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“I am enjoying myself,” she confirmed. “Though of course I prefer working in the kitchen to all this attention.”
Neil let out a skeptical snort. Attention was what he lived and breathed for.
Thankfully, the hostess appeared to lead him and his gang away. “Enjoy your meal,” she called after them before hissing, “Did you invite him?” to Trey.
“I believe he’s Gordon Hewitt’s guest. I sent him a handful of tickets.”
Gordon Hewitt was the editor of Boston Eats and a well-known food critic. Her head whipped around to confirm he was with Neil. Sadly, he was, his short form dashing in a rumpled jacket and bow tie.
“Crap. I didn’t see him. Hewitt must think I’m completely stupid. Why did he bring Montana? He can’t possibly like his food.”
Noting her horrified stare, the dapper food critic smiled and lifted two fingers. Weakly, Rebecca returned the greeting.
“Crap,” she repeated, jerking forward again.
“It’s okay,” Trey soothed. “Hewitt has a reputation for being puckish. He probably invited Montana in the hopes of inciting a drama.”
“Just kill me now,” Rebecca moaned.
Trey laughed underneath his breath. She was glad he was taking this in stride, though—strictly speaking—she should have followed his example. God, she wished she were in the kitchen. Her nervous energy would have served a purpose there.
She was so overwrought she didn’t immediately identify the striking woman who swung legs first out of a limo that had pulled to the curb. A chauffeur handed her out, a service the woman seemed used to. Her dress was Marilyn-esque: white, pleated, its flowy skirt poised to lift at any convenient draft. Though her hair was dark, its waves were styled to resemble the iconic movie star’s. Her pouty red lips glistened with reflections from the Lounge’s decorative outdoor lights. Strings of the twinkly bulbs spiraled around the entrance.
“Mystique,” Trey said when she reached them. “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“Oh you know.” She waved a hand whose glossy manicure matched her lips. “Spur of the moment thing.”
“Well, I’m glad.” He accepted her air kiss. “It’s always nice to see you.”
The tilt of the model’s head struck Rebecca as dubious. Did she think Trey wasn’t glad to see her, and if so, why not? Rebecca realized she hoped Trey disliked her. Bad enough Zane and she were cozy.
She probably had a weird expression on her face when Mystique shifted her gaze to her. “You must be the chef. Congratulations on the big night.”
She showed no awareness that she knew who Rebecca was—not that she was worth mentioning by Zane.
“Thank you,” she said, her spine inescapably poker stiff. “I hope you enjoy the meal.”
Sensing her tension, Trey laid his hand in the small of her back.
“I’m sure I will,” Mystique said pleasantly.
She continued in, stirring murmurs even among the ritzy crowd. Zane hadn’t appeared behind her, so perhaps the couple was meeting here. Hardly steady to begin with, Rebecca’s pulse began skittering. She knew he’d probably attend tonight, but she been trying her hardest to compartmentalize that knowledge. Could she bear seeing Zane in person with his beautiful arm candy? Did she have the nerve to face him with Trey no more than six inches from her side? For that matter, could this situation get any more uncomfortable?
“Jesus,” Trey murmured, looking at her. “You’ve broken into a sweat.”
“Sorry,” she said. “I just really want to oversee the kitchen.”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Oversee. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”
Rebecca hurried off as if she were escaping a guillotine.
A server stopped her in the back hall. “Chef,” she said, a smile on her face. “Your clam chowder is a hit. Folks are scraping their bowls!”
“Great,” Rebecca said. She moved aside to let the waitress pass. Though glad to hear the accolade, she wondered if it meant her other appetizers were simply meh.
Steady, she ordered, grabbing her chef’s whites. Even as she shoved her arms through the sleeves, she pushed through the kitchen door. There she found the sort of chaos she didn’t like to see.
Raoul was haranguing two of the newbies with the Spanish version of get your asses into gear.
“What?” she said to get his attention. “Are we in the weeds?”
