Chapter 8 Champagne Vinegar
Champagne Vinegar
Jack
For a long moment, I just stare at Poppy. At her face, specifically. If I go any lower, then I’ll be face-to-face with a set
of perky, lace-covered tits.
If she was anyone else in the world, I might admire the generous swell of them, but she’s Poppy fucking Winfield. Her father
might’ve already fired me, but with connections in nearly every reputable kitchen in the country, he can make my exile to
Florida permanent.
Her nose is a bit pointy at the end. She has a gap between her front teeth that I’m shocked orthodontia didn’t fix long ago.
I force myself to meet her eyes instead. Clear cobalt, framed by thick lashes. My leg still aches where she kicked it while
I was busy saving her life.
I scrub my hand over my jaw. “And?”
“And I am. Angling for a job, I mean.” She cocks her head to the side. Water droplets linger on her smooth skin. I grit my
teeth, staring at the ridiculous towel on her head instead. “Hire me. I can help make the Sailfish trendy. Put it on the map.”
I bark out a laugh, looking around with deliberate slowness. “Do you see a help wanted sign?”
She crosses her arms. “I’m serious. You need my help.”
“I don’t,” I retort automatically. Despite what Douglas told me over the phone, I can’t believe that she’s here in front of me. In her underwear. Asking for a job.
“You do.” She takes a step closer. I get a whiff of her perfume underneath the salt from the lagoon. Rosemary and mint. “You’re
going to do it, right? Reopen the restaurant? Show everyone what you can do?”
“I haven’t decided,” I lie.
“Really?”
I hate feeling off-balance around anyone, but especially her. Her eyes are large, nearly luminous in the sunshine. The back
of my neck prickles. I put distance between us, struggling to maintain a facade of cool boredom.
“What happened? Did Daddy cut you off? Send you into the real world to learn a lesson?”
She adjusts her towel, which reminds me of a melting ice cream cone. “No.”
“A girl like you wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this if you had other choices.”
“There you go again,” she says, voice clipped. “Acting like you know me.” She lifts her chin stubbornly. “Are you going to
let me talk?”
For the past few days, I’ve been spinning my wheels, covered in grime, stomach rolling with guilt. Sal’s memory, lingering
in the restaurant. Tentative overtures from Ki that I’m not sure how to handle. Years of memories as I worked for Poppy’s
father, only for me to destroy it in one fell swoop. Reopening the restaurant might be the best path to redemption—but admitting
that aloud to Poppy, who thought of it first, sounds like torture.
I suck in a breath. “Fine. Go on.”
Instead of replying, she heads inside the restaurant. I follow, watching as she combs out her hair with her fingers and slips
my T-shirt over her head. A frisson of heat runs through me at the sight of the shirt, however old and ragged, hugging her
body. I push it away. I noticed Poppy’s beauty at her sister’s wedding, and again at the bar, but for whatever reason, she’s
never been more stop-in-your-tracks gorgeous until this moment. She has the kind of face a guy would fight to protect, and
that sets me on edge.
Being in close quarters with her for any length of time would be a bad idea.
Eventually, I’d either kiss her or strangle her.
Probably—no, definitely—the latter. Part of me wants to shake her right now and ask why the hell she leaned over the dock.
I’m sure I was right about this part of the lagoon being mostly alligator-free, but I’m not entirely convinced she can swim.
And yet I lean against the bar, waiting for her to make her pitch.
She fiddles with the damp ends of her hair, making a little braid, then combing it out again. I tap my foot, not entirely
out of impatience, but to resist interrupting whatever she’s about to say. My mind is racing in circles. She repeats the process
with her hair.
“You’re seeing what I’m seeing, right?” I can’t help but say. “It’s outdated as hell. The kitchen isn’t any better. Ki—I mean,
Sal’s daughter—she tried, but it’s been months, and she has a full-time job.”
She drops her half-braid. “What do you mean? It’s beautiful.”
“You’re joking,” I scoff.
“I mean, it was beautiful. I can see the potential.” She does the same little trick with the braid, making a frustrated noise. “Do you have
a hair tie?”
“Do I look like I have one?”
She lets out another huff. “I wish I had a pixie cut.”
“No.” I let my gaze linger as I think about that possibility. “It looks good long.”
I shouldn’t like how that makes her smile. I shouldn’t indulge her at all, actually. But for some godforsaken reason, I go
into the kitchen, rooting around the scarce supplies I’ve salvaged until I come up with a hairnet. It’s the best I can do.
Also, part of me maybe, definitely, wants to see her turn her nose up at it.
“Absolutely not.” She backs away from me as I hold it out; I may as well have shown her a scorpion. Or a baby alligator. I
bet she’d scream if she came face-to-face with one of those cute little suckers. “A hair tie and a hairnet are nothing alike. They’re not even in the same zip code.”
“So go back home, New York.”
She glares at me. Her cheeks are turning a fetching shade of pink.
She mutters something about asshole chefs as she snatches it, tucking her hair underneath.
I wonder if that’s how she refers to me in her mind.
Asshole. She’d be right on track with everyone else in my life.
Not that that list is particularly long. I still need to text Chester.
