Chapter 19 Burnt
Burnt
Poppy
Somehow, I get through the chicken butchering without cutting myself or doing something extremely reckless, like finding out
what Jack’s beard feels like against my skin. He’s all business by the end, shrugging into his chef’s jacket and rolling up
the sleeves. He moves to the stove to heat a large sauté pan drizzled with olive oil, scowling when I bring out my phone.
“No.”
“Come on. Just a short video.” I waggle my eyebrows. “Can you blame me? Our audience loves the stern chef vibes.”
“So it’s about sex appeal?”
“It’s about forming a connection with the audience. Selling them on the concept of Fable.”
“Winfield.”
“Fine. It’s maybe a little about the way you look in chef’s whites.” I tilt my head to the side, fighting a smile. “Don’t
pretend it’s not flattering.”
“I need people coming here for the food. Not me.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
“Fine.” He clicks the tongs in his hand impatiently. “But get over here and learn how to sear.”
I quickly set up before he can change his mind. “Hey, everyone,” I say once I’m recording, flashing my phone my best smile. “I’m here in the future kitchen of Fable with its owner and head chef, Jack Hartman. And guess what? He had me butchering a whole chicken just now.”
“Winfield,” he warns again.
“Sorry, sorry. But now we’re learning how to sear!” I move over to the stove, angling my phone to show the pan, then Jack’s
charming scowl, and then me again.
“So, Chef, tell us how this goes.”
He looks at the ceiling, as if searching for something to grant him patience. “The important thing with a sear is color. You
want the outside to develop a nice golden-brown crust, especially when the skin is on. Color is flavor.” He lays one of the
chicken breasts in the pan, the instant sizzle great ASMR. “Salt and pepper on the chicken first, of course.”
“Isn’t the pan hot?”
“Chicken’s still cold.”
“That’s a pretty badass move, you know. Putting it in the pan with your bare hands.”
He slants his eyes in my direction. “That sounded a lot like a compliment.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I roll my eyes as I look into the camera. “Don’t let it go to your big head.”
I’m not totally sure, but I think I catch a smile.
“Tell us a little about Fable,” I prompt. “What can people expect when it opens?”
“Good food.”
“Jack.”
“What? That’s the truth.”
“Work with me here.”
He sighs, as if I just asked him to cook a ten-course meal, and says, “Fable is going to tell a story of authenticity. You
come in, and you make a memory that you’ll want to share. The experience of the food is as important as the food itself. I
want it to feel elemental. A little rough around the edges but still refined.”
“Perfect,” I mouth.
He ducks his head, focusing on the pan. He tilts it from side to side, re-distributing the oil, but doesn’t touch the meat yet.
The kitchen starts to smell like chicken, rousing my stomach despite breakfast not too long ago.
He turns on the vent fan. “You got your content. Put that down and actually pay attention.”
I watch as he carefully checks the chicken, nodding to himself as he flips it onto the other side. I lean in closer, still
recording. He gives the pan a vigorous shake, splattering oil around; as I jerk away from the pinpricks of heat, I accidentally
jostle into him, dropping my phone on the floor.
The crack of my phone seems to cut through the air as I watch, in slow motion, his bare forearm press against the piping hot
pan.
He hisses through his teeth, jerking back. I shriek, clapping my hands over my mouth. There’s a long, angry red line on his
tattooed skin.
Plus the edge of his sleeve, very much on fire.
Panic buzzes throughout my body. I spy a damp dishcloth near the sink. I snatch it and jump on him, clinging like a spider
monkey. We fall to the floor in a heap. I straddle him, batting at his sleeve with the dishcloth.
“Poppy.” His hand is on my hip, fingers digging in. “Poppy.”
“Is it out? Is it out?”
“It’s fine.”
I keep blotting at his sleeve. “Fuck, I’m so sorry!”
“It’s fine,” he repeats, stopping me mid-motion. He looks at his arm, pressing his fingertip into the reddened skin. My stomach
turns.
“What if it blisters? What if it gets infected?” I flap my hands. “Let’s go to urgent care. No, the emergency room.”
“Jesus, no. Get up. This isn’t my first burn.”
