Chapter Ten
Ten
A glint of silver and Rashad reached for the car handle.
Jamilah was driving that Lexus like a bat out of hell.
Couldn’t blame her. Rashad liked speed. He also liked arriving at Side Chic’k early and wished he had a key.
Being on probation and having unsupervised access to someone else’s business was probably a huge ask, so he wouldn’t.
One day, though, he hoped she’d trust him enough to let him in the building without her. After that? Keys to a place of his own.
Rashad reached for his notebook and stepped out of the car. “Hey, Boss Lady.”
Jamilah’s expression teetered between a smile and a frown. “Excuse me?”
“I said, ‘Hey, Boss Lady.’”
“Don’t call me that,” she replied with a slight shake of her head.
“This is your establishment, right?”
“Right.”
“Aren’t you the boss?”
“Definitely.”
“And a lady, I presume.” His voice dropped an octave, took on the quality of honey on a buttered biscuit.
She gave him a look over her shoulder before unlocking the door. Rashad wasn’t buying the tough sistah act. She loved the compliment. He loved her perfume and their proximity while removing her hand from the knob.
Jamilah stepped back. “What are you doing?”
“I’m opening the door for you.” He did so and stepped aside. “Ladies first.”
“Thanks for that, but here in the workplace, that type of chivalry isn’t necessary.”
They entered the building, stopped at the coatrack, and after removing their outerwear proceeded down the hall.
“See, that’s why a lot of y’all are still single. Too independent. Won’t let a gentleman be a gentle man.”
“You don’t know my relationship status. Kindly mind your business.” Jamilah’s voice was stern, but Rashad peeped the flirt beneath it.
“Oh, so I’m wrong? You’ve got a man?”
“I’ve got a business to open and food to prep, that’s what I’ve got.”
“So the answer to my question is a strong negative.” Rashad strolled to the counter and placed his notebook on the shelf beneath it.
“The answer to that question is let’s focus on work.”
“Point taken, Boss Lady,” he continued in response to her scowl. “Aside from knowing how to handle a breast or a leg, I have no business in your business. Oops, I mean… Wait. That didn’t come out right.”
Jamilah looked at him, eyes narrowed. He adopted his most innocent face, lowered chin and doe eyes with shoulders hunched over. He watched Jamilah try to hold on to a frown that morphed into a smile and turned into a chuckle.
“You’re a trip.”
“Yep, and you just got a free ride.”
An easy camaraderie swept into the room and quietly settled around their shoulders.
She walked over to a rack and pulled down an apron.
Rashad peeped the extra sway in her hips, a sure sign that she was picking up what he was putting down.
He’d always been an ass man and her…asset was top-shelf.
Yes, this was his workplace, and no, he wasn’t trying to harass anybody.
But at the end of the day he Tarzan, she Jane, and he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like for them to swing on a vine together.
He walked over and reached for the larger apron on the other side of the rack. Their fingers touched. Sensual electricity crackled. Both acted oblivious to the current that could have charged all the kitchen appliances.
Rashad bobbed his head to the rap playing out in his head.
Jamilah walked to the sink and washed her hands. “Somebody’s in a good mood today.”
Again, Rashad followed her and did the same. “I’m feeling optimistic. Yesterday was a good day, all things considered. I think me working here might work out.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“No more so than me or my parole officers.”
Jamilah walked toward the fridge. “What does working here have to do with your parole?”
“Nothing directly. They’ll just be happy to hear that I’m working.”
Rashad checked himself for running his mouth.
Barely five minutes around Jamilah and he’d gotten too comfortable and said too much.
She’d stayed on his mind long after the business closed, so much so that seeing her today felt familiar, like they’d known each other for years instead of days.
Still, he couldn’t afford to let his guard down.
Letting her know how important this job was to maintaining his freedom might give her the illusion of too much power.
Sure, he could find another job like he’d found this one, but after job hunting for weeks, this felt like a good fit, where he’d be comfortable in his skin.
All that time in prison with thousands of testosterone-driven, survival-of-the-fittest men locked down in cages made the simple act of feeling comfortable easier said than done.
Jamilah turned on the stereo to a local radio station. For the next several minutes the sounds of pop, rap, and R and B combined with the clanking of pots and pans, running water, and sharpening of knives.
Jamilah ran through the prep schedule. “Any questions?”
“Not yet. I was just here yesterday doing this exact same thing.”
“Not everyone is such a fast learner or retains information the first time around. Plus, I want to make sure everything is done correctly. Our reputation is built on the taste of the plate. It’s got to be right.”
Rashad chuckled. “I like your style, Boss Lady.”
“The name’s Jamilah.”
“My bad. Jamilah.”
Rashad expertly cut up several chickens, then placed them in a brine. “What got you into cooking?” he asked, as he reached for a bowl filled with spices and herbs.
Jamilah smiled. “Food Network. Guess you could call me a latchkey kid. Daddy worked long hours and had strict rules about what I could and couldn’t do.
Hanging out with other kids or in other homes without him around was one of them.
So after school until around seven, sometimes eight, I was on my own.
While other kids were playing video games or outside socializing, I was studying Rachael Ray, Sunny Anderson, and Alex Guarnaschelli. ”
“Alex is a beast,” Rashad replied with a nod.
“I love her passion. Her and Antonia Lofaso are my favorites to watch compete.”
“You know Heavy D is Antonia’s baby daddy.”
Jamilah paused and looked over. “Wow, you really are a Food Network fan.”
“I prefer aficionado.”
“Ha! Okay.”
“I know more about Heavy D than I do about Antonia. But she knows how to throw down in the kitchen.”
“Is TV how you got into cooking?”
“No, my granny did that. But while locked up, I went to Food Network and Cooking Channel University. Even got the men in my unit hooked on the shows. They’d vote on what dishes I should try to make, then me and my mentor Francisco would come as close as we could, given the limits of our pantry.”
“That’s crazy,” Jamilah said, eyes twinkling.
“I’d do the same thing. Write down the recipes, then try and remake them.
I liked Rachael’s because hers were quick and fairly easy.
I also loved watching the Neelys, but their recipes were above my twelve-, thirteen-year-old pay grade.
But they had daughters about my age who’d occasionally join them in the kitchen.
Seeing people who looked like me on TV, all professional and successful restaurant owners, made me believe that I could do that, too. ”
For a few moments the two worked in companionable silence.
Then Rashad paused in fixing food and said, “See that, Boss Lady? We’re not so different after all.”
He would have run a half marathon for the smile she gave before she replied, “Wonders never cease.”