Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 17

The drive to Descartes was spent mostly in silence, which was usually my favorite soundtrack. Not so much right now, though, because the person sitting next to me was full of funny tidbits, fascinating opinions, and quirky ideas my adolescent self itched to hear.

Cal tried to strike up conversations, but I cranked up the radio each time she did. Worked well, as there was some kind of Backstreet Boys special, so she was dancing in her seat, pointing at me every time she belted out the lyrics. She was a little ball of sunshine, and I was a big, gray cloud that wanted to piss acid rain on her parade.

At some point, I lit up a cigarette and rolled the window down. Her giant pair of blues immediately glued to the side of my face. She stared at me like I had just informed her I was kidnapping her to sell to the highest bidder.

“Could you not?” She cleared her throat.

“Could I not what?” She had better not tell me what to do in my own fucking car.

“Give me cancer not even a week after I said goodbye to my father who lost the battle to the illness.”

Shit.

With a groan, I tossed the still-lit cigarette out the window.

“You should probably quit,” she said.

“You should definitely shut up.”

“Hey. I’m just looking out for you.” She sounded genuine. But if that were the case, she wouldn’t have broken my fucking heart all those years ago.

It annoyed the crap out of me that she was now contaminating my new Silverado. I’d had to get rid of the Mustang a couple years back because her white-musk-and-apples stench had been engraved into the seats. Now, here I was, surrounded by her scent again.

I was determined to keep Descartes afloat until we closed down. Showing Rhyland that I didn’t feel jack shit for the woman was a side bonus. I never backed out of a challenge.

As soon as we arrived at Descartes, I disposed of Cal with the maître d’ and told the latter to make sure she didn’t set anything on fire.

“Especially the customers.” I raised my index finger in the menace’s direction.

Cal’s sapphires flared. “That happened once. Who told you, anyway? I thought Rhyland was the one who talked to my references.”

Jesus Christ.

Apparently, Cal had been trained in a day since my idiot best friend had hired her. Rhyland claimed she wasn’t a complete disaster. But seeing as the klutz had walked into every glass door in town over the years and had once burned Mr. Wallace’s toupee while trying to light his birthday cake candles, I had my doubts.

“Anyway, I’d like to begrudgingly admit this place is breathtaking.” Cal tugged at her Dutch braids to loosen them. Everything she did was annoyingly sexy. The way she fixed her hair, sipped from her Stanley cup. Breathed.

“Shit, I thought you noticed,” I said.

“Noticed what?”

“I have eyes and don’t need you to state the fucking obvious.”

Descartes was a work of art, every damn inch of it. Live ivy crawled up the arched ceiling. Makeshift trees spurted out of the center of each rustic table. The sleek iron bar and hand-painted china made the place a once-in-a-lifetime experience, and that was before they tasted my orgasmic food and heavily curated imported wine.

“You chose callas for flowers.” Her eyes smiled right along with her lips. She picked purple and white flowers from one of the vases on a table, bringing the petals to her nose. “Aren’t they the most beautiful thing in the world?”

No. Not even close. I swallowed.

“They’re devastatingly toxic,” I drawled. “Reminds me of someone, actually.”

“It’s probably going to be sad, saying goodbye to this place.” She ignored my snark, looking around.

“Nothing will trump the happiness of not seeing you again,” I maintained.

She put the flowers back in the vase carefully, her eyes ticking. “Can you at least pretend not to hate me?”

“Probably.” I threw a batch of keys into her hands. “But it’s not worth the effort. Go to the back office and get changed into your uniform.”

Cal glared at the dozens of keys resting in her palm. “Which one is it?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

“Row, there are, like, thirty keys here!” Her cheeks stained red. I hated being an asshole to her, but it had to be done. I couldn’t let her worm her way back into my heart. Not even my dick. She was danger, and anyway, I was best alone.

“Forty-four. Better get goin’.”

The maître d’, Katie, winced at her. “Chef is an acquired taste.”

“Uh-huh,” Cal muttered, scorching my face with a blazing scowl. “Tastes like ass to me.”

Katie gasped.

A muscle jumped in my jaw. “Do you want this job or not?”

Her tic returned in full force. Blink, blink, blink. She tried to control it by averting her gaze to the ceiling. “I’m starting to rethink it.”

“That’s a surprise.” I just couldn’t shut up apparently. “Thinking was never your strong suit.”

She took a deep breath, flattened her lips, and tipped her chin up. Finally, she walked off toward my office upstairs. I punched the double swing doors to the back of the house, heading into my lair.

“Chef!” Taylor looked up from his station, dipping a spoon into a simmering sauce and tasting it. “Good afternoon.”

“We’ll see about that.” I slipped into my chef shirt mid-walk. “How much Wagyu beef is in the house?” I parked my ass in front of the sink, scrubbing my hands and arms clean. My kitchen was neater than a hospital. All white uniforms and squeaky quartz tops. It had earned me a reputation as a frightening boss, but whoever survived under my reign for over a year was usually snatched by the competitors or went solo to see great success.

“About twenty pounds, Chef,” one of my commis chefs called out.

