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I sigh and grab my keys.
22
MIA
Edgar is playing music from his phone while we prep for the day’s service. Taste doesn’t start serving until after lunch, but preparing for service is an all-day event most of the time. We have meats to rotate out of the dry-ager, fresh cuts to butcher and break down, sauces to make, and a thousand other little things that set us up for a successful night.
I’m dicing onions and thinking how most people would probably find this tedious. It doesn’t feel that way for me. I like thinking about how every little step we take now is part of the bigger picture–like an orchestra of tastes and smells. Even the little, seemingly routine tasks like cutting onions play a part. The more perfect my cuts, the more evenly they’ll cook, and the more the guest will enjoy the final product.
It’s a search for perfection I know I’ll never achieve, but one I also know I can completely immerse myself in.
I’m lost in my happy little world, barely paying attention to Edgar singing along in his shaky voice to the music or Paisley and Zander chatting about some show they’re both watching.
Zander’s surprised tone drags me back to the moment.
“Oh, hey,” he says. “Are you joining us today?”
I look up and see Nolan is tying an apron around his waist. Instead of the suit and tie he usually wears when he shows up to help with service, he’s in a chef’s uniform. It hugs his wide shoulders and tapered waist in a distracting way. His sandy-blonde hair is pushed out of his face and still looks wet. His eyes meet mine and my cheeks instantly flush.
I think about the last time we talked–about how many times I’ve nearly picked up my phone and called him to ask if his offer is still on the table. I’ve managed to avoid that call for a few days, mostly because of his promise to make me beg for it if I didn’t call him right away. I should thank him for that. Even if it was cruel, it made the job of resisting just a little easier.
Every time I think about sleeping with him, I end up following that act to it’s logical conclusion and deciding I can’t afford it. First, we’d sleep together. Then we’d both start getting feelings. And then we’d bash our heads right against the problem we couldn’t solve the first time around. It’s a doomed proposition. So why do I keep feeling so tempted to throw myself into it, head-first?
“Fuck that guy?” Nolan says.
Zander nods. “Fuck him?”
“Who are we fucking, exactly?” Paisley asks. “Because I’m on my period. I may have to sit it out for now, unless they’re into that.”
“Marten’s dad,” Zander says.
“Oh,” Paisley says, wrinkling her nose. “Hard pass. Sorry. You guys can have him.”
“Marten’s dad gave us a shitty review,” Zander says. “He’s a big deal in foodie circles–the exact circles our customers run in.”
I sink back, feeling deflated as I lean on the counter. “This is my fault,” I say.
“No,” Nolan says. “I’m the one who pissed him off. You told me to leave it be.”
“I should’ve just talked to him. Seen what he wanted.”
“He wanted you,” Nolan said. “Unless you were planning to offer yourself up to him, this was going to happen either way.”
Zander nods. “He’s right. Don’t beat yourself up over it. We’ll handle this like we always do.”
Paisley hugs me from the side. “Think how satisfying it’ll be to prove him wrong. Right?”
I nod, holding back tears. I still feel like I let everyone down. “Yeah,” I say.
Edgar holds up his index finger. “What about poison? We could poison the motha’ fucka?”
“Let’s not even joke about that, Edgar,” Zander says calmly.
Edgar shrugs. “Just a suggestion.”
Nolan’s jaw is flexing. He pulls the strap on his apron tight with a snap of fabric. “My agent is friends with a guy who represents some celebrity chefs. I asked him to call in a few favors. That means we’re going to probably have more big critics rolling through in the next couple weeks.”
“And you’re our reinforcement to make sure we’re ready for it?” Zander asks, smile crooked.
