AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Unless they did, and she’d been deluded all this time.
The stupid thought sank her stomach. God, please, let her not screw this up. She couldn’t beg that bastard Titcomb to take her back on staff, not if it meant working under the dumbass dickhead he’d hired to be her supposed boss. Titcomb liked the guy because he’d won some reality TV show. However he’d managed that, it wasn’t by cooking well. The only thing sadder than his overworked, over-seasoned dishes was watching him try to impress Wilde’s crew with his “credentials.” She knew the veteran cooks were hoping she’d get this job and could bring them over. Titcomb would be lucky if the new guy didn’t drive him out of business within the year.
Not that she’d be there to see it.
Molars grinding, she pushed her cart beside Dominic’s across the shiny lake of imported stone. The wheels bumped slightly at the lobby’s center where the company’s elegant gold logo was inlaid.
“Ms. Eilert?” said a security guard in a suit. He’d stepped out from behind his desk before they could reach it. He was trim and polite, his wireless earpiece adding to his professional air. “We’re holding the freight elevator for you if you’d like to follow me.”
“See,” Dominic murmured. “No way is this place’s kitchen going to suck.”
Rebecca smiled, amused by his confidence—despite her ability to be neurotic under almost any conditions. Calm at least for the moment, they and their carts made it to the twentieth floor before her palms broke into a sweat again.
She forgot they were damp the moment she caught a glimpse of where she’d be working.
“Whoa,” Dominic said, coming to a halt behind her.
TBBC’s corporate kitchen was a palace. Impeccably equipped, every pot, every burner, every inch of burnished steel worktop was spotless. Rebecca’s entire brigade from Wilde’s could have cooked here with room to spare—assuming she still had a brigade, of course.
“The walk-in is that way,” the suited guard informed her, gesturing toward its door. “Feel free to use anything in it. Mr. Hayworth has cleared his schedule for 1:30. If you suspect your food won’t be ready, please use the phone on the wall to warn his assistant.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem.” Rebecca was slightly breathless from the lovely toys around her.
The guard smiled at her. “Good luck,” he said, exiting politely.
“Am I staying?” Dominic asked, hardly containing his eagerness.
The terms of Rebecca’s tryout allowed her an assistant. She’d been planning to do everything herself. When you had her experience, creating a tasting menu for just one person wasn’t overly difficult. On the other hand, Dominic had sufficient training from his father to carry off simple sauces and fine chopping. Seeing his pleading look, she remembered how eager she’d been to learn when she was his age. If he stayed, she’d have to keep her nerves wrapped up for his sake—which might not be a bad thing.
“You’ll do what I say?” she asked, pointing her sternest chef’s finger. “No getting ‘creative’ with my instructions?”
Practically bouncing, Dominic crossed his heart.
“All right,” she said, swallowing back a surge of adrenaline. “God help me, you’re my sous-chef.”
~
A tasting menu’s purpose was best described as amuse-gueule: amusement for the mouth. Small portions kept taste buds in a state of attention, while creative presentation seduced the eyes. Flavors could be subtle, but they had to communicate. I am basil. I am lamb. Do I not blend magically with my companions? Ideally, courses took diners on a journey: from surprise to delight, from pungent to delicate. Childhood memories could be evoked or exotic global trips. If food was emotion, a tasting menu was a tale packed with adventure. Creating one proved a chef possessed imagination as well as skill.
The journey Rebecca had devised mixed comfort and surprise. Naturally, preparation didn’t occur without hiccups. Adjustments invariably had to be made en route. In the end, however, when the minute hand on the wall clock clicked to 1:29, she felt as confident as she was capable of.
She smoothed the front of her chef’s whites, polished a faint smudge from the first plate’s cover, and turned to face the door. Dominic had set up the little table at which her sole guest would eat. Rebecca believed in working clean. Although later dishes were still in process, very little chaos remained.
At precisely 1:30 and ten seconds, Trey Hayworth entered the kitchen.