“That’s my favorite one,” I blurt before I can think better of it, pointing to one of the many tattoos gracing his arm. The
panther with the knife in its mouth has an unfortunate pink streak running through its muzzle. “What if it ruins it?”
“You have a favorite—never mind.” He scowls. “I’m fine. Let me up.”
“What?” I grab his arm, turning it from side to side to check the damage.
He yanks it away. “You’re on top of me. Get off.”
“Oh.” My mortification increases tenfold.
I’m not just on top of him, I’m on top of him like I’m about to ride him, for fuck’s sake.
Someone ought to give me a Stetson and slap my ass to get me going.
I skitter away, crablike, watching nervously as he turns off the burner and runs the tap.
He puts his arm under the water with another little close-mouthed hiss.
I try to speak, but the air is thick. Impossible to puncture.
A solid minute goes by without either of us making another sound.
Eventually, with effort, he looks at me. I can’t read his eyes. He jerks his head in the direction of the garbage can.
“Take that out to the dumpster.”
“Are you sure we shouldn’t go—”
“Now, Poppy.”
At the sound of my first name, I jolt into action. I drag the garbage can out the back door, ignoring the faint grunt of pain
he lets out as soon as I’m out of the room. It’s followed by a crash that makes me wince. A plate just met its end.
“Jack?” I hear Herman ask. “What’s going on? Where’s Poppy?”
“Stay the hell out of this, Herm,” he snaps.
Tears prick my eyes as I drag the garbage can across the hot, cracked asphalt. It’s another sweltering day here; not even
the palms are rustling above my head. I tie off the garbage, wrinkling my nose at the ripe smell, and lift it from the can.
The bag immediately sags, a bit of plastic poking through. I shudder, gritting my teeth as I yank the bag the last few feet
to the fly-infested dumpster.
As I lift it, it snags on the lip of the dumpster, ripping wide-open. I shriek, jumping back, but I’m not quite fast enough
to escape the cascade of garbage. Rotten food falls onto my shoes, splattering up my leggings.
Jack thunders out of the kitchen, opening the door with enough force that it bounces against the wall. Our eyes meet across
the alleyway.
“What the hell happened?”
“What does it look like?”
“You don’t take the bag out of the can.”
“Well, you didn’t tell me not to!”
“Because it’s common fucking sense, Princess!” He stalks down the alleyway. His forearm still looks angry, blistering red. “I told you to stop recording.”
“I know,” I grit out.
“So why the hell didn’t you?” He shakes his head, eyes simmering with intensity. “You could at least pretend to care about
the food.”
My mouth falls open. “What about anything I’ve been doing makes it seem like I don’t care?”
“Not everything is content! It doesn’t all need to be recorded for your precious followers.”
“I’m not going to apologize for doing what I’m good at. What you asked me to do.” I meet his charged gaze. “And it’s not like you’re giving me anything else to work on. I could take on more
responsibility. Even help you with the menu.”
He presses me against the alleyway wall, using his considerable size to his advantage. He ditched the chef’s jacket inside,
leaving on a tight white T-shirt that looks about ready to rip open at the seams. I studiously ignore the thick, corded muscles
of his arms.
“Why the hell would I?” His hand presses flat against the wall next to my head. “You haven’t earned a privilege like that.
And besides, I can’t trust a stubborn brat in the kitchen.”
The insult—brat—clangs through me. I’m sure he doesn’t realize how much it stings, and I refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing he
hit his mark. Everyone in my life has called me a brat, one time or another, even Julia. He’s nothing special.
The air between us crackles with energy. We’re both breathing hard, like racehorses on the way to the finish line.
“Fine.” I step around him, heart sinking. “I’m not going to beg you to take me seriously. Have fun failing alone.”
He grabs me by the wrist. “Wait.”
“What?”
“Go home.”
For half a second, I consider it. Maybe there’s an evening flight I can jump on. I laugh bitterly at the thought. “Wow. Okay.”
“For today,” he continues, something flickering in his expression. “Take the rest of the day off. I’ll clean this up. But I want you here tomorrow around seven. Bring a bathing suit.”
Why is on the tip of my tongue, but I manage to hold it in. As tempting as it sounds right now to leave him, I know I’m not going
to. I’m in too deep; I have to see this through.
“Heard,” I grind out before heading back inside.