Chapter Six Summer
Chapter Six
Summer
Chefs love to feed people. That’s a given.
When I heard Ezra’s stomach rumble, my instincts kicked in, and I went for the nearest kitchen.
Now that I’m standing in it, I’m trying to figure out just what the hell it is I’m doing, and not just because this place is depressing.
They have the basics, like bowls and pans, and not nearly enough seasoning from the looks of it, but that’s it.
It’s evident that Stick Taps doesn’t spend a lot of time and effort on their kitchen, and I guess I get it.
After glancing over the menu earlier, which primarily features simple dishes like Seattle-style hot dogs, chicken tenders, and mac and cheese bites, it’s clear they aren’t trying to impress people with their culinary skills.
It’s such a shame, because I think they might draw even more of a crowd than they already do. They need an overhaul. They need someone to come in and make this place a go-to for drinks and dinner. They need— No.
I banish my thoughts right there. I am not here to work in another kitchen. I’m here to pay off a debt to my father, and that’s it. Besides, I’m not even sure if I still want to be a chef. There’s no reason for me to get involved with another kitchen when I’m so uncertain.
Still, Ezra needs to eat, and this place is so lacking that it’s basically like cooking dinner for my father. No harm in making a little something, right?
I move toward the industrial-size fridge they have—their one saving grace—and take inventory of what I’m working with.
It’s not much. In fact, it’s barely even stocked with . . . well, anything. Where are the fresh herbs? Where are the ingredients for the salsa served with the chips? Where are all the eggs for their batter for the chicken tenders?
I slide my eyes to the freezer.
Ugh. It’s all frozen, isn’t it?
The door swings open behind me so hard that it nearly bounces off the wall. “What the hell are you doing?”
I turn to Ezra, who has taken up his usual stance—arms crossed over his impossibly big chest, his veins popping on his forearms, and his legs spread just a few inches apart.
His dark brows are slashed together, his pouty lips flat, his strong jaw set.
It’s all very authoritarian-like, as if he’s about to yell at me. Or take control of the situation.
A shiver rolls down my spine at the thought, and I quickly push it away before it can spread into something it shouldn’t.
“Where are your ingredients?”
He flinches at the question, like it was the last thing he expected. “What?”
“I thought this was a kitchen, so where is all the food?”
“Uh, I don’t know. The freezer? I don’t exactly come in here often.”
“Is that because nobody ever even orders food?”
He opens his mouth—I assume to argue—then he snaps it shut.
He knows I’m right. I’ve worked here for only three days, but I think we’ve had fewer than twenty people actually place an order for food.
They don’t even have someone who works the kitchen full-time, unless it’s for big events or weekends, according to Warner.
“Most people are here to drink, not to eat.”
“Yet you’re still smart enough to know that you need a menu.”
“A lot of cideries and breweries around here allow people to bring their own food. We don’t discourage that.”
“You would if you actually believed in your menu. I’m surprised this is what you have to offer, especially when you’re hosting so many weddings here now. Caterers want a usable kitchen, too, you know.”
Somehow his perpetual frown deepens, but I don’t care. I turn from him, looking for something to make.
I find some noodles, a couple of blocks of cheese that look like they’ve been destroyed by a toddler, and a few spices that will have to do.
I grab a pot and fill it with water, then set it on the stove, which I’m thankful is gas. There’s nothing worse than trying to cook without a flame.
I take the cheese to the cutting board, flipping through a few cabinets before I find a grater. It’s cheap, but it’ll do.
“What are you doing?” Ezra asks again.
I don’t spare him a glance. “I already told you, I’m making food.”
“I can make my own food.”
“I’m sure you can, just like I’m sure you’re going to be here late tonight, and it’s clear you’re hungry. So just shut up and let me do this, will you?”
Oh my god. I just told my boss to shut up.
I dare a peek over my shoulder, and I’m surprised to find that he’s now resting against a table, watching me as I work.
I ignore just how much I like that.
“Anything else?”
His lips twitch so quickly, it’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment.
He shakes his head. “No. It’s obvious you’re going to be stubborn about this, too, so do whatever you want. I’d love to see what you’re going to make that I can’t make for myself.”
All his words do is give me motivation to make him the best damn macaroni and cheese he’s ever had. It’ll be hard, since I’m working with so little, but I’m determined.
