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Chapter 1
Sebastian
Taking a deep breath, I walk into Omnivore Tavern. My skin tingles with anticipation as I glance around at the interior. This is exactly the sort of restaurant I can see myself running. It has the cozy look of a rustic hunting lodge—if rustic hunting lodges had high-end, bespoke furniture, light fixtures, and artwork. I lean forward to inspect a nearby sculpture. A grizzly bear cub has been carved from a massive log, and it looks so real that I’m tempted to stroke its fur.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” A voice says behind me, startling me from my thoughts.
“Very,” I say, turning to face the speaker. My mouth goes dry when I recognize Gavin Wheeler, the millionaire restauranteur with the Midas touch. While most restaurants fail in the first year, Gavin’s go on to earn Michelin stars. This is exactly why I’m here to interview for the position of head chef.
But I didn’t expect Gavin to meet me himself. I’d assumed he’d hired a headhunter. According to TMZ and the gossip magazines, the handsome, forty-something business mogul splits his time between his superyacht and the Malibu mansion he shares with his movie starlet girlfriend.
I extend my hand. “Mr. Wheeler, thanks for meeting with me. I’m Sebastian—”
He waves a hand dismissively. “I know who you are. What do you think of the sculpture?”
“It’s amazing. It’s hard to believe it’s carved from a block of wood,” I say sincerely. “Is the artist a Frosty Crest local?”
Gavin nods. “Willa McAllister. She’s an up-and-coming chainsaw artist. She’ll be world-famous before long, mark my words. I was able to buy several of her pieces for a steal.”
If the rumors about Gavin are true, he paid the artist handsomely for her work. He’s known for having top-notch quality in his restaurants, from the staff to the ingredients to the ambiance, and he spares no expense.
He leads me through the restaurant, showing off the other pieces by Willa McAllister, including the custom chairs with tableaus etched into the backs. I run a hand over a carving of two mountain goats clinging to a cliffside. It’s done so masterfully that the mountain goats look like they may tumble right off the chair and to the ground.
“Her work is perfect for the space,” I say. “It’s a modern take on the typical taxidermy and antler décor featured in most American taverns.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Gavin says. I can’t tell if he’s mocking me. After all, who am I to have an opinion on his choices? He’s the wealthy restaurant owner, not me. But he sounds sincere. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
I follow him to a table where a laptop’s been set up. He slides into the chair facing it, and I take the seat across from him. He taps a key to wake the computer from its sleep and then scrolls through something on the screen. Realizing it’s probably my CV, I twiddle my thumbs nervously. Then my knee starts to bounce.
I’ve never been good at sitting still. It’s an occupational hazard. Chefs belong in the kitchen. If I’m in the dining room, it should be to greet guests and to talk about the food. Not sitting idly at a table. I push both hands onto my knee to keep it from bouncing. It works, but my other foot starts to tap.
“So,” Gavin says, finally looking up from the computer screen, “you moved to Paris six years ago to study under Alexandre Dubois before becoming the sous-chef at the only three-star Michelin restaurant in Milan? Then you moved to Manchester to be the head chef at… a sandwich shop? Why on earth would you do that?”
My eyebrows shoot up. Is he serious? I open my mouth to tell him the restaurant is one of the best in the world, but then I catch the quirk of his lips and realize that he’s testing me. Chefs have a reputation for being sensitive and temperamental, and he wants to see if I can handle criticism without flying off the handle.
I steeple my hands on the table and lean forward, calling his bluff. “You’re a man who does his research, Mr. Wheeler. You checked my credentials well before I stepped into your establishment. So, I have no doubt you know that Aphrodite’s Deli is not just a sandwich shop.”
His face stretches into a grin. “With two Michelin stars, I’d say that’s an understatement. And from what I hear, it’s all due to your creativity in the kitchen.”
“The staff deserves a lot of the credit,” I say honestly.
Gavin leans back in his chair and locks his hands behind his head. “There’s no need to be humble. I find that cocky sons-of-bitches make the best chefs.”
My lips twitch into a grin. “I didn’t say that I don’t deserve most of the credit. Just not all of it.”
“True enough,” Gavin says with a laugh. “But why Frosty Crest? You have the experience to go straight to a top restaurant in a big city.”
I shake my head. “I’ve done that… worked at restaurants that were already great before I came along. Sure, I’ve made my mark and helped them grow, but I’m ready to be the first head chef at a new restaurant—to have my influence all over the menu from the very beginning.”
Gavin nods appreciatively. “I get that. But that still doesn’t tell me why you want to come here. There are new startups in New York, Chicago, and California every day. Hell, I’m opening several of them myself. But you’ve applied for this one. Why?”
I shrug. “I like Colorado.”
“So, why not Denver or Boulder?”
“Frosty Crest Haven is one of the best ski resorts in the country.” Jesus. I sound like a fucking advertisement for the local tourism board.
“True,” Gavin says. “And the clientele will spend big bucks on food, which is why I built my restaurant here. But you’re a young, single man. I’m surprised you don’t want to be in a more metropolitan area.”