“About?” I snapped my head up, shooting him a death glare. “Did I ask you to fucking guess? You better take your inventory before I step into my kitchen.”

I fastened the buttons of my uniform shirt at rapid speed, scowling at everyone in my radius.

“Yes, Chef. What I meant is twenty-two pounds exactly, Chef,” choked out the rookie.

“That’s better.”

“Thank you, Ch—”

“Where’s my Wüsthof knife?”

My chef de partie muttered, “The last thing I’d give this man is a sharp object.”

“Run that mouth again, Chef, and you’ll be running to the unemployment center near you next.” But I wasn’t that much of a dweeb to fire someone for speaking the truth. Especially when that someone worked fourteen-hour shifts five times a week for me. This was a demanding, harsh business. Not for the faint of heart. And I fucking loved it.

Loved that it was stressful, full of tension, hard on the body and the soul. Loved that most people in my position were nursing a fucking cocaine habit to keep them functioning. Running a Michelin-starred kitchen was like waking up and going to war every day. I felt like Napoleon, high on that power. Food wasn’t just food. Food was community, it was passion, it was art. It was the stepping stones of the body, nutrition, and science. It was chemistry and facts, and at the same time creative abandon. Food was everything.

A knife was handed to me by a brave soul, and I began sifting through my four-hour braised point-cut brisket. I tuned out the world and started working.

I cut, slashed, and scythed expertly, minding the overlapping muscles. My hands flew over the meat. This was my zone. My talent. My thing.

Making food was like stitching up a fantasy. Food was an erotic experience.

Cal’s voice drifted into my mind.

“I’m starting to rethink it.”

Normally, I didn’t mind being a dick to people. But with her, I cared. She didn’t like men for whatever reason. She might not like me, but at least she wasn’t scared of me. Though that was about to change if I continued acting like a dickhead.

I slammed the knife against the tender meat, suppressing a grunt.

“Tastes like ass to me.”

She hated me. Why wouldn’t she? I had spent every moment since she’d gotten back reminding her I hated her. My fingers tripped over the knife, almost dropping it. I cursed softly.

It didn’t help that I couldn’t look directly at her. That her existence was a stench I couldn’t un-smell. She was here now, not only in my territory but deep inside my head. Running circles in her little boots. I was just not used to having her in my vicinity. I’d get over my weird fixation in the next few weeks. Maybe even days.

You’ve gotten over her. She’s the past.

But if that was the truth, why didn’t I tell her I was McMonster?

My suspicion Cal was oBITCHuary had been confirmed the day she’d told me she was back in Staindrop. I’d put two and two together. And still, I didn’t fess up.

A sharp pain ripped through my forefinger.

Shit.

Blood oozed from my index, a thin river of crimson snaking along the cutting board. A fragment of my skin was nailed to the meat, which would now need to be thrown into the trash. “Shit, boss, are you okay?” Taylor rushed in my direction, tearing a wad of paper towels and pressing them against my finger.

“I’d be better if you’d fuck off,” I muttered. I hated being coddled.

It was the first time I had cut myself in the kitchen in over a decade.

And it was a great reminder of what I already knew.

When Cal was around, I bled.

My mood got progressively worse as the evening went on. Not because we were short on staff. We weren’t. Rhy had managed to hire two qualified temps from Vermont at an outrageous hourly rate. Still, I was distracted, uneasy; I checked on Cal through the window slit between the kitchen and the bar to make sure she wasn’t vomiting in anyone’s soup or accidentally falling in their lap. Seemed like she wasn’t.

Another thing she was not—a fine-dining server.

Her timings seemed acceptable, she properly cleared the tables, was well-groomed, and held a flawless posture. My issue was that she was friendly. Too friendly. Her giggle was in my ear all the fucking time. Contagious and joyful, even through the pockets of chatter and utensil noise. She stopped to chat with tables she wasn’t in charge of. Often and at length. Leaned down and cooed over photos people showed her on their phones. She even helped one of the patrons with the zipper of her dress.

It was unprofessional. It was tacky. And it was getting on my last nerve.

Looking at her from the outside, you couldn’t tell she had anxiety. But I knew better. I knew how she lied, how she bottled it all up to show a perfect front. Knew that deep inside, she was frightened of showing her true colors, her true feelings.

Like right now, Cal was standing in front of an elderly couple that screamed old money and appeared to be playing a game of charades with them. Either that, or I was witnessing her having a stroke. She contracted her face, then did a little dance that had the woman tipping her head back, laughing, and clapping.

Rhy glided into my kitchen armed with his iPad, going over inventory mid-shift. I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him over to the kitchen window, drawing petrified looks from my employees.

“Rhyland,” I seethed.

“Ambrose.” He was entirely unaffected by my behavior, even giving me his I-know-you’re-having-a-terrible-time smirk. “I see you’re in a good mood.”

“I’ll be in a better one once you explain yourself. What the fuck am I looking at?” I pointed at Cal through the partition. She fluttered around the room, a colorful butterfly flapping its wings. She landed at a table with two businessmen who eyed her like she was fucking dessert—and seemed to be in the middle of a fervent conversation with them. One that included whiskers, by the way she wiggled her fingers next to her nose. I did notice she stood as far away from them as possible, like she was worried she’d be pounced on.

