Chapter 15
LUCY
The kitchen at The Rabbit Hole always smells like garlic, Old Bay, and a hint of cleaning products.
Oscar, our chef, is hard at work at the stove when I slip inside from the back hallway.
His black chef coat is pristine, his gray curls are held back by his signature red bandana, and something crackles angrily in a skillet while he mutters in Spanish under his breath.
He’s been teaching me in passing, but Uncle Jaime and my mom’s friend Roxy cursed around me enough that I already know when I should feel mildly insulted.
“What does ‘por fin, chingao’ mean?” I ask, unsure I’m sounding out the words correctly as I drop my bag beside the big metal counter and climb onto one of the stools.
“It means you’re late,” he grumbles without looking up. I highly doubt that’s all it means, but it’s the rest of what he says that makes me groan. “Anndd the pizza’s gone.”
“What! No! That’s so unfair. I didn’t sleep at all last night and I have to starve?” I plop my elbows on the counter collapsing my head into my hands, so I mostly feel Oscar shrug in response.
“Pues, ni modo. I couldn’t stop Watchman and Dorman from finishing it off. But I saved you the special.”
My senses are on high alert. “Which is…?”
“Frimp and grits.”
My nose wrinkles instantly, and I lift my head. “Is there nothing besides ‘frimp’ and grits?”
Oscar finally looks over his shoulder through steam-fogged glasses, dark brows climbing toward his bandana.
“You wanna eat or not, prima donna?”
He’s one burned biscuit away from going full Gordon Ramsay on me in this kitchen if I keep acting ungrateful, so I just sigh dramatically.
“Fine.” I gather a spoon, fork, and napkin before pointing at him with the fork. “You know, if you want to kill your enemies, you could use regular ol’ poison instead of vegan seafood.”
“It’s not just vegan. It’s my art,” he snaps while ladling food into a bowl.
“Not to mention healthy and good for the planet. If I wanted to kill you, I’d use animal meat hyped up on hormones and antibiotics.
” He sprinkles something green on top, and even from across the counter, I know his presentation will be beautiful as always.
“Wander is lucky to have me at all, you know. A James Beard nominee in an island strip club? Who’s heard of such a thing? ”
I shrug. “Love makes people do crazy things.”
He grunts in response, then slides a gorgeous bowl in front of me fit for a magazine.
Faux, pink-veined shrimp—probably made from his go-to fake meat blend of seitan, hearts of palm, and who knows what else—bathed in cream-yellow grits thick as polenta and smoky tomato gravy dusted with cumin, paprika, and garnished with green onions, jalapenos, and crumbled cotija.
It smells divine and looks even more delicious.
“Gracias,” I mumble to keep from openly drooling.
Oscar waves me off and disappears into the walk-in refrigerator like he can’t stand to be in the room with me another second, which is ridiculous considering I’m obviously one of his favorites. Maybe.
At the very least, I’m definitely his wife Iris’s favorite customer. If Oscar didn’t feed us, I’d survive exclusively on Sweet Tea Bakery tarts and pastries.
He emerges from the fridge unwrapping a small dish and sets a slice of cherry tart beside my bowl.
“My reina said you haven’t come in yet this week,” he offers, avoiding my gaze. My chest aches, and I nod.
“Tell Miss Iris I said thank you, and I’m sorry I haven’t stopped by. I miss her.”
He swallows thickly. “I do too.” Then he clear his throat and gives me a stern look. “Now eat. I can’t be entertaining you all night.”
Before I can respond he turns away and very loudly starts loading plates and glasses into the industrial washing crate.
Since his back’s turned, I take the opportunity to half fill my large spoon with Oscar’s latest concoction.
My cautious sniff smells exactly like the Southern staple we used to eat at Masque, our favorite speakeasy in New Orleans, but…
I take a bite and moan.
The hearty grits are silky smooth, while the slightly brackish tap water he uses for salty dishes makes everything taste richer.
And I don’t know how—or why—the “frimp” has to look so disturbingly like the real thing, but if I didn’t know Oscar was vegan, I’d think he’d be buying them right off the dock from my boatlord.
“Dang, that’s good.”
“Ha! I tell everyone every time pero nobody listens to me!” he calls before resuming his aggressive assault on the pots and pans. I hadn’t even realized he stopped just to hear my reaction.
“I know, I know.” I take a few more bites while still eyeing the tart. “Keep it up and one day I might save your food for last instead of Iris’s desserts.”
“What!” He whirls around and stabs the air with a dripping spatula. “No! Iris’s food is always best for last.”
I hold up my free hand in surrender. “Got it. Iris always wins.”
