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Chapter One
Oliver
“Chef,phone’sforyou,”Cara, my head of house, shouted as she waved a cordless phone in my direction. The kitchen was a hive of activity, people rushing this way and that, prepping for dinner service, and I wastryingto teach a timid new chef some decent knife skills when Cara had interrupted me. I hated being interrupted when I was teaching.
Without a word to Allie, the young chef I’d been monitoring, I growled, wiped my forehead with a towel, and stormed toward the office. When I stepped into the office, the cool air rushing around me, I exhaled slightly and narrowed my eyes at her.
“Who is it?”
“Sounded like that same client again. The one with the bachelor party.”
I scowled and snatched the phone from her hand.
“Jeez, take it easy,” she muttered as she left the office, closing the door behind her.
“This is Chef Ridley,” I practically barked into the phone.
“Hi, Chef!” The voice on the other end was entirely too bubbly and cheerful. My scowl deepened. “This is Cam Newton. I’m not sure if you remember me, but I’m the one bringing the bachelor party this weekend. The one for Nate Gregory and Theo Snell. You probably have a lot of big groups every weekend. We’re coming from Port Grandlin and—”
“I remember,” I said, fighting the urge to snap at him. I wasn’t that person anymore, and he didn’t deserve to get the brunt of my temper. He hadn’t done anything wrong exactly, but his frequent calls and incessant cheerfulness were starting to grate on my nerves. “What can I do for you?”
“I know we’ve already talked once or twice today, but—”
“Three times.”
“Sorry?”
“You’ve called three times today to talk about the arrangements for the party. I have dinner service starting in an hour.” That time, it did sound more like a snap, and I took a slow breath to get my manners under control.
“Right, sorry about that. I know we talked about the menu, but I was wondering if it’s too late to change from New York strip to filet mignon.”
“Fine.” I didn’t have time for a discussion about the finer points of which meat cut was better for a bachelor party, not with Allie waiting for me to test her brunoise—which she should have perfected in culinary school—and dinner service starting in under an hour. The restaurant could probably have run without me—I had my team working like a finely-tuned machine at that point—but I was beyond annoyed with the client who’d called incessantly since we’d booked the party, always insisting to speak directly to me.
“Maybe bacon-wrapped filet? Or, ooh, bacon-wrapped scallops to go alongside the filet?”
“Sure. Perfect. Fine. Look, call back tomorrow morning.” I glanced at the clock, which told me in bright red digits I was running behind schedule. “I get in around ten. I can’t make any promises about menu changes this close to the party, but if you call me tomorrow morning, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks,” he chirped. “I really appreciate it!”
“No problem.” Before he could say another word, I placed the phone back into the cradle and headed into the kitchen to get the staff back on track for the night.
“Chef?”
I glanced over to spot Jeremiah, my sous chef, pointing his thumb at Allie, who was staring intently at the pile of carrots she was supposed to be chopping to a fine brunoise. They had ended up in a batonet instead.
“Is this what you asked for, Chef?” Allie asked, brow furrowed. “Batonet, right?”
“Brunoise. It was supposed to be a brunoise.” I pressed my fingers to the bridge of my nose and took a deep breath. The cut wasn’t salvageable. A batonet consisted of thick-cut sticks, where a brunoise was a very finely diced cube. It would be easier to have Allie toss the carrots and start over. My chest tightened and my body heated, as if I was a boiling pot of water about to overflow. I turned away, took a slow, deep breath, and counted backward from ten before turning back to face them. “Deal with this. I’m taking the night off,” I barked at Jeremiah before turning away and storming out of the kitchen.
On my way out of the kitchen, I stopped to let Cara know Jeremiah would be in charge. She gave me a small smile and a nod. “Sure thing, Chef. We can handle it.”
Touched by her unending patience with me, I dropped my tone to a gentler one. “I know you can. You always have.” With that, I left my restaurant and walked through the back alley to my car, praying that I could avoid the paparazzi and have a peaceful drive home. They were following me less and less, but I never knew when a photographer would pop up, ready to turn my life into another tabloid headline, ready to remind me of the messy breakup I’d gone through with another celebrity chef, one just as famous as I was, if not more so, not that long ago.
I lived a long way from the Vegas strip, in a neighborhood strangely named Serendipity Hills despite the fact there were definitely no hills in the area. As I pulled my car into the driveway I took another deep breath, letting go of the stress of the day. Chefs worked long, long hours, especially head chefs of restaurants as busy as Hidden Cove. I loved my job, but I was getting tired of the day-to-day. Jeremiah was more than capable of handling everything and I was starting to get that desperate, itchy feeling under my skin—wanderlust. I’d wanted to open a second location for Hidden Cove as long as I could remember. Maybe the time was coming sooner than I’d expected.
I unlocked the door and pushed it open, letting out some of the crisp, cool air as I went inside. My cat came running, a gray striped tabby, her little feet pitter-pattering on the hardwood floor as she hurried to me.
“Hi, Tenderloin.” I reached down and scratched her head, getting a little meow and a purr from her as she maneuvered her soft body to rub against my legs. I had the urge to pick her up, but I knew it was a fool’s errand. Tenderloin was as grumpy as I was. The only thing that made her happy, aside from the occasional pets, was food.