“The subject of your desire?” Rhyland braced an elbow on the windowsill.

“What. Is. She. Doing?”

“What you should be doing.” He grabbed a cherry tomato from a nearby bowl, popping it in his mouth. “Working.”

“She’s making a spectacle of herself. Look at her.” One of the businessmen sat back and clapped. Like she was a circus monkey. A dark flame kindled in my chest, urging me to dismember him like a lobster.

Rhyland shoved his head in the wide slit of the window, scratching his golden stubble. “I’m seeing a woman so lovable she just got tipped four Benjamins and refused to part ways with them when I explained to her we use a tip pool. Things almost got physical.”

“But then you remembered I’d pelt you head to toe, turn you upside down, and stuff your inner organs with wasabi if you so much as lay a finger on her.”

His grin widened. “You’re so good at not loving her. Highly convincing.”

“Shut up.”

“I honestly haven’t seen acting this bad since Tommy Wiseau.” He smirked. “You deserve a Razzie Award.”

“I hate you,” I grumbled.

My best friend’s chest rumbled with laughter. He tapped my back with the intention of breaking a bone or two. “Point is, people respond to her. She is personable, knows the entire menu by heart—cocktails and wine included—and never keeps customers waiting. Don’t worry about her. She’s doing great.”

That’s what I was worried about. It would be so much nicer to slip a check into her mailbox every weekend and forget she existed. A charity of sorts.

“These fecal matters are looking down her shirt.” A muscle in my jaw twitched.

“The uniform is a turtleneck.” Rhyland’s brow knitted in confusion.

I ignored him. “Throw them out.”

“Row, you can’t start beefing with anyone who sniffs around Cal’s ass.”

What a ridiculous thing to say. Of course I could. I’d been doing that since she was in middle school. That someone had still managed to somehow hurt her along the way, make her find men distrustful, was something I took as a personal failure.

“Thought you said you’re over her.” He grabbed another cherry tomato, tossing it high in the air and catching it in his mouth.

“I am. Now I’m just paying it forward by making sure she isn’t ruining more lives.”

“Don’t bother, Rhy.” Taylor, wiping the residual accents off plates of poached lobster and fennel salad, sighed. “Chef’s been like this all evening. Can’t rip him away from that window.”

“Am I no longer allowed to check on my own restaurant?” I turned to pin Taylor with a glare. “Also, your fennel–cucumber ratio is wrong. Start from scratch.”

“There are no mistakes in art,” Taylor pointed out.

“There are when it’s in my fucking kitchen. Start. From. Scratch.”

“Sorry, Taylor, gotta steal your boss for a few seconds.” Rhy placed a hand on my back, leading me from the kitchen to the industrial cooler at the back of the restaurant.

“All yours!” Taylor gladly handed me over like a problem child who had shit on his daycare cot. “Can you replace his batteries before you bring him back? He’s out of focus today.”

I watched as Rhyland closed the door to the cool, sprawling room. Five rows of fourteen-foot-high sub-zero metal shelves engulfed us. I leaned against the green leaves section, parsley poking into my ear.

Crossing my arms over my chest, I asked, “What do you want?”

Rhy smoothed out his suit, looking at me like I was an abandoned, drenched puppy. “Thought it was gonna be funny, but now I see the error of my ways. I may have stepped out of the Overton window, strong-arming you into hiring Cal. I wanted to make a point, and I made it. Since I now found replacements for Heather and Don—”

“We’re not firing her.” My nostrils flared.

I didn’t want to give Cal more power than she already had. Her existence in my domain didn’t throw me that off-kilter.

“You can’t concentrate for shit,” Rhyland said matter-of-factly.

“She demonstrated the ‘Macarena’ out there at some point.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “She’s like a car accident. Hard to look away from but horrifying, nonetheless. Just because she’s got my attention doesn’t mean that it’s positive. I’m over her.”

“Over her, my ass. Every time she bends over, you look like you need a cigarette. Look, I can give her a backend job. We need someone to do the filing, anyway. You’ll never see he—”

“She’s a decent server. You said so yourself, right?”

Rhy pursed his lips, his expression uncertain. “She’s a highly endearing individual. Like, the human answer to a unicorn. This can’t be news to you.”

“She’s still off-limits,” I barked out.

He raised his palms up. “Hey, no problem there. I’m not ready for children yet, and she definitely is one. I’m worried, though.”

“Why?”

“You give her too much power over you.”

A sarcastic smile found my lips. “Power is never given, you fool. It is taken. And anyway, I’m more pissed off than enamored.” I shrugged. “Keep her.”

“What about you?” He gave me a skeptical look.

“I’ll survive.” I had once, hadn’t I?

A knock on the door was followed by Taylor sticking his head inside. “Chef?”

“What?”

“Are you getting rid of our new server?”

I clenched and unclenched my fists. Was there anyone in this zip code who didn’t want to get into Cal’s pants?

“No. Why?”

“Because the entire kitchen loves her. I think she is singing an Adele song to one of the patrons.” Taylor beamed. “Using a baguette as a microphone.”