He nods once. “Bueno. Now hurry up and eat so I can clean my kitchen.”
“Yes, Chef!”
He rolls his eyes, but then begins to ignore me for real, humming under his breath while I polish off the frimp and grits embarrassingly fast. I really should get to work, but the cherry tart calls my name, and I can’t help taking my time with it, licking up the filling one sliver of fruit at a time.
When I’m almost finished, Tweetie’s laugh tinkles through the crack in the swinging door, and I smile automatically while hopping down from the stool to find her.
“What’s so fun… ny…”
I freeze.
Tweetie’s flirting with a customer who’s definitely not supposed to be back here.
I’m not in the right clothes to see anyone, let alone a potentially paying client.
But that’s not what cements me in place, unable to stop myself from watching her fingertips trace casually up one of his crossed forearms.
It’s who her customer is.
“Hatter?”
He’s wearing the same top hat over now-styled back black hair and the bronze steampunk skull mask hides the upper half of his face again.
But tonight he also wears black slacks and a white button-down with a black vest trimmed in gold, and a pocket watch chain hooks from one pocket—something I imagine my boatlord would’ve loved wearing back in his day.
Tattoos I can’t make out cover his neck, leading beneath his collar.
How on earth did I miss that yesterday? And why does it take him to suddenly discover how much I really, really like neck tattoos?
When he turns toward me, his lips quirk into an instant smile, almost like it’s a reflex, and for one horrible second, I can’t breathe.
He smiles at me like he’s genuinely happy to see me, and it reminds me far too much of another boy who waltzed with me in an underground New Orleans speakeasy.
The same warmth I felt for the blue-masked prince from my memories and dreams curls low in my belly now, despite how badly that night ended.
Then his gaze drags slowly up and down my body, and his smile curves into a deep frown. His eyes darken to two menacing shadows in the dim hallway.
“Alice,” he says so coldly.
For some reason, I feel strange every time he says my name, as if this ‘Alice’ I’ve become doesn’t fully fit me, and her pointe shoes are too small, or maybe too large, for me to fill.
The foreign sensation is even worse now, because he said it the same frigid way someone would if they were forced to humor a lie they hate telling.
Or maybe I’m projecting.
Yeah. That even sounded ridiculous. Hello, purple prose alert. I’m definitely projecting.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he grinds out darkly at the same time I blurt, “You’re back.”
Tweetie looks between us and grins. “Obviously he had to come back, Alice. You danced so good you got him hooked, girl.”
“Oh, um. Thanks?” Heat crawls into my cheeks, but Hatter only stares at me, and I can’t tell whether the expression behind his mask is lust or annoyance.
Why on earth can’t I read this guy?
“Okayyy, as much as I want to watch whatever this is,” Tweetie gestures between us, “I’m gonna go actually work.” She pats my shoulder as she passes, knocking a crumb from my tart onto the floor. “Have fun, Alice!”
Then she disappears through a private room, and I’m left to fend for myself.
Traitor.
“Wait, you didn’t come back here with Tweetie?” I tilt my head in question.
Hatter’s brows pull together deep enough for me to see his eyes narrow behind the mask. “Why would I do that?”
“Well…” I fumble over the words. “I mean… these are the back entrances to the private rooms. Staff only.”
I gesture toward the doors lining the dark hallway and lick cherry filling from my tart.
When I look back at him, his gaze is locked on my mouth. I gulp as he steps forward, and I almost trip backward into the kitchen door. But I refuse to reenact my least favorite modern romance trope and manage to keep both feet beneath me.
He’s at my side in a blink anyway, cupping my elbow with one hand to steady me, every bit the devastating antihero—a breath away in a focused, broody scowl and enveloping me in his pepper and driftwood, bonfire scent.
Then he makes it all the more cinematic as his thumb brushes gently across my lower lip.
I go completely still.
“You’ve got something…” he murmurs, “…here.”
Lust consumes me when his finger comes away streaked with cherry filling, and without breaking eye contact, he sucks it from his thumb.
I gulp.
God, I knew that was one of my favorite tropes in books, but experiencing it in real life? Holy hell.
He abruptly stuffs his hands into his pockets and jerks his chin toward the kitchen behind me.
“Do you not have food at home?”
I jolt back. “Uh, what?”
“Why are you eating here? Do you not have food at home?” he asks more pointedly.
Can you say, ‘mood ruined?’
The questions came out rough, and his accent sounds thicker too, like whatever emotion’s making him scowl dragged the South straight out of him.
“Wow, what a weird question.” I huff and cross my arms.
His head tilts. “You don’t answer weird questions?”