Chapter Seven
The sun streamed in through the window of the guest bedroom and Jake, still not used to the schedule on the ranch, groaned and rolled over, burying his face into his pillow to block the light.
It didn’t help, so he blearily poked at his phone. Nine o’clock. He blinked and sat up, willing his eyes to open and his body to work.
The ranch started to get moving around six.
Which meant he needed to completely rework his internal clock from years of sleeping the morning away, having been up the night before in the restaurant.
The last time he’d woken up before dawn was when he’d opened a small seafood spot and had to be all the way up to Fulton Fish Market early to get the freshest catch. Even then, that had sucked.
Jake had never been a morning person, which was in stark contrast to everyone else who existed out here. The hurt caused by changing around his habits this time was going to be lovely and require vats of coffee.
He mentally counted. It was day three of his enforced stay, and boredom was threatening. He needed to figure out something to do other than make-busy work in the kitchen, even though that was helping to fill the time.
Frank hadn’t gotten back to them about much yet. He said it would be a couple of weeks before he could put together a concrete plan and to sit tight. Sit tight and do what, exactly?
The first step, proving he was indeed Jake West, had arrived yesterday morning via courier.
Peony had provided a small sample of Brett’s gray hair from a hairbrush, tucking it into the sample bag with tweezers, her entire body quiet and withdrawn.
He’d wondered if she’d cleared out any of his things yet, and took a breath to ask, but she’d walked away into the house somewhere, and he left her alone.
It had obviously been hard for her to do that.
Tanner and he had done the spit/swab routine over the sink during lunch, and Brady did a swab for fun as well, even though it wasn’t really necessary.
Tanner had barked that he would take the samples back into town when he went into the bank, before storming out.
Tanner didn’t waste time, and Jake rarely saw him in the house during the day.
Mind you, he hadn’t sought him out either.
Peace was important as he got his footing at the ranch.
Jake had stayed away from the barns as promised.
Instead, he’d gone for a walk through the gardens with Peony to get a sense of what herbs and vegetables she was growing, and in the past two days, had cooked up a storm, laying in some freezer slow-cooker meals that Peony had requested for both her and Liz.
Spending time in the kitchen chopping and prepping with her had been enjoyable.
It reminded him of his mother’s more sober moments, when they would cook together in the restaurants she worked in, stirring the soup, laughing, and carrying on.
He’d cherished those times with his mother, because they never lasted.
After a quick shower, he pulled on his last clean T-shirt and jeans, and padded down the hall to the kitchen, relishing the feel of the soft carpet on his bare feet. Peony was there, humming a tune, while their cook looked through some books and wrote on a small pad of paper.
He’d met Rosy yesterday, and played as nicely as possible. It was her kitchen, and once they had established that, she was politely friendly. He had acted as sous-chef for dinner as she cooked, trying very hard to defer to her since she was their employed cook.
Jake realized quite quickly her lexicon was limited, as were her time management skills in the kitchen.
It was a wonder she could get a meal out in time, and when they first got started, he had to bite his tongue to keep from barking her an order, or correcting her technique, or coming along behind her to add more salt on something, turn heat up or down.
He had to consciously remind himself this was not a restaurant and she was not one of his staff.
He was so far away from that reality right now, the loud chaos of the kitchens with metal hitting metal, shouts of Behind you!
and On deck!, the slam of the low-boy fridge doors echoing off the ovens.
Just a well-stocked ranch-house kitchen with a personal chef who would not last one night in one of his restaurants.
The sounds that were fuel to creating and cooking, the soundtrack to his success and his passion were missing, and he bit back the growing frustration at being stuck at this ranch over the course of dinner prep.
It wasn’t about the dinner prep. When he sat later, in the dark, looking out the window, the real reason was clear as the moon staring back at him.
He was missing the cacophony of home, the busy nights, the promise of a good time no matter where you headed out.
He was missing the rush of having a purpose, a business, and a crew of his own.
The quiet, homebound nature of this forced vacation would be a lesson in patience, whether it was in the kitchen or when he was bereft of things to do other than cook, jog, doomscroll on his phone, or sleep.
