13
I stretch my aching fingers, letting the cold air of the walk-in fridge settle over me like a second skin. The stainless-steel
freezer door catches my reflection—flushed cheeks, tired eyes, the crisp white of my slightly askew chef’s hat. I pause, straightening
it with a flick of my wrist. The jacket sits just right, collar crisp, sleeves clean. Presentation matters on and off the
plate.
A bright thrill runs through me. Head chef.
I shouldn’t be surprised I got the job—fresh from Paris, Michelin star under my belt—but part of me still needs my appearance
to confirm that I’m someone worthy of the name. It isn’t my restaurant, not yet; there is plenty of time for that. But the
title still feels shiny, and despite the long hours weighing on my bones, there’s a lightness in my step. Tonight, though,
it’s laced with uncertainty.
Lisa will be here any minute. It must’ve been at least nine months since I saw her last, at an obligatory Christmas get-together
after I got back from Paris. There was more silence than turkey. She’d given up asking how I could have left Mum.
Tonight is a retirement dinner for the principal of the local high school where Lisa works as a receptionist. We’re booked
solid for weeks, but she’s called in a favor. I’ve said no that many times to her in my life, so I figure I owe her one.
I spot the group through the kitchen door as they arrive. Lisa meets my gaze, and a bittersweet taste fills my mouth. She hasn’t changed a bit, her ebony locks tied in a messy bun, her green eyes so like her father’s. The memories clamp down hard.
As the entrée is being served, a commotion erupts as Jake, one of the fresh-faced waiters, trips and gives the dark-haired
gentleman beside Lisa a full-body christening in our most expensive champagne. Jake’s face, redder than our sugo rosso, looks
like it might crumple at any second. We’ll probably have to offer desserts on the house.
Lisa’s colleague rises from his chair; the poor kid is about to get blasted. But instead of anger, the man’s expression is
filled with compassion. He kneels to help Jake up then uses a serviette to dab the wine—not from his own clothes, but from
the waiter’s.
I step into the dining room so I can hear what they’re saying.
“Please don’t worry. You’re doing great! I don’t know how you managed to catch the bottle when you fell. That takes skill!
My first job was as a paperboy. On day one I accidentally threw a paper right at a customer’s head!”
A smile creeps onto the boy’s lips. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get another bottle.”
The man nods and heads to the washroom to clean up.
“That’ll be coming out of your paycheck, Jake!” calls Charles, the tight-arsed ma?tre d’.
Jake nods and scurries to the cellar.
“You need to consider firing that boy, Griff,” Charles says in my direction. “He’s made too many mistakes.”
“Yep. I’ll chat to him at the end of service.”
Lisa is staring at me with the same wounded look from childhood. Her voice is quiet as I pass. “You always were good at getting
people to leave, weren’t you, Griff?”
After dessert, her boss asks to compliment the chef, so I begrudgingly make an appearance. The portly blond principal shakes
my hand. “You’re so lucky, Lisa,” he says, “I wish my brother could cook like this. He can barely make a sandwich. Must’ve
been nice growing up!”
Lisa smiles, but it’s her fake smile, the one that stops at her lips.
I turn my attention to the man beside her, the wine stain glaring on his perfectly tailored white shirt.
He isn’t obviously handsome—not in the traditional sense.
His dark wavy hair flops over his long face.
His nose is the “before” picture for rhinoplasty, large and crooked, but I like it.
He’s tall but not too tall, enough to take up space without demanding it.
He looks at me, and something in my chest loosens.
There’s a softness in the way his gaze lingers—not the guarded stare most straight blokes wear.
My gut stirs with the quiet certainty that he’s like me.
Later, after the rush dies down, I head to the bathroom for a breather. The hum of the restaurant fades as I step inside,
but the quiet’s broken by the faint sound of sniffling from the nearest stall.
I stop mid-step. “Jake?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
“I—I’ll get back out there. Sorry, chef, please don’t fire me.”
I sigh, all too familiar with the sound of someone who thinks they’ve blown their only shot. “You still upset about the champers?”
He takes a shaky breath. “It’s the cost. It’s almost two hundred bucks a bottle, and I was barely going to make rent this
week as it was. I’m sorry, it’s not your problem.”
I’m about to leave when I consider the kind, unexpected act of the dark-haired man. I dig into my pocket and pull out the
packet of Belgian chocolates that sustain me during my shift. I pop two crisp $100 bills inside and slide it under the stall.
“Here. Eat something. Chocolate solves everything.”
The packet rustles. There’s a gasp, then a long pause before the stall door creaks open behind me. “There’s two hundred bucks
in here! I . . . I don’t know what to say, chef.”
“Told you chocolate solves everything. Just don’t go telling anyone, wouldn’t want word spreading that I’m soft or anything.
Off you go.”
Jake scurries out, beaming.
I wash my hands and push open the bathroom door, stepping back into the bustling dining room. But as it begins to swing shut
behind me, I hear the faint creak of the far stall opening. I glance over my shoulder in time to see the dark-haired man step
out. Our eyes meet and I stop the door with my foot.
Before I can process it, he gives me a small nod: an unspoken acknowledgment. He blushes, his voice soft. “That was so nice of—”
“Urgent phone call for you in the kitchen, chef,” the sous-chef interrupts.
I sigh and return to the kitchen, glancing back at the man staring at me with a crooked grin that makes my world topple.