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Chapter Three
It didn’t take long for Alaric to finally win Bella over, and Rebecca moved out of her friend’s house, and back into her own apartment. She also had to open her restaurant back up, and right now, she was standing in the center looking around the room at all the fancy laden tables. No one was in yet, so she was able to get some peace at the moment and look at what was hers.
Only, she felt empty. Rebecca’s, the name of her place, looked like everything her parents wanted for her. If she was going to be a chef, they wanted her to have the best, a place for them to show off to their clients. They had a daughter who cooked fancy food, and they were always driving her to get the accolades, but the truth was, she only ever wanted to be about good home food. As silly as it was, considering her rich parents, she wanted to be the kind of cook that was on the television. She wanted to inspire, and to create food that people wanted to eat, not visit once in a blue moon at a fancy restaurant.
“Are you okay?” Oliver asked.
She turned to see her barman entering the restaurant. “I’m fine. I’ve just accepted the new wine order.”
“You’re looking sad again. I’ve noticed that you rarely look at this place as a dream, and more of a weight that you must carry.” Oliver put his jacket on the chair next to him, and sat down.
“It’s nothing. Just looking at the fact we’re heading toward another year.”
“Another year of you hating what you do,” he said.
Oliver was the first man that she’d hired. Her parents had wanted her to use some kind of wine expert. She had put her foot down, and said she wanted a barman she could trust, who didn’t just know how to pour wine, but to make cocktails. Not that it mattered, Oliver’s skills were never really put to the test anyway.
“Do you like working here?” she asked, tucking some hair behind her ear, and stepping close.
He sighed, and slapped his hands down on his thighs. “It’s a job, and right now, it’s a job that I really need.”
“So no?”
“I like working for you. Believe it or not, Rebecca, you’re not a bad boss, not at all. I think what I find so sad is that I’ve never seen you enjoy what you do.”
She smiled, and then glanced at the keys to the restaurant. “I always wanted to cook. I loved being in the kitchen. My mom wasn’t much of a cook, but from the moment that I could walk anywhere I wanted, I was always in the kitchen. I’d watch our cook make cookies, all of this elaborate food, and she would even cook stuff my parents would never eat. Home cooked food, stews, cobblers, casserole, everything that makes your hips expand, but once you take that bite, you know you’ve come home, you know?”
“The kind of food you love cooking?”
“Yeah, the kind of food I love cooking.” She stared at the keys. “My dream was to have a real family place with home cooked food. I even imagined a little crèche for parents to bring their kids, you know? Then my dad saw the potential I had, and before I knew what had happened, there was this place.” She blew out a breath. “It was a gift, and I’ve had it for a couple of years now.”
“What is the first thought that comes into your head if this place was to burn down?” he asked.
“Good riddance,” she said, and her cheeks heated. “Sounds awful, right?”
“What I think, boss lady, is you need to think about what you want. Where do you hope to be in a few years? Do you want this place to still be your whole existence?”
She couldn’t help it. She sneered. Oliver chuckled. “I sound ungrateful, don’t I?”
Oliver shrugged. “I think that you need to do what you want to do. A lifetime is only short, but when you’re living it doing everything everyone else wanted you to do, it can be a very long time.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “I will go and check to make sure the suppliers didn’t mess up our order.”
Everyone would be coming in at any moment, and she really needed to get her kitchen set up.
Looking around again, there was no inspiration. The menu was already done, and the food ready to start prepping.
Just get your ass in the kitchen.
So that was what she did. She went into her kitchen, and she started doing all the work for the main courses, chopping vegetables that could be stored, checking the marinate of meat, making sure her area was prepared and ready.
She did the usual chitchat with her workers, and then it was on to work. Their doors opened at five in the evening, and they wouldn’t close until twelve. Her father had said it would make her more exclusive, and give seating an air of importance. To get a seat at Rebecca’s was near to flying to the moon. When he told her that, she had scoffed. The one benefit to being at work, at least she didn’t have to sit at home all day thinking about Jackson.
Christmas had come and gone, and she should have opened up a couple of weeks ago but she didn’t have the energy.
Of course her parents were pissed—until they discovered that she had gotten an illness, and then they were keeping a wide berth so they didn’t catch it.
Her parents were not bad people. They were just selfish, cold, and at times aloof.
Rebecca took the evening shift in her stride, never losing her cool when someone asked for less butter or no cream, or no flavor at all. She could do it all, and she did. When they asked to see her, she was the epitome of politeness, doing what needed to be done, allowing them to praise her food. As always, she praised her team, making sure they had the credit as well. It took more than one chef to run a restaurant.