“Good morning,” he said as cheerfully as possible, and both women looked up. Rosy went still, a veneered smile appearing. Definitely not as friendly as yesterday, and he stepped back. She was tense.
“Good morning, Mr. West,” she said, and gathered up her books, scooting into the dining room as quickly as she could. He watched her go, puzzled, and looked over at Peony, who was rubbing her eyes tiredly.
“Have I offended Rosy?” he asked, moving into the now emptier kitchen to grab a mug before tipping some coffee into it. The aroma was ungodly good. At least Rosy had good taste in ingredients.
“She googled you last night. She didn’t realize you were Cordon Bleu trained and had cooked with Michelin-starred chefs. I think that may have intimidated her.”
“Ah. I’m sorry, should I go talk to her?” he asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn’t want to cause strife, but here he was, putting in wedges. All because of who he was.
“No, no, don’t you worry about it,” Peony replied tiredly, and then brightened. “Oh! The courier in town called. Apparently there’s furniture, some suitcases, and a bunch of boxes in town for you to pick up.”
“Furniture?” Jake asked. “Can’t they bring it here?”
“That was what they said.” Peony shrugged.
“Apparently, the office doesn’t have a van big enough, which is really odd, since Tessa bought that decked-out Ford not too long ago,” she said with a hint of humor in her voice.
“I’ll see if Brady can spare Bobby today to take you in with the livestock trailer. ”
Could Gordon have boxed up his storage locker as well?
He’d been expecting his personal stuff from the apartment, maybe some of the cookbooks he kept with him, and likely his personal kitchen equipment.
Gordon was fussy about his knives and whisks, and Jake knew that his own stuff had cluttered the small Brooklyn apartment’s kitchen.
Jake preferred German stainless-steel knives that had longevity in a busy kitchen, whereas Gordon thought Aogami Japanese knives could hold an edge better.
In a pinch, he’d settle for Damascus steel, which Jake thought were pretty but much harder to keep sharp.
They’d had many a spirited argument over drinks, each hoping to sway their friend to their own perceived “dark side.” No one ever budged, but that wasn’t the point.
He opened his phone and shot off a quick text to thank him, asking what he’d sent.
Gordon shot back a single thumbs-up and Everything, like you asked, genius, which gave Jake another shot of homesickness.
They had worked together for years and were good friends. He missed Gordon’s jokes and ribbing.
Rosy had crept back into the kitchen and was talking to Peony quietly.
Jake picked up a few words of “What if I don’t make it right?
” and his temper flared. One thing he hated was meekness in people, especially kitchen staff.
He expected his staff to follow orders, but also to question him and suggest things.
A good kitchen ran better if the entire staff was on the same page.
Rosy wasn’t an employee, but he wanted to work with her, and this was not the way to start out right.
“Rosy,” he snapped, wincing as both women jumped at his tone. He let out a breath before saying the next bit as kindly as possible. “Please, if you’re having doubts about me being in your kitchen, talk to me about them. I don’t want to step on your toes.”
Rosy blushed a shade of red he’d only seen on lobsters fresh from the boil pot and blinked. Well, now.
“Oh. Mr. West. I’m so sorry. I’m—” She fiddled with the edges of her sleeves.
“Worried? Don’t be. If you want, let me show you a few things,” he offered, gesturing to the kitchen. “I’m happy to.”
She nodded, flitting glances between Peony, her boss, and him, the interloper.
“This evening at dinner, let’s roast that massive chicken you picked up. I’ll teach you my dry-rub recipe, and show you how to make a wicked mushroom steel-cut oats risotto to go with it. I saw some in the pantry that will do nicely.”
After she’d agreed and practically run from the kitchen, he let out a chuckle as Peony looked exasperatingly at him.
“You just about scared her out of her skin, barking her name like that.”
“The kitchen sergeant in me came out,” he apologized. “I’ll try to be gentler with her. She’s a bit of a mouse.”
“I think you startled both of us because it sounded just like Brett. He would storm into this kitchen and shout ROSY! just like you did, and then ask her what was for dinner.”
Jake slugged back the last of his coffee to ward off the pit in his stomach that statement had produced. That he was so like a man he knew nothing about, whom these people knew so intimately, made him edgy.