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Flirty, but non-invasive. Girl 101 when it came to playing it cool.
Tris didn’t know what the hell to respond. Everything felt off-balance.
Including him.
He waved to his staff, grabbing a Granny Smith apple on his way out of the kitchen. The crisp, tart apple suited his mood and killed the growl in his belly.
Being around food all the time—hell, tasting stuff all the time—made him less likely to actually take a dinner break. When he took a second to breathe, he wanted to be anywhere except around food.
He cut through the back tunnel in the hotel and headed up to the parking area. He tossed the apple core in the trash, then ripped open his chef coat and put on his aviator sunglasses. He preferred colored coats to the traditional white, but man, they were totaled by the end of the night. His navy jacket stunk like onions and the white sauce he’d been splattered with twice. Stupid burners had been on the fritz and hadn’t given him a consistent heat. He’d had to redo half a dozen plates.
Shit, he was beyond done. What he needed was a bottle of wine, a slab of Brie, and some fruit.
It was also a Mumford and Sons kind of night. Some hot tunes and his top down would put him in a much better mood.
He threaded through the parked cars to his designated spot and spotted her. His silver Jag. His first big purchase when he’d been made head chef.
Going convertible with it had considerably added to the expense, but he’d wanted it. No more Chevy beaters for him.
He disengaged the locks and alarm and popped the top as soon as the engine purred to life.
His place near the hills was a bitch to get to in normal traffic, but his schedule gave him a slight advantage. It was still hairy as hell.
The wind broke the gel cage his faux hawk had been wrestled into, the longer pieces ruffling around his face. With each mile his shoulders eased, and the tension lessened.
He pulled into the small parking structure of his loft apartment as “Dust Bowl Dance” boomed out of his speakers. The parking spot next to his was taken. Rand’s piece of shit Jetta was parked perfectly between the lines.
“Fucking finally.”
Tris got out and peeked in Rand’s backseat window. No bags packed.
Looked like his roommate had finally decided to come home. Remained to be seen if he’d stopped pouting too.
Tris got lucky. The old freight elevator was actually on the bottom level. He was tired enough to battle the rickety gate and slap the lever for the third floor.
His place was an old converted warehouse with six apartments. The one next to his was currently empty. He’d toyed with buying it out and making the floor into one big space, but he didn’t need that much room.
After all, once Randy moved on, it was just him. He was alone more often than not—especially at home—but never lonely.
At least not much.
Besides, he’d lucked out at getting on the top floor at all. He’d transformed part of the roof into a garden to keep fresh produce on hand at all times. The fact that it had turned into a sort of co-op garden for the entire building had been a plus. Especially since one of the residents—Mrs. Fisher—loved to garden.
Talk about bonus points. He did the pruning and lifting for her, and she took care of the weeds. It was a beautiful relationship.
In fact, tonight he’d go up and check on the tomato crop. Maybe he’d make some sauce for the next few days.
When he got to his floor, he bypassed his door for the roof access stairs, grabbing an old basket on his way out. Once on the roof, he paused to look out on the hills. He wasn’t making quite enough bank to be high up into the Hollywood Hills, but he enjoyed his spot on the fringes.
He hated Mulholland anyway. It was forever clogged with cars and idiot bicyclists who were determined to break their necks on the winding narrow roads. Like right now.
Dusk was on its way within the hour.
He lingered over the tomatoes, filling the basket with enough for a big pot of sauce. He added onions and peppers for flavor and a bunch of herbs. He snagged a few limes off the tree before heading back inside.
Once he touched food, his mind went into chef mode. As tired as he was, he enjoyed cooking for himself and friends and didn’t get to do it as much anymore. Running the kitchen took him away from the actual plating of food unless there were celebrities at The Hollow, then he was expected to do everything.
Not only expected, but he demanded it.
