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“Not always, no.”
“It’s a lot of pressure.”
“Yep.”
“But you don’t have to do everything on your own.”
“That’s how I’ve always done things.” I set my beer down, taking in her words. “When I was a kid, my mom worked two jobs to support my sisters and me. She was rarely home to make dinner or breakfast and lunch for that matter.”
“That’s not fun.” Liz’s low voice turns my head.
“No, but it’s how I learned to cook. I was in charge of the meals. My sisters were too small to work the stove, so it was up to me. I learned pretty early on that I was good at it. So good that I started to love doing it. I wouldn’t even let my sisters help.” I laugh at the memory. “I started experimenting with different recipes, and I just kept getting better.”
Liz swivels her stool so that she’s facing me. Her soft smile warms me. It makes me feel vulnerable and open, a feeling so foreign I barely recognize it.
“The kitchen wasn’t only my safe space; it was my only space. I was shy as hell and a total introvert. I didn’t really connect with kids my age, and it was easier not to even try.”
“I can relate to that.” Liz nods, her eyes sparkling in the bar’s low lighting. She puts her hand on mine and gives it a squeeze. “The kitchen was kind of my hideout, too.” I never thought of it like that, but she’s exactly right.
“But hey, look at us now!” She smiles, but it’s short-lived. “Well, look at you.”
“Stop that. You were dealt a shitty hand. There was a fucking global pandemic. It wasn’t easy for anyone to stay afloat. You know what they say; timing is everything, and I guarantee we would've had financial issues if it weren’t for the timing. You’re an amazing chef, Liz.” Her eyes grow watery. I want to wrap her up in my arms and tell her that everything’s going to be okay. “And you’re a pretty amazing person, too.”
She sniffs. “Back at ya.” She raises her bottle, and we cheers once more. “And thanks.” As we each take a sip, I realize there’s no way I can let this woman just walk out of my kitchen after this event is over. The same could be said for letting her walk out of my life. Liz Howard is too good of a catch to let go of.
ChapterFive
Liz
It’sNew Year’s Eve, and everybody’s shuffling. The kitchen is a giant commotion, with bodies moving everywhere, dodging each other’s movements so we can get every last bit of prep and cooking done before the crowd arrives for dinner and dancing at eight o’clock. We’ve only got two more hours to finish up.
I keep sneaking glances at Cameron, whose brow is so furrowed that I can barely see his eyes. I know from experience that times like these require distance. I’m dying to put my hand on his big, broad shoulders and tell him that everything’s going to be alright, but I don’t dare. He’s barking orders, and the staff looks like they’re about to have a nervous breakdown.
I remind myself that any orders or foul words barked shouldn’t be taken personally. It makes it easier to finish up my duties, which I do. The strange thing is that I love seeing him like this, in a position of authority. The stress almost makes him sexier. I love a man in charge.
We plate the hor d’oeuvres, and the catering staff carries the large silver trays out to the ballroom, rapidly filling with guests. After the first round is passed, I make my move to approach Cameron.
“Chef?” I dry my hands on the towel draped over my shoulder.
“Yeah.” His sharp voice doesn’t faze me.
“You doing okay?”
His brow actually smoothes. “Hell yeah. Things are going well.” He rests his hand on my arm. His touch sends a wave of tingles through me. “Thanks for all of your help.”
“Well, we’re not out of the clear yet. Dinner’s about to be served.”
We plate two-hundred dishes, and the catering staff expertly carries armloads out to the fancy guests. Fish, chicken, and steak are all served on simple white plates, but the food itself makes them each look like a work of art. It’s truly something that fills me with pride, and from the look on Cameron’s face, I’m not alone in this sentiment.
By eleven-thirty, the kitchen is cleaned, and we’re all about to go our separate ways. Exhausted but exhilarated, I’m ready for my glass of champagne. I turn toward the pegs and untie my apron.
“Hey.” Cameron’s voice startles me. It never ceases to amaze me how he towers over me. Big and strong like a sturdy tree—one I’d gladly climb upon. “Are you sticking around for the countdown?”
“I wouldn’t miss it. I even brought a dress to change into.” Is it my imagination or do his eyes light up? “How about you?”
“I didn’t bring a dress.” He doesn’t bat an eye.
“Ha, ha.” I take the opportunity to gently pat his arm. I can feel his muscles under his chef’s coat. “I meant, are you sticking around?” I find myself hoping—no, praying that he does.