He and his business partner Zane Alexander were among Boston’s most glamorous bachelors. In addition to making their mark in commerce, they supported numerous charities. Rebecca had seen shots of Hayworth in his tuxedo climbing out of limos too many times to count. She knew the young CFO was hot stuff.
She hadn’t known meeting him in person would stop her heart.
He was tall and tan and shaped from shoulder to hip like a pro athlete. His black hair was long enough to tie back and as smooth and shiny as if he’d just brushed it. The cuffs of his beautifully fitted Oxford shirt were rolled up to his elbows. An expensive watch gleamed on one wrist, but his soft suede shoes were as scuffed as if he’d kicked around in them for years. The overall effect was one of effortless stylishness, suggesting weekends in the Hamptons or maybe Ralph Lauren ads. He literally looked polished.
Maybe he buffs himself with money, she joked, trying to recover her humor. From what she'd heard, the bad boys had enough of it.
Her cynicism shredded the moment his gaze met hers.
Clear and bright, his surprisingly hot green eyes were the color of bottles deposited on a sunny shore. Glints of amber increased their intensity, as did their lush frame of dark lashes. His thick eyebrows were crazy-sexy—brooding, manly—unavoidably sinking their hooks into her where she was most girly. His gaze seemed to penetrate her soul . . . evidently as preparation for wetting her panties.
“Hello,” he said with a smile that hinted at unfairly deep dimples.
Squirming already, Rebecca experienced the oddest shiver of deja vu.
“I’m Rebecca Eilert,” she said, aware that her voice wasn’t quite steady. Annoyed with herself, she offered him a hand that damn well was. “Thank you for giving me this opportunity to show you what I can do.”
The panty-wetter took her hand in both of his, holding rather than shaking it. Again, Rebecca quivered with arousal—an inconvenience she could have done without. Hayworth’s palm was unexpectedly callused, possibly from rowing. Her college-age little brothers were on a crew and had similar rough spots. For a second, Hayworth seemed to be waiting for a response from her. Whatever it was, Rebecca didn’t know how to supply it.
“Would you like to begin?” she asked politely.
His mouth was well-shaped but not full. At her question, it slanted to one side—as if he were enjoying a private and slightly rueful joke.
“I’d be honored,” he concurred.
Dominic took his cue with a smoothness that would have done his father proud, pulling out the single chair for Hayworth. Hayworth took it, then let the young man spread his napkin and pour his water. That done, he looked expectantly at her.
Rattled but not—she promised herself—shaken, she set the first plate in front of him.
Hayworth’s ah of pleasure as she removed the lid was exactly what she’d hoped for.
Two fluffy golden potato blinis sat on a clean white plate, one picture-perfect little pancake tipped rakishly atop the other. This base was surmounted by a glistening scoop of tomato confit, which she’d seasoned lightly with roe of cod. Rebecca explained the dish’s contents, stepped back, and allowed him to dig in.
Hayworth did so, then swallowed his mouthful. “Oh my God,” he moaned gratifyingly, spooning into the dish again. “That is amazing.”
His appreciation was just beginning. He adored her creamy Maine lobster bisque, and pronounced her lamb chops with cassoulet wicked. Her palate-cleansing cucumber fraiche was praised, and her squab with foie gras and figs. By the time she was ready to serve dessert, her newly anointed sous-chef was grinning from ear to ear. Dominic knew he’d helped her prepare a hit.
Rebecca gave thanks the teenager’s heels remained on the floor.
For the final ‘taste’ she’d made upside-down apple tart with dollops of homemade cinnamon ice cream. This was a signature dish for her. Served in a small ramekin, the dessert mingled sweet and spicy, playing off the textures of creamy and toothsome. The tart and tender apples complemented the crispy puff pastry as if God had invented them for this pairing. Buckwheat pancakes with apple syrup it was not. All the same, for her, the tastes and scents brought back that first success. Unbeknownst to her guests, each time she served it, she shared her heart with them.
Hayworth scraped the ramekin with his spoon, then sat back in his chair and sighed. Though the amounts she’d served were too modest to have stuffed a big man like him, he wove both hands together over his flat stomach. His eyes were shining, his smile as satisfied as any guest she’d seen.