I haven’t spoken to Owen since I left the job he got me on the Danes’ yacht, never mind that we lived together in culinary
school. I’m sure Pastiche’s kitchen has already moved on, someone else at my station for Hazel to joke around with.
“Better?” I say, pushing those thoughts away as I relish the sight of Poppy, Douglas Winfield’s precious daughter, sunk as
low as me.
“Not especially.”
“You look cute. I should take a picture.”
“Don’t you fucking dare.” She practically bares her teeth. Her hands go to her hips. “I’m not going back to New York.”
“Too many Knicks fans after you?”
Her lips twitch. “I know you think the promotional stuff is ridiculous, but look at my social media. I elevate brands all
the time. I have an eye for design, and I know what’s trendy. I can build this place a presence online.”
“Bold words.”
“True words.” Her eyes flash. “Your food is great, but that’s not enough to build a restaurant. No offense, but you’re not
exactly approachable. Or much of a charmer. You need someone to handle front of house and promotion.”
“Ouch.”
“You know I’m right.”
I wasn’t just trying to piss her off—a woman like her is as out of place here as Herman would be in Pastiche’s kitchen.
But I can’t deny that she’s talented. If by some miracle she sticks around, she really could help me resurrect this place.
“Okay,” I say slowly, scraping my hand over my jaw. “Say I do need you. Why do you need me?”
“Does it matter?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Fine. Ugh.” She settles on a bar stool, lets out a frustrated noise. “My family thinks my career is stupid, okay? No matter
what I do, they act like I’m just . . . I don’t know. Playing.”
I feel a small flicker of sympathy. “And this would what, prove them wrong?”
“If there’s one thing my dad understands, it’s restaurants.” Her expression wobbles, then hardens. “If he’s ever going to
take me seriously, I need to show him what I can do in a way he gets, you know?”
“And what if I’m selling this place?”
“If you were, you’d be off interviewing, not hanging around here, sulking.” She raises her eyebrows. “Waiting to be someone’s
knight in shining armor.”
“That’s the last thing I was doing, Princess. Trust me.”
If the nickname digs into her, she doesn’t show it. Too bad; I liked seeing her flush the last time I threw out that insult.
“I know people,” she says instead. “More importantly, I know the people you want to be your clientele. If you can cook the
food, I can put this place on the map. Before long, we’ll both be back in civilization, and everyone will have forgotten why
we left. Especially my dad.”
“If?”
She smirks. “Well, you haven’t decided, apparently.”
“I can cook.” I slick my damp hair back. I’m playing right into her little dare, and I know it, but I can’t stop. “That’s
not the problem. Sal leaving this place to me was.”
“But you said he was your mentor.”
Mentor. Guardian. The closest thing I ever had to a father. “He was. He has a daughter, though. This place should be hers.”
“Obviously he wanted you to have it.”
“I spoke to her. I’m selling it.” Before Poppy can protest, I add, “After I put it to rights. Use it to show what I can do.”
I pause, debating. “What we can do.”
The smarter thing would be to walk away now. I can only hold back the memories of Diamond Bay for so long. But the challenge
Poppy—and Kiara and in some twisted way Sal—set at my feet like a gauntlet holds the greater pull. If I can pull this place
together while proving to her father, and anyone else who might be a future employer, that I’m ready to run my own kitchen,
all the better.
She perks up. “We?”
I study her. “It’s hard work.”
“I’m ready for it.”
If she really thinks she wants this, then she has to work for it. Just like everyone else who has ever walked into a professional
kitchen. I’m not going to make this easy for her.
“If you’re going to be here, you’re going to learn how to cook.”
Her nose wrinkles. “Why?”
“You can’t promote something without understanding it, right?” I gesture to the kitchen. “It isn’t all about the vibes of
the dining room, or the cocktail list, or any of that shit. Everyone sees front of house, but it’s the back of house that
makes the whole thing go. You want to market a restaurant? You need to know it from every angle. The grit and grime, not just
the shiny ornament outside.”
A pause. For a moment, I’m convinced I went too far, that she’s going to bail. I force myself to wait her out. This isn’t
negotiable. If she wants to prove herself so badly, she can get her hands dirty. For now, this is my kitchen. My space, my
rules.
To my surprise, she nods. “Okay. I’m in.”
If she gives up and runs back home to New York, it’s no skin off my back. But although I’d rather eat my own tongue than admit
it, this restaurant launch could use her help.
I don’t have to like her. I don’t like her.
But I need her.
“Then let’s do it.”
She squeals, clapping her hands together.
“Don’t scream,” I warn. “I’ll take it back.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m your boss now. I absolutely can do that.”
She just bounces in place, clearly a ball of energy. I bite back a grin. Maybe it won’t be a total waste if I can channel
that enthusiasm into kitchen grunt work. God knows there’s enough to do around here if we’re going to make it functional again,
much less exceptional.
And I intend to make it exceptional.
“Tomorrow,” I add. “Be here at four.”
“Isn’t that kind of late . . . wait, in the morning?” Her face is utterly horrified.
I don’t bother hiding my amusement. “Is that a yes or a no?”
“Yes. Definitely yes.”
“Good.” I clear my throat, looking anywhere and everywhere but those doe-eyes and curtain of golden hair. “And it’s yes, Chef.”