking a class too. It’s really awesome that you’re trying to improve yourself. This one might be out of my league though if you’re taking it.”
I held back a chuckle again. He had no idea what my role was in this room. “I take it you’re the new guy tonight.”
“Yeah. Gosh, what a small world. Never imagined Chef Emma would be at culinary school.” He settled in like he was ready for a long and leisurely conversation.
It was time to end this charade. “Chef, if you don’t mind, I’m going to get class started.”
I rounded the counter and stood so I faced the class. I clicked on the camera above my workstation. “Good evening, everyone. Tonight, we’re going to be working on our knife skills.”
Harlan hadn’t moved, standing there gobsmacked. He jumped into action and flipped through the notebook that contained the course material. He raised his hand. “What if we weren’t here last week? Should I do that material instead?”
I heaved a sigh, but tried letting it out gently. “Chef Royce, everyone else here is ready for knife skills. If you require some remedial training, see me after class.”
“No, Chef. I mean, yes, Chef. To seeing you after class.” Mischievous eyes peeked out from under a lock of hair that fell across his forehead. “Chef.”
I blinked hard to reset and turned my attention back to the room in front of me. “Alright, Chefs. Let’s begin.”
I’d never seen a student chop with such precision. Such slow precision. Royce was in an almost zen-like state, eyes softly focused on the turnip in his grip.
“How am I doing?” he asked, glancing up for a moment.
“How am I doing, Chef?” I corrected.
“Yes, Chef.”
“Your slices are inconsistent from top to bottom,” I started.
“Yes, Chef.” He tightened his lips.
“And you’re going to work on your pace, Chef.”
“I can’t afford to cut my fingers, Chef,” he objected, punctuating my title with a little attitude.
“Then why are you here?” I asked. “Surely you knew I taught this class. Are you stalking me?”
His jaw feathered but mirth quickly entered his expression. “I think it’s ‘are you stalking me, Chef?’”
My teeth clamped together and I raised my voice to address the rest of the class. “Chefs, why do we call each other ‘Chef?’”
“As a sign of respect, Chef,” one voice answered.
I folded my hands on my lower back, delighting in the opportunity to give Royce back some of the shit he gave me all day, every day. “It seems Chef Royce left his manners at home.”
His knife clattered to his cutting board. “I said ‘Chef,’ Chef!”
“After I reminded you, Chef.”
He put his hands out, palms up, arguing at me like I was a referee. “I’m sorry! I missed the first few classes!”
I lowered my voice. “And did you miss on the registration that I was the teacher?”
“No, Chef. I mean, yes, I missed that,” Harlan’s tongue touched one of his canines, looking far too thrilled with himself, “Chef.”
While the class washed their dishes, I slipped down the hall to the restroom.
I'd wash mine in the quiet after everyone was gone.
I said goodbye to a few of the students as I headed back to the demonstration hall, but instead of finding the solitude I looked forward to, a set of tapered shoulders stood by the commercial dishwasher.
I passed by my workstation to find my dishes already cleared.
"Washing my dishes for me, Chef Royce?"
He lifted a shoulder. "What's a few more?"
"Kissing up to the teacher?"
His eyes flashed over to mine and a small smile curved his lips. “Well, I do have a favor to ask."
I snorted and grabbed a dish towel, starting to polish the plates on the clean side. "I already saved your life, Chef. I think you’re the one in my debt, not the other way around.”
He brightened. “Actually, this might help with that. I think I have a mutually beneficial idea.” His tongue brushed over his upper teeth. “My schedule is only going to let me come to a couple more of these classes."
"I don't think the school does refunds," I started, but he shook his head fervently.
"No, no. They can keep it. But I want private lessons. From you."
My eyes widened. "What do you mean, private?"
"Like, you could teach me at my house. Or your house. I want to get better at this, and it's hard to do with my schedule. We’re on the road for a lot of the time that you teach.”
"Your house. You're not coming to my house," I emphasized.
He put his hands out to indicate his agreement. "Of course. And, um, I'll pay whatever you want."
I did some math in my head. This could be an excellent way to pad Liam’s college fund.
While Liam hadn’t decided between another year of junior hockey or going straight to college, the best thing any parent can hope to provide for their child is the freedom of choice.
Money had a way of opening doors and expanding options. Harlan had money. A lot of it.
But I tried to act cool and not like I was salivating at the prospect of being able to better provide for my son.
“How many lessons do you think?"
He exhaled through smiling lips. "Yeah, um, wow, thought that would be harder."
"I haven't said yes yet," I said. My eyes tracked the towel he passed over his hands.
Strong hands, long fingers, veins that would look so nice—Jesus, when did I get like this?