I work silently, acutely aware of Ezra’s eyes on me the whole time. I feel it when I salt the water for the pasta, when I grate the cheese, and when I chop the parsley left in the fridge. In every shake of onion and garlic powder. And especially when I add the dash of cayenne for an extra kick.
It’s exhilarating, and not just because he’s watching me so closely. No, it’s being in a kitchen again. Sure, I’m making something simple, and this kitchen kind of sucks, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m cooking for someone other than myself and my father again.
It feels good. It feels like it used to, before everything blew up and I took off my chef’s whites for the last time.
Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake, walking away from Lore.
I wonder if I was too rash and stressed with trying to keep up and prove myself capable of running my own crew.
Would things be different if I hadn’t started to feel stagnant so soon after finally getting what I had been working toward?
Would I still be here in Washington, or would I be back in Chicago, bossing everyone around?
Would I have still folded under all the pressure, or would I have made it through the rough patch?
I don’t know the answer to any of it, so I pack those thoughts away for another time and refocus on the task at hand—the dish. When it’s finished, I scrounge for bowls and portion us each a healthy helping, then top it with the parsley and a little crack of pepper.
He lifts his brows as I hand him the final product. “Mac and cheese, really?”
I glower at him. “Just try it, you big baby.”
His eyes darken as he takes the bowl, his fingers brushing over mine just slightly. He’s warm, which is a stark contrast to how cold he comes across.
I ignore that, then stab my fork into the noodles, taking a bite so I don’t do something silly like speak my inner thoughts out loud.
Ezra does the same, although much more tentatively, and I watch him closely for his reaction.
I see the moment he decides it’s good, and that’s because it is. It’s really fucking good, all things considered.
“Holy shit,” he says, going for another bite. “This is . . . actually good.”
I’m too glad he likes it to be bothered by his insinuation that he expected it not to be. “I told you.”
“This is way better than whatever we put in our mac and cheese bites.” He shovels another forkful into his mouth, chews, then swallows. “How do you know how to cook?”
“I wasn’t in Chicago for a guy. I was there for culinary school.”
He pauses, his fork hanging in the air between us, the gooey mac and cheese slipping off his utensil and back into the bowl. “What?”
I shrug, moving to stand next to him, crossing one leg over the other as I hide behind my dinner. “I’ve been working in a kitchen for years. I was an executive chef at a restaurant called Lore before I moved back here.”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Um, yes?”
When he doesn’t say anything else, I glance up at him, and I’m surprised by how he’s staring down at me. His eyes are hard and narrowed, and . . . Holy shit, is he mad?
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head once. “I just . . .” A scoff. “What the fuck are you doing here, Summer?”
“Um, eating dinner?”
“No. That’s not what I mean, and you know it. I mean, what the hell are you doing here in Port Harbor and not back in Chicago? Why aren’t you working in a restaurant? Why are you tending bar at a cidery?”
“Because my dad hates me.”
“That’s not true at all.”
I sigh, setting my bowl to the side. “I came back because my dad had a heart scare last month. It wasn’t a big deal. He had a minor procedure and should be just fine now, but that’s why I’m here. I came back for him.”
It’s not entirely a lie, but I’ve certainly left out the rest of the story, about how I had a major blowup at work and screamed at my staff, my boss, and even the damn owner of the restaurant before quitting.
But considering he’s just my current boss, Ezra doesn’t need to know all that.
His features soften just a little. “I didn’t know that about Sheriff Turner.”
I shrug. “He didn’t want to make a big deal about it. He’s up for reelection this fall, and he felt a medical episode wouldn’t be very good press for his campaign.”
“That’s fair. I just wish he’d said something.”
“And what? You would have driven ten miles per hour slower?”
For the first time, Ezra smiles. Like really smiles.
And it’s . . . well, it’s fucking beautiful. His whole face lights up in a way I’d never seen before. I swear his eyes brighten by at least two shades, crinkles forming around both of them.
It’s officially my favorite look on him.
When I don’t say anything for several moments, he tips his head to the side, that grin still stretched across his lips. “What?”
I shake my head, unable to stop myself from smiling right back. “Nothing. It’s just . . . you have a nice smile, you know that?”
Then just like that, it’s gone, and I miss it instantly. I want to make it come back. I want to see his face glow. I want that easygoing guy I have a feeling is hiding behind every frown.