“No. Just slow getting off the mark. These two—” he narrowed his eyes at the flinching cooks “—need to get over their fucking quivers at turning up the heat.”
“You,” Rebecca said to the newbie she knew had quicker hands. “Go help plate. I’ll take over your station.”
“Yes, chef,” he said, already trotting off despite looking unhappy.
“Fast and pretty!” she yelled after him. “Presentation is important. Don’t send anything hot out cold!”
“You’re staying?” Raoul asked, seeming relieved by this. Apparently, they were closer to the weeds than he’d wanted to let on.
“Yes.” She took control of the departed newcomer’s sauté pans. “You’re overseeing the grill?”
“Yes. Lorenzo’s expediting.”
She’d seen this on her way in. Lorenzo was one of their senior men. Once they picked up speed, he ought to have no trouble keeping the train on track.
“Focus,” she reminded the sweating newbie beside her. “When Lorenzo calls an order for your station, let him know you’ve got it. If someone is working on the other half of your dish, keep him in the loop on how far along you are. Everybody communicate!” she finished with a bellow.
“Yes, chef!” the kitchen bellowed back.
She smiled at that, and turned back to work. For the next ten minutes, the kitchen’s chaos became the nimble dance it was meant to be.
Then the lobster started returning.
Lobster couldn’t be rushed. You had to cook it gently or you’d lose its exquisite taste and texture. The Lounge’s version was butter-poached with creamy broth and orzo. Topped with savory Parmesan “crisps,” it made a memorable small entree, the sort diners would come back for . . . assuming, of course, that it was actually cooked.
In spite of the hubbub around her, the second server to call for a re-fire put Rebecca on full alert.
“Crap,” she said. Adrenaline poured through her as she signaled the second newbie to take her pans. Fearing the worst, she headed straight for the pass-through. Lorenzo was poking the rejected food in befuddlement.
“They’re raw in the middle,” the server insisted, which Rebecca could see for herself.
“Why are you letting them go out like this?” she demanded of Lorenzo. “You’re supposed to check every plate.”
“I—” Lorenzo stammered, his big brown eyes filling up with tears.
Rebecca’s brain went into panic mode. The senior man was built like a wrestler and normally tougher than alligator hide. She hadn’t cursed him out yet, so the problem had to be personal—a fight with his girlfriend, or some such thing. “Christ,” she said, too stressed out to be sympathetic. “Don’t do this to me tonight.”
“Sorry, chef.” His eyes welled up even worse, tempting her to slap him out of it. “I’ll pull it together.”
“Damn it. You’re my best expediter after Raoul, and he’s better than you at meat. Don’t make me take you off this post.”
Lorenzo dragged his sleeve across watery eyes. “Yes, chef. I’m sorry.”
Rebecca didn’t want sorry. She wanted her crew to straighten up. “Seafood!” she called over her shoulder to that station. “Give your fucking lobsters more time in the oven.”
The smattering of yes, chefs she got back didn’t satisfy.
“Fuck,” she snapped in her deepest drill sergeant’s voice. “You know that bastard from Wilde’s is out there. He’s dying to see us fail!”
“We never fail, chef!” Raoul roared back at full volume.
Her head chef was grinning, which put her nearer to an even keel. She slapped Lorenzo’s shoulder to let him know they were all right, then pointed to the newbie she’d shifted to plating. “We’re a team here,” she said in a quieter tone. “You be Lorenzo’s back-up if he needs it.”
“I’ll tell the guests new plates are coming,” the waitress assured her.
Nodding curtly, Rebecca strode back to the sizzling cooktop and her orders. As a rule, she didn’t relish blowing up. She was so wired now her hands shook. Her entire life seemed to be trying to overwhelm her at the same time: the twins, her house, her fucking sweetheart of a boss and his fucking too-sexy-to-stand best friend. Her breath caught in her chest as if an ogre had her around the ribs. Emptying her lungs required a conscious effort.
