15. Chapter Fifteen
Chapter 15
Risto
I blinked into the blue morning light of my bedroom. Last night, the dreams about Leslie were so vivid, her scent lingered on my skin. This time they almost broke me after a kiss for the ages that should never have happened. Only a fucking brute took a woman without permission. After she left, I took the coldest shower I could stand and remained hard with want. Just like now.
She wanted me as much as I wanted her.
Dream on.
You were friends, remember? You shook on it.
That’s the last thing I wanted, but what choice did I have?
Try as I might, I repeatedly drifted over to watch Leslie during her shift at Boricua. I expected her to own the dining room. Instead, she was distracted and confused, spilling water on guests and mixing up orders. She either wasn’t trying or didn’t want to bother.
She had an off night. She’d get better.
For all our sakes, I hoped so.
I flung the covers back and scratched my head en route to the bathroom. After splashing my face, I blotted it dry and wrapped myself in a navy robe I rarely wore. The terry cloth caressed my skin as I made my way to the kitchen. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee called to me, so I ground enough for a pot and set it to brew.
The fridge’s vegetable drawer held a vivid spectrum of bell peppers—red, yellow, orange, and green, along with bundles of herbs. Snatching a few culantro leaves and a red pepper, I shut the fridge. I plucked a few slices of tomato out of my dehydrator and mashed them into a powder in my wooden mortar and pestle.
What else?
I snapped my fingers and knew the perfect cheese to add. Sourcing authentic Puerto Rican cheese had been hard. But on a recent trip to the island, I’d visited an artisan cheese maker and begun ordering wheels of his nutty montebello. I retrieved it from the fridge and sliced a wafer-thin piece, then speared it with the knife tip.
Overhead lights barely pierced the translucent slice, whose rich, tangy notes sent my nostrils quivering. I slid it into my mouth and let the pungent sensations smooth around my tongue before they mellowed into a bold, yet familiar finish.
Bold and familiar?
My eyes wandered to the stairs that led up to where Leslie should have slept before refocusing on the ingredients before me. I craved them both—Leslie and cooking—but Leslie had been downright hostile to my career as a chef. She complained about the hours I spent tinkering with recipes and made snarky remarks about the demands of my job. After I opened Boricua, the tension only escalated. I tried to involve her, but she flat refused.
No tasting my new dishes to give feedback.
Rarely coming round the restaurant and eating plain salad when she did.
Her behavior mirrored that of a jealous rival.
But what did she have to be jealous of? Did she think I loved cooking more than her?
Don’t you?
You chose it over the relationship.
No, I abandoned the toxic squabbles that turned us into our worst selves. As much as we loved each other, I made the choice we both wanted to make. Neither would admit we’d grown into people who sought different things. I didn’t fit into her life any better than she fit into mine.
And yet.
Love, lust, or sheer stubbornness kept us magnetically anchored in the other’s orbit. We’d pass so close, the mere potential prickled gooseflesh. She’ll be here today at the baby shower? What do you mean, I just missed her?! Countless near misses made it impossible to make a clean break. I suspected Dot’s investment in my restaurant was actually a secret ploy to get me and Leslie back together. Force proximity and let nature take its course. Like it almost did last night.
Despite our flammable chemistry, Leslie hated that I was a chef, and I hated how she disregarded her personal safety to chase stories. That painful truth remained unchanged.
My palms pressed into the counter to brace myself against the cold reality. She was here, but she wasn’t mine and would never be.
Thoughts clogged my mind, none making sense. I flushed them away to focus on the ingredients glaring at me from the cutting board. What I was going to make.
Breakfast?
Yes. I had to perfect this recipe. I planned to include it on the tasting menu I was prepping for the investors. Boricua wasn’t open for brunch, but a New York City location might need a brunch menu.
I pictured a sunny sidewalk with outdoor seating. We’d have glass tables under umbrellas, customized to resemble the Puerto Rican flag. Diners would sip mimosas and comment on how clever it was to make home fries out of plantains. They’d wonder how the chef made the eggs taste so delicious. Servers dressed in black with slicked-back hair would glide between tables, attending to guests. Meanwhile, our gem of a host would have the sad job of ushering people without reservations to the bar for their 40-minute wait.
Scenes like these haunted me daily. I went from dismissing Silas for suggesting I expand, to becoming petrified at the idea that none of the investors would come through.
I was content, happy even, with our successful expansion in Easton.
Silas ruined it all.
The article printout on the coffee table caught my eye. How he’d managed a cover story on me was a jaw-dropper. I sidled over to read it again. There I was. Me. A small-town orphan from Pennsylvania featured on the front of a magazine. I’d received good press before, but nothing on a scale like this. Mostly good restaurant reviews from local papers or food blogs no one read. Any press was good press, and I soaked it all in, grateful but never ambitious enough to aim higher. I’d been too busy loving food and pouring myself into every bite. Yet Silas was right. I could be a brand that celebrated the food and culture of Puerto Rico in a new and exciting way. Explore the flavors and recipes people loved but add a modern twist for sophisticated urban palates.
Now that would be worthy of a magazine cover.
Demand was there. Countless diners who visited Boricua from New York City wished we had a closer location. Was I a raving egomaniac to believe I lived up to Silas’ headline? The chef who put Puerto Rican food back on the map? Glossy covers featuring me, like I was some tech tycoon who transformed their passion into a multi-billion-dollar business.
That could be me.
I could be the next face gracing cooking shows like Chopped and Beat Bobby Flay . Replace fraud chefs like Chase Patel, who hadn’t worked in a kitchen in ages.
I’d start with restaurants, then add a cookbook, cooking tools, and packaged goods. Maybe appear at culinary events or food festivals?
Head down, working tirelessly, I forgot to step back and think about my future. In a matter of moments, I put it all together. All I had to do was become the next big celebrity chef.
No biggie.
I fired off an email to Silas, asking if he knew any culinary agents, and pressed Send before I could change my mind. He was correct. I’d been thinking too small. And for a guy my size, you’d think that’d be a hard thing to do. But this suddenly felt so right. Like my dad’s dreams were channeling through me. I pictured my parents, proud, looking down on me from heaven.
It wouldn’t be easy and might never happen. But I had to try.
I glanced toward my empty bedroom. Becoming a famous chef might just be easier than resisting the woman I loved.