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I take his hand. “Well, I don’t feel so lonely anymore.”
He smiles. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He plants a kiss on my hand, then strokes my cheek. “You should sleep now. You’ve got work tomorrow.”
“Don’t you?” I ask him.
“Yes. We both have lots of work to do this week. After all, it’s almost time for the restaurant to open.”
He’s right. In just a few days, the restaurant will have its opening.
“I guess things are going to get even more hectic,” I say.
“They are,” Jackson agrees. “Are you ready?”
I look into his eyes. With the love I see in them, I feel like I can have the strength to do anything.
“I am.”
Chapter 14
Jackson
I’d expected a huge crowd on opening day, but I wasn’t ready for this.
It’s about four in the afternoon and the line of diners extends from the front door to the corner of the block. It’s been like that since the restaurant opened its doors at eleven. I can recognize some of them – food writers and groupies who weren’t able to make a reservation because the limited slots were already filled up a month ago.
Who would have thought this restaurant tucked away in a quiet neighborhood would be just as popular as the one I have in the heart of Manhattan? If this continues for the next hour, we’ll have to cut off the line or we’ll be serving until midnight.
It’s crazy, I know, but as I gaze across the fully occupied dining area, I can’t help but feel a sense of joy and pride.
I know that it’s hectic in the kitchen. I’ve been in and out of it all day. The air is filled with the rumble of pots constantly boiling on the stoves, of knives clashing on the chopping boards, of oil spattering in pans, of plates clattering, of water running from the faucets, of doors to ovens and chillers opening and closing, of feet shuffling, of my executive chef shouting for dishes to be sent out on time. It’s utter chaos. It usually is on opening day.
Here in the dining area, though, I can see that the diners are enjoying themselves. Most of them are relaxed, soaking up the atmosphere that I’ve put a lot of effort into making cozy. Some of them are laughing out loud, some chattering, some enjoying their meals in silence, sipping their wine every now and then. I can tell from their clean plates and the looks on their faces that they’re satisfied, and that gives me a sense of accomplishment unlike any other.
This is why I love being a chef.
Whether they’re celebrities, food critics, food writers or just ordinary people looking for a meal, they all love food and I love giving them the best I can, even if it’s just to see them pat their full tummies with satisfied smiles.
One of the diners leaves her table and walks over to me. “The food was amazing, Chef Jackson.”
As she takes off her sunglasses, I realize she’s a popular actress, one who I admired back in my teens. My eyebrows arch in surprise. I try not to get all star-struck, though. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve had a celebrity at my restaurant.
I give her a warm smile. “I’m glad you think so, Ms. Dawson.”
“And the restaurant is lovely. I had a great time.” Her ruby lips curve into a smile. “I’ll surely come again.”
“Thank you for your kind words. Please do come again.” I place my hand over my chest and give a slight bow. “We’ll be just as honored to have you.”
She puts her sunglasses back on, as well as her wide-brimmed hat, and walks out into the parking lot with her assistant and her bodyguard in tow. As soon as she’s gone, the waiters rush in to clean up the empty table, collecting the used plates and replacing the tablecloth, utensils, glasses and napkins with new ones. Within minutes, a new group of diners is ushered in, their menus handed out.
Just like that, the cycle begins all over again.
Cathy walks over to me. “Was that…?”
“Felicia Dawson?” I supply. “Yes, it was.”
She lets out a whistle. “Wow. That’s the fourth celebrity I’ve seen today.”
Is it? I haven’t been counting.
She puts a hand on her hip. “You don’t seem fazed at all.”
I shrug. “Should I be?”
Cathy grins. “Of course not. You’re a celebrity, too, after all. I mean, look at this crowd.”
She turns to face the dining area and then glances at the door.
“The diners just keep coming.”
“About that, we may have to cut off the line soon,” I tell her.
“You mean turn away diners?” Cathy asks.
I nod. “As much as I hate to do it, we have to or we’ll never close.”
She lets out a breath. “Right. There doesn’t seem to be any end to them.”
