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“I don’t know why I’m here.” Cal crossed his arm over his chest. Now that she had left, the tiny bit of insecurity the kid had been sporting on his face disappeared. In its place was pure disdain.
“You’re here to work,” Finn told him firmly. “There’s a uniform for you in the kitchen. Just ask one of the others to get you set up. Chef Landry and I will be right there.”
Cal glared at them both, his eyes shifting from left to right. Finn mirrored his actions, crossing his arms over his chest. This kid was going to give him a hard time. Probably harder than any foster kid he’d ever had in the program, because of their personal connection. But Finn was up to the challenge.
Apparently sensing he wouldn’t win, Cal cursed under his breath and stalked to the kitchen. When he was out of sight, Finn let out a heavy breath.
“Is that the girl from the show?” his sous chef asked eagerly.
Great. Finn ground his jaw and waved off the comment. “What are you talking about?”
“Your friend.” Chris’s eyes lit up with mischief. “I knew she looked familiar.”
Hell, no. Finn would never confirm his hunch. They’d gone to that show because Chris’s new girlfriend had been performing. Not so his sous chef could drool over Veronica.
“She’s the housewife! I wasn’t sure until she walked away. But damn, I’d recognize that ass anywhere.”
Finn fisted his hands but kept them at his sides. “I think I would have recognized one of my oldest friends onstage.”
After a moment, Chris reluctantly deflated. “I guess you’re right.”
Finn needed to change the subject, fast. “Don’t you have some vegetables to chop, or something?”
Chris smiled and straightened his stance. “Yes, Chef.”
His sous chef was right. She had a great ass. But he’d be damned if any other man was going to have images in his head of that ass up close and personal.
He entered his kitchen and immediately the smell of garlic suffused his nostrils. A pan of roasted bulbs fresh from the oven sat on the counter, waiting to be used for their garlic mashed potatoes.
Carmel’s kitchen was older, but made up for it by being equipped with brand-new appliances. It had been the first restaurant purchased by Arthur Madewood, husband to Finn’s late foster mother, Vivian.
He was fifteen when Vivian had plucked him and Cole from foster care. Neil, their oldest foster brother, had already been living with her for a while, and a year later, Jack had made his entrance. Not a day went by when Finn wasn’t thankful for his luck, and for Vivian, the woman they all called mother. Not only did he not have to face his adulthood all alone in the world, but he also didn’t have to worry about a job or money. All four of the foster brothers had fallen easily into the chef role, and to this day, above all else Finn loved cooking and making people happy with his food.
But sometimes, he went to his dark place and asked the questions no one else wanted to ask. Such as, if Arthur hadn’t passed away, would Vivian ever have adopted them?
“Excuse me, Chef.” One of his line cooks brushed passed Finn, reaching for the pan of garlic bulbs.
Cal had already changed. He was huddled in the corner, looking good in his checkered pants and white chef coat. Hopefully, it wouldn’t be long before he was promoted to the line, and he’d have his name stitched onto the material.
“Have you met everyone?” Finn asked him.
Cal nodded.
Chris stood at the island in the middle of the kitchen preparing veal for the evening’s menu. His two line chefs, Erin Brock and Richard Sullivan, prepared their own items at opposite sides of the kitchen.
“Let’s get started, then.” Finn opened the manila envelope and pulled out Cal’s documents. “You will work five nights a week. Three p.m. until closing time.”
“When does the restaurant close?”
“You should be out of here by midnight.”
Cal’s mouth dropped open.
“You’ll be responsible for washing every pot, pan, and dish that is used in this restaurant,” Finn went on.
Cal scoffed. “I thought I was cooking?”
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