11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Carrington
I was already pulling on my shoes to head over to RED when I got the call from Brooks. I was going to find a way to be useful, and now hearing they are so short-handed, I’m hoping Thea won’t fight me too hard on being there at least. Seeing how important tonight is for her, I want to do everything I can to help it go off without a hitch.
I park on the far side of the lot next to the distillery, leaving all the front spots open for tonight’s guests. Entering through the back, I find Brooks unloading boxes of bourbon and fresh kegs from the storage area to get them ready to go out to the restaurant. It’s then that I notice his face, his cheek split and swollen. He pauses his movements and hangs his head with a sigh.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine,” he says and begins to heave boxes again.
“You’re not fine. You’re bleeding.”
“Save it, okay? Thea already ripped me a new one and exiled me here for the night. I don’t need to hear it from you too. Pretty sure I heard her calling a nurse friend to come patch me up.” My chest warms at the thought that despite being pissed off and over-stressed, she still cares enough about my brother to make sure he’s okay.
“What happened?” I ask, my tone gentler than a moment ago.
“I fucked up.” He pauses again and looks me in the eye with the most contrite expression. “She was counting on me today, and I just…” he trails off. “I needed to blow off some steam, but it got out of control. I don’t know why I keep doing this. I feel like I just keep. Fucking. Up,” he punctuates the last few words.
I step closer to him and am about to pull him into a hug when the back door swings open and in walks Thea’s mom’s nurse. I recognize her from the funeral—she’s hard to forget with her wild, curly chocolate-brown hair and startling light green eyes. Her eyes land on Brooks, and the sympathy shining from them is instant.
We exchange quick hellos, and I leave her to her work and head over to the restaurant to find Thea.
As soon as I spot her, I note the worry lines on her forehead and the annoyance that flits over her face when she sees me. Her face flushes slightly, but she schools her features right before she proceeds to chew me out for coming to her rescue. I pretend I don’t see the way her eyes linger on my face before she shoos me into the kitchen, or how she watches me tie up my hair. She always said she wanted to see me with long hair one day. I can’t help winking at her when I catch her in the doorway—seeing how easily I can still fluster her helps calm some of the nerves I feel stepping into a foreign kitchen.
The kitchen staff at RED is great. Everyone is professional and well-trained. I’m truly impressed by their skills and ability to adapt to how I run a kitchen. Each head chef has their own style, but with their help, I find my footing quickly. And thank fuck because, although Travis built a great menu, he grossly underestimated how much extra of everything you need when serving such a large crowd.
Early in the night, I notice the hor d'oeuvres are leaving the kitchen faster than we can plate them. When I ask one of the servers about it, she tells me Thea is stressing out because there are now more people than originally expected.
I check over everyone’s stations to make sure they’re okay before taking off my dirty apron and stepping out on the floor to find Thea. I quickly spot her next to the bar talking to a few busboys motioning to a hallway that leads to a back storage room. As I step closer, I hear her telling them to grab the few extra tables stored there and set them up along the back wall.
“What’s going on?” I ask. A piece of her hair has fallen out of her half-up style, and my fingers itch to push it behind her ear like I did the other day. Instead, I clasp my hands behind my back.
She lifts her hand as if she’s going to run it over her face and then stops, probably remembering she can’t smudge her makeup. A frustrated sound leaves her lips. “The company putting this whole thing together invited victims from local area women's shelters at the last minute and didn’t mention it. Or they did, but I must have missed the email this week with everything else going on. So now I’m scrambling to find seating for twenty-five more people. We should be good on tables, but I need to find more chairs, and I only have enough centerpieces for the tables we planned for.”
This might be her tipping point. She’s run around all evening dealing with one issue after another with such grace, but I think she’s finally hit a wall. Rubbing the scruff on my chin, I rack my brain for a minute.
