With a Cherry On Top (Love & Other Recipes #4)

1. Recipe For Change

Recipe For Change

E veryone in the kitchen, stat,” Ian calls as he comes out the back of the restaurant. Chefs and busboys around me begin to stub out their cigarettes, and I wait for Oliver as he takes one last puff.

This is weird. Ian and Amelie usually keep their businesses separate, yet today, the private chefs from Chef & Tell have been asked to Daisy, her restaurant. And her staff is here too—every single one of them.

“Must be big news,” Oliver says as he walks through the open door. His tired eyes meet my gaze over his shoulder. “Everyone’s here.”

We join everyone else in the crammed kitchen—though the dining room would be a more spacious setting, the lunch service is about to start, and the waitstaff just finished setting tables.

“All right,” Ian says, adjusting the cuffs of his black shirt as he turns to his wife.

He rubs his hands together, and in the silent exchange between them, I sense a sizzling nervousness.

Considering it’s Ian and Amelie, I wouldn’t be surprised if they announced they’re retiring and moving to South Africa or relocating to build houses in Haiti.

“We have some personal news we’d like to share with you.”

“Oh! Should we expect a mini-Ian?”

Amelie’s bobbed hair shifts as she tilts her head. “Because every woman my age with a piece of news must be pregnant?”

Ian’s eyes widen as he holds a hand up. “No guesses, please. And no, we’re not expecting.

” He clears his throat. “As you all know, Chef & Tell, my venture of private chefs, is turning one year old soon.” There’s a general swell of excitement, and Ian placates the group with a wave.

“Thank you, thank you. We’re still new, but things are going well.

We have thirty chefs working with us and a long waitlist of clients.

” Another round of applause, then, “So when a new opportunity presented itself, I figured...I think the restaurant and the company can both survive our absence for a while.”

Their absence ?

“Amelie was asked to join the judges’ panel of The Silver Spoon.”

A series of Ooh and Aah rises from the crowd, and after a fresh round of applause, Amelie takes a step forward.

“Thank you so much. For those of you who don’t know, The Silver Spoon is a competitive cooking show. Filming lasts about a month, and I’ll need to be in Mayfield a week from today.”

“And I’m going with her,” Ian adds.

Oh. She’s leaving. They both are.

That effectively creates a wave of panic, and as a low murmur spreads, Oliver turns to me. “No head chef and no manager? It’ll be epic , man.”

I give him an indifferent shrug. Maybe he feels that way because he works here at Amelie’s restaurant, but as one of Ian’s private chefs, I work alone.

Well, I will work alone once they assign me my first client. As of now, all I’ve done is meet Amelie after hours almost every day to build my cooking skills, and take the course they asked me to ace: Cooking Techniques 101.

Gotta say, there’s nothing quite as humbling as twenty-year-old brats who can’t even tie their shoelaces helping me through a course I’m too old to take anyway.

But I guess that’s the price to pay for starting a new career at the age of thirty-seven. Raw talent, as Amelie describes it, but no basic training.

“Wait, so what’s going to happen with the restaurant?”

“Barbara Wilkow will step in and cover for me,” Amelie says. “She’s the head chef of La Brasserie, back in Creswell, so you’ll be in perfectly capable hands.”

“And who’s going to crack jokes and pretend to be working hard?” one of the line cooks asks Ian.

The crowd chuckles.

“You’re fired,” he deadpans, which causes everyone to burst into even more laughter. “Shane will help with management, and I’ll still work with all of you from Mayfield.” He points his finger at the line cook. “You’re not getting rid of me yet.”

“Shane?” Oliver whispers.

Weed has fried his brain cells. “Hassholm. The owner of the bakery out front. Desserts for Stressed People?”

He recoils. “A baker ?”

I hold back an eye roll. The one perk of not having spent half my life in the kitchen is that I’m not nearly as arrogant as some of these people.

“He’s a baker, yes,” Ian says. When Oliver realizes Ian’s heard him, he awkwardly crosses his arms. “But if I were you, I’d focus on his reputation rather than his cooking skills. He’s managed events for years, where he’s been lovingly referred to as Mr. Asshole.”

Oliver swallows.

“Clever,” I comment, enjoying his sudden tension. “Because Hassholm sounds like ass?—”

“Yeah, I get it,” he mumbles.

With a satisfied smirk, I focus on Ian and Amelie.

“Guys, I promise, I wouldn’t have signed off on the opportunity if I wasn’t sure the restaurant would be in the best hands.

” Amelie’s usual patient smile is accompanied by a slight tension at the corners of her brown eyes.

“This is really important to me. My father was a judge on the show, and you might remember him as?—”

“ Le dictateur ,” someone says.

