Page 21 of When Lemons Give You Life

“You need to consider firing that boy, Griff,” Charles says in my direction. “He’s made too many mistakes.”

“Yep. I’ll chat to him at the end of service.”

Lisa is staring at me with the same wounded look from childhood. Her voice is quiet as I pass. “You always were good at getting people to leave, weren’t you, Griff?”

After dessert, her boss asks to compliment the chef, so I begrudgingly make an appearance. The portly blond principal shakes my hand. “You’re so lucky, Lisa,” he says, “I wish my brother could cook like this. He can barely make a sandwich. Must’ve been nice growing up!”

Lisa smiles, but it’s her fake smile, the one that stops at her lips.

I turn my attention to the man beside her, the wine stain glaring on his perfectly tailored white shirt. He isn’t obviously handsome—not in the traditional sense. His dark wavy hair flops over his long face. His nose is the “before” picture for rhinoplasty, large and crooked, but I like it. He’s tall but not too tall, enough to take up space without demanding it. He looks at me, and something in my chest loosens. There’s a softness in the way his gaze lingers—not the guarded stare most straight blokes wear. My gut stirs with the quiet certainty that he’s like me.

Later, after the rush dies down, I head to the bathroom for a breather. The hum of the restaurant fades as I step inside, but the quiet’s broken by the faint sound of sniffling from the nearest stall.

I stop mid-step. “Jake?” My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.

“I—I’ll get back out there. Sorry, chef, please don’t fire me.”

I sigh, all too familiar with the sound of someone who thinks they’ve blown their only shot. “You still upset about the champers?”

He takes a shaky breath. “It’s the cost. It’s almost two hundred bucks a bottle, and I was barely going to make rent this week as it was. I’m sorry, it’s not your problem.”

I’m about to leave when I consider the kind, unexpected act of the dark-haired man. I dig into my pocket and pull out the packet of Belgian chocolates that sustain me during my shift. I pop two crisp $100 bills inside and slide it under the stall. “Here. Eat something. Chocolate solves everything.”

The packet rustles. There’s a gasp, then a long pause before the stall door creaks open behind me. “There’s two hundred bucks in here! I . . . I don’t know what to say, chef.”

“Told you chocolate solves everything. Just don’t go telling anyone, wouldn’t want word spreading that I’m soft or anything. Off you go.”

Jake scurries out, beaming.

I wash my hands and push open the bathroom door, stepping back into the bustling dining room. But as it begins to swing shut behind me, I hear the faint creak of the far stall opening. I glance over my shoulder in time to see the dark-haired man step out. Our eyes meet and I stop the door with my foot.

Before I can process it, he gives me a small nod: an unspoken acknowledgment. He blushes, his voice soft. “That was so nice of—”

“Urgent phone call for you in the kitchen, chef,” the sous-chef interrupts.

I sigh and return to the kitchen, glancing back at the man staring at me with a crooked grin that makes my world topple.

14

Griff

A tapping sound grows louder. I can’t be knocking on hell’s door just yet, I haven’t even swallowed. Turns out my pharynx is a hesitant old bastard when it comes to coriander and fatal decisions.

“Happy New Year, Griff! Sorry to barge in, love, but I haven’t seen you around in a while. Dayna told me this was your room. I’m looking for the new cook that gave Rob the lemon tart. I’ve been asking everyone, but no one seems to know of him.”

I reluctantly peel open one eye.

It’s Gladys, her cane feeling out the path before her. “Sorry, Griff, are you asleep?”

I was about to be, I would answer, if not for the twenty temazepam tablets swimming inside my mouthful of whisky.

The old woman takes a seat on my bed, oblivious to the fact that my cheeks are the size of golf balls. “I was famous for my baking, you know. Won prizes, I did. Best cake in Kyneton, before both my eyes went to cancer. Now I can’t read labels anymore, and I can’t bend down to an oven with my bad leg.” She taps her left ankle with her cane.

“I was most famous for my lenja pita. My baba taught me to make it back in Serbia. The translation is lazy apple cake.” She giggles, tossing her long white hair over her shoulder.

If I don’t swallow the tablets, I’m going to die from a lack of oxygen regardless.

“It’s my Herb’s birthday coming up, and it was his favorite. He can’t cook toast and all he gets now are those rotten frozen meals from the supermarket. I can’t bear the thought of that. Cooking was my love language and eating was his, you see.”