“Okay,” I say. “Prep the tables, and send a few of the servers over to the distillery. We can use the chairs from there. They won’t match, but at least people won’t be standing to eat their dinner. As for flowers,” I turn to one of the busboys who just carried in a table, “Scott, run out to the front steps and grab a couple of the small pots of mums and bring them in here.” I turn back to Thea. “Throw some votives around them and slightly dim the lights, no one will notice they don’t match the rest.”
Thea stares at me disbelieving. “Thank you,” she clips out, and some of her worry fades. One of the guests—I’m assuming an organizer for the event—is now standing and giving a speech about the efforts of the charity they have all gathered to support.
“Nat,” I quietly call out to the bartender. “Can you please give me a glass of water?” It only takes her a second to fill a pint glass for me, and I thank her. I place the glass in Thea’s hand and pull out one of the stools at the bar. “Here, sit and drink. Have you eaten?”
Surprisingly, she doesn’t fight me and plants herself on the stool. The hem of the black dress that reached her mid-thigh while standing rides up an inch or two with her new position, and my eyes can’t help but take in her bronzed thighs.
Thea always had an athletic body. Growing up on the lake, we were active kids—in and out of the water constantly. When we were together in Seattle, she maintained herself by running every morning, and it seems like the habit has stuck because her legs are long and toned just like I remember.
“I–I think I had breakfast.” Her answer snaps my attention to her face. Her blush tells me she caught me looking.
“You need to eat. I’ll have a plate brought out for you,” I say.
“I’m fine. I’ll eat when I get home later. I really don’t have time right now. I have to help with the silent auction and champagne toast. And you need to get back to the kitchen, I’m sure Josh is having a panic attack by now.” She’s not wrong there. He’s a great kid with tons of talent, but he needs to learn to work under pressure if he wants to go far in this field.
I stay at her side until she drains the whole glass. I then reluctantly leave her to handle the front of house, while I figure out how I’m going to feed two dozen additional people. I step into the kitchen and stare at the floor unseeing for a minute, hands on my hips, while I sift through my mental catalog of recipes. There has to be something I can whip up with what we have on hand.
“Josh,” I say, and his head pops up from where he’s chopping.
“Yes, Chef?” Even almost a decade later, I get such a thrill having someone refer to me as ‘Chef.’
“Grab the chicken from the freezer that’s meant for next week. Start thawing and get a mirepoix prepped.”
Sorry, Travis, you’ll have to figure out a new special.
“I need you to take a bite of this.” Thea has just stepped into the kitchen to check on me, and I hold out a forkful of braised chicken in a white wine mirepoix for her to taste.
“Can you stop trying to feed me? I don’t have time right now. I have to check on everything on the patio,” she says. At least she sounds more annoyed than frustrated, unlike before.
“Please just taste this. I can’t send this out without your approval,” I insist.
“What do you mean? I’ve already approved all the food. The menu has been set for days.” She narrows her eyes at me.
“We had a bit of a hiccup with the food,” I say in the most placating tone I can muster. “Everything’s fine, I’m handling it. But I had to improvise a bit, and now I need you to taste this, please.” I put the fork up to her face again. I know it’s good enough to go out to the guests, but I also know she hasn’t eaten, and this seems like the easiest way to get something in her system. She looks at my face a bit longer, undoubtedly looking for the lie I’m feeding her, but relents and eats the mouthful I’ve offered her. I see the moment the flavor registers because she closes her eyes and lets out a small moan that goes straight to my dick.
I swallow roughly and say, “I’ll take that as approval?” I don’t give her a chance to answer or say anything more by offering her a few more forkfuls of the chicken dish. She takes them greedily and then excuses herself to get back to her duties.
The night wears on, and I send a couple more small bites of anything we have extra to her, having them delivered by the servers who report back that she’s begrudgingly eating them. That’ll have to tide her over until the gala ends, and I can corner her into sitting down for a proper meal. I won’t take no for an answer.
Tonight might have been a success despite all the complications, but she and I will be discussing her lack of self-care. I know it’s what she does, she puts everyone else’s needs above her own, but I won’t have her running herself ragged. Not when I’m around.