“Exactly.” Amelie’s shoulders stiffen. “I’d like to leave another sort of legacy. I want to be part of helping a new generation of cooks, and guarantee at least one of them a really bright future.” She looks around. “You all know how much I love my kitchen. This wasn’t an easy decision.”

Some of the crowd settles, but there are still plenty of worried faces. I can’t begin to imagine what the head chef leaving must mean for the restaurant cooks, but it’s probably like a captain abandoning the ship.

Sure, she’s getting them another captain, but things will be weird for a while.

“Okay, well, that’s it from us. We’re happy to take any questions, and the door to my office is always open, okay?” Ian’s lips bend in a dashing grin. “Now, back to work. Or go home—whichever applies.”

As everyone begins dispersing, Oliver jerks his chin at me. “I’m off until dinner service. Want to go grab a beer?”

A beer? “It’s midday.”

“So?”

Oh to be twenty-four.

I open my mouth to tell him I have a daughter who’ll be out of school in a few hours when Ian calls my name.

“Coming.” I walk toward him, patting Oliver’s shoulder. “Rain check on that beer.”

Ian gestures at me to follow him into the office and once I close the door behind me, he drops on the chair. “How’s it going?”

“Good. You?”

He shrugs. “A little worried those people will burn down my wife’s restaurant.”

I take a seat opposite the desk. “This is a great opportunity for Amelie.”

“It is. And with her family history...you know.” He brushes a hand through his dark blond hair, his muscles shifting with the movement.

The complicated relationship with her cold, stern father who died almost a year ago and the non-existent relationship with her absent mother? Yeah, I’m aware.

Amelie and I have spent what must be hundreds of hours over the last year in the kitchen, just the two of us, cooking. Prepping. Studying recipes. And talking, for hours and hours.

She’s basically family at this point.

Ian waves the thought off. “Anyway, I really think it’s the right decision.”

“I’m sure it is. And it’s only for a month.”

He hums, then laces his fingers together over the desk. “Which brings me to today’s order of business.” He grabs a folder then hands it over. “Your first client.”

My first . . . what ?

I stare at him, gobsmacked, until he gestures at me to open the folder.

I do, my heartbeat increasing steadily.

Beatrice Arnault.

“ Reaaaally rich woman,” Ian comments as I read through the first page. Lunch, and dinner, five days a week. “Really arrogant too. She demanded we send Amelie.”

“Amelie?”

“Yeah. I guess she thought she worked for me.” Ian huffs out a half-laugh. “Anyway, I told her we’d send the next best thing.”

Me ? I’m the next best thing? The guy who just got his Cooking Techniques 101 diploma? What about Howard, a seasoned chef with traditional Italian training? Or Robbie, who’s worked in some of the best restaurants in the country?

“Ian, maybe I should start with some low-profile client. This feels...” I tap my foot against the floor in a restless rhythm. “Above my pay grade.”

“Aaron, Amelie has been mentoring you. She’s taken you under her wing. She wouldn’t have done that if she didn’t believe you were worth investing in.” He narrows his eyes at me. “You know, you’ve been eating up a lot of our private moments.”

“And I’m incredibly grateful, but?—”

“No ‘but.’ My wife thinks you’re ready, so I think you’re ready.” He taps the folder. “Allergies and preferences are there. Mrs. Arnault wants to meet you before giving you a key, and after that, she’ll share with you her calendar so that you know when she’ll be home for meals.”

“Okay, so when she’s not home . . .”

“Her kid still needs to eat.”

Her kid. Of course. “No husband?”

“Nope. Divorced.” He widens his eyes. “We spoke for less than five minutes on the phone and I can confidently say I’d divorce her too if I could.”

With a thoughtful nod, I read through the list. Apparently, someone’s allergic to pineapple, and they refuse to eat pork.

“You’ll start in two weeks, which unfortunately means we won’t be here. But I’ll be available if you have any questions, and Robbie has agreed to help you out should you need it.” He claps. “You’re good, Aaron. You’ll do great.”

Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice.

“Okay. Thank you.” I set the folder down. “Do you think Amelie would be open to?—”

“Concocting a menu with you?” He smacks his lips. “She knew you’d ask that, because she would ask that. And the answer is yes.”

I rub the five o’clock shadow on my jaw. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m ready, and I’m just freaking out. I’ve been dying for an actual client for months—I just didn’t expect it to be the queen of England or something.

“Maybe I should talk to her. See if?—”

“Aaron,” he interrupts. “I get it. You and Amelie, besties forever. But I’m your boss, and I’m telling you this is your assignment. What say you?”

I clear my throat. “Yes, boss.”