Harlan Royce irritated me. That dream I had about him was .
. . a fluke. Though his hands did look exactly like they did right now.
The way his dream hands clawed up my thighs, the way his fingers surrounded my throat.
The way his dream voice had murmured in my dream ear. “You don’t really hate me at all, Chef.”
I shivered and fanned myself. This was an extremely inconvenient time to be remembering that dream.
Harlan pulled at his neck, and I wondered if he was actually being slutty or if it was just my memory of the dream. “Right. Um, well, definitely enough lessons to cover the course material. And we can work around our mutual schedules.”
I bobbed my head. “Okay. Classes are weekly through May. Sixteen weeks total.”
He shrugged. “Okay, then. I want sixteen lessons.”
I chewed the inside of my lip. “Private lessons with a chef don’t come cheap.”
He stuck out his bottom lip and leaned back against the sink. How did he look so comfortable taking up space like that? He didn’t have a care in the world. Didn’t even think twice about it. To be a man.
An unoppressed, dark-haired, blue-eyed beauty of a man.
My gaze tracked from the bottom of his chef’s coat up to the column of his throat.
There was a little patch where he’d missed shaving, but his mustache was immaculately maintained.
Not overly thick or bushy, just something to complement those smirks.
My ears felt hot just thinking about it.
“How’s twenty-five?” he asked.
“Twenty-five what? Hundred?”
Harlan’s eyes cast down, foolishly thick, long lashes fanning before flashing back up to my eyes. “You’re worth more than that, Chef,” he chuckled. “Don’t sell yourself short.”
“You mean $25,000?”
He was non-plussed, while I remained flabbergasted. “Why not? Thirty? More?”
I shook my head. “Why do I feel like you’re kissing my ass?”
His eyes were earnest meeting mine. “You’re an incredible chef. Full stop. No other reason needed.”
“You always criticize me,” I fired back.
He nodded. “I shouldn’t. You’re the talent. I’m jealous, I guess.” His jaw set. “I’m sorry. For being like that to you.”
I didn’t really believe him. I knew I was a talented chef, and most of his teammates made sure I felt appreciated. Royce never had. Was he now making up for lost time?
None of that mattered. He had money. He was offering me money to do something I’m good at. I could take said money and worry less about my son’s future. I stuck out my hand. “Chef Royce, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
A bright smile lit his face and I hated that his acknowledgement felt that special. His hand met mine in a firm handshake.
“Call me Harlan, Chef.”
With a curt nod and a tap on his table, I turned toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. I have to lock up after you.”
“Oh, yeah, sure.” He scrambled to grab a leather jacket and the motorcycle helmet off his stool. “Don’t you have a jacket?”
“In the staff lounge.” I held the door open to let him through. “I’m not the one riding a motorcycle when it’s forty degrees out.”
He snorted and a bashful grin hit his lips. “Used to being cold, I guess.”
God, he was pretty. It was stupid. Unfair. To be a young man, nothing but life ahead of you. I wasn’t normally a mustache girl, but his worked for him. I wondered if all that stuff about mustache rides was true.
That shy smile peered over at me. “Maybe if you’re good, I’ll give you a ride sometime.”
My throat constricted. Could he read my mind about the mustache ride thing? My cheeks were on fire and I had to force air into my nose. “A ride? On what?”
He quirked a brow and chuckled. “My bike? What else would I give you a ride on?”
My pervy brain could answer that ten different ways, and apparently so could his, because the tips of his ears turned pink.
Oh god.
And my stomach fluttered, because this handsome guy ten plus years my junior offered me a ride on his motorcycle. Which was really cute and sweet. Was he flirting with me?
While offering me a lot of money? While being on the team I worked for? Was I out of my mind?
But his money was green, and green money spends.
I was saved by our arrival at the staff lounge. “Well, I should get my jacket.”
“You want me to wait on you? I can walk you out.”
Why did he have to be nice? That made the way I was ogling him even worse. “I’m a big girl. I can handle myself.”
He sighed and laughed in a way that indicated he was shaking his head. “Okay, Chef. G’night.”
“Night, Chef!” I called, slamming the door behind me and slumping against it.
It was just a private instruction gig. A private instruction gig that would make Liam’s college education much more affordable. A private instruction gig at a hockey player’s house.
Normally, I prided myself on being immune to the hockey player charm. But rather than being immune to Royce, I was left feeling like a giddy schoolgirl, scrunching my shoulders and letting out a little squeal.
Ovulation was a bitch.
If Liam ever moved out of my house for good, I’d start dating again. I had to. Because being delusional enough to feel flattered by an NHL player was the kind of sheer nonsense that I couldn’t entertain.