Flawless: (Fearsome Series Book 4)

by S. A. Wolfe

  “Busy woman. Sounds very profitable, too,” Bash says as he fires up the grills.

  “Huh,” Peyton says with narrowed eyes. “Why would you hit a snag?”

  “She just meant if I got too busy and needed help.” I shrug.

  “Right,” he says. “So then, you are taking on new clients? I tried to sign up.”

  “I was on vacation then. Aleska couldn’t add any new clients with me gone. And now you have this kitchen and Bash cooking for you.”

  “Maybe I want to eat dinner at home.”

  “You can bring meals home from your own restaurant. You don’t need my services.”

  “Maybe I want a woman in an apron serving me dinner.”

  “Then that would be a hard no. I’m a chef. I do not provide entertainment.”

  “Watch yourself, MacKenzie,” Bash says, eyeing Peyton with disapproval.

  “I’m joking,” Peyton says. “But I really did want your chef service. Everyone in town swears by it. But I guess I’ll have to just settle for having a clean house.”

  “You’ll survive. Bash will make sure you don’t wither away.”

  Peyton raises an eyebrow at me. Did I win this round?

  Then the persistent hottie opens one of my boxes and begins to take my utensils out, but I quickly place a hand in front of him to stop. “Please. I’ll do it. But thank you, anyway.”

  Peyton is a little put off by my abruptness, but he isn’t discouraged. He doesn’t leave the kitchen, even though he’s got bigger problems to deal with in running a new restaurant.

  “Chefs don’t like their personal tools touched. You know that,” Bash tells Peyton as he shuffles a few hot sauté pans around on the range.

  “Fine,” Peyton says.

  “We’re very territorial about our knives.” I smile, picking up my two new knives, a Yoshihiro Gyuto and a Misono Gyuto, and holding them in a cross in front of my face. “It’s all about the knives.”

  Peyton stares at me for a moment. “Twisted girl. I like that.”

  “Oh.” I put the knives down with a shaky carelessness. “Don’t get the wrong idea about me.”

  Peyton looks at me with that particular smug satisfaction a man gets when he flusters a woman. “Bash, let’s get all the dishes out within the next half hour. I want every server and bartender to know what they taste like. And I want you to make sure they know the ingredients and how they should describe the dish to the customer in the most concise manner possible without sounding like they memorized the menu.”

  “We’re on it. Almost ready.” Bash casually checks over his other cooks’ shoulders to see how their dishes are coming along.

  “I’d like your opinion, too,” Peyton tells me, “since you’re here. How about it?”

  I look at Bash. Honestly, reviewing another chef’s food makes me uncomfortable.

  “I’m fine with it,” Bash says, sensing my apprehension. “I’d like to know what you think of our menu.”

  “Ah, well, I can tell you right now that I love the menu, and everything you’re cooking smells divine. I really don’t think you need me to do a taste test.”

  “Chicken?” Peyton asks.

  “What?” I reply, confused. “Chicken? Are you referring to a chicken dish on the menu?”

  “He wants to know if you’re too scared to tell me the truth about my food,” Bash clarifies.

  “Oh.” I think about that for a second. Why don’t I know this chicken expression?

  “What’s wrong?” Peyton laughs. “You’re making a face.”

  “Ease up on her, buddy.” Bash winks at me. “You threw her off with chicken.”

  “Remember, English isn’t my first language.” I give him a good poke in the shoulder and almost break my finger on his hard muscles. I pull back my hand, a little embarrassed that I touched him like that and also concerned that I sprained my finger.

  “Hmm,” Peyton studies me. “And yet you speak English so beautifully. Almost perfect, most would say.” I don’t know if he’s mocking me, but the way he says this makes me feel rather lovely inside. It’s definitely better than his sexist apron remark.

  “I’ve had a lot of private English lessons,” I say. “And I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls. Those marathoning shows.”

  “Marathon reruns,” Bash corrects.

  “Yes, that. They talk really fast, so it was good practice. But I didn’t understand a lot of the humor.”

  Peyton moves closer to me. “So then, you’re not too chicken to try Bash’s food and give us your real opinion on our menu?”

  “No. I’m not too—why do you keep referring to poultry when talking about fear?”

  Bash and Peyton both laugh while I stand there dumbstruck. Then Bash is quickly distracted by the various burners and prep stations he’s got manned with very quiet, industrious young men and women who cook alongside him, but Peyton continues to watch me.

  “You’re interesting.” His voice is lower, as if he doesn’t want the others to listen. They should be too busy cooking and can’t possibly hear us over the sizzle of the grill and the repetitive sounds of metal blades hitting plastic and wood cutting boards, but they seem to watch Peyton, their boss, with side-eye, anxious glances. “This is an unusual day. Normally during this time, only Bash and I will be here, so you’ll be able to cook without this crowd in your way.”

  “I only hope I’m not in their way. I can step out for an hour so they can finish their forty or so menu items.”

  “Don’t leave. You need to get to work.” He picks up one of my large knives and twirls it on its side against his palm. It’s a frenzy of light reflecting off the shiny blade like a magician’s trick, and then he catches the handle and places it back down as though it was nothing.

  “How did you do that?” I ask, stunned that he didn’t lose a finger, or worse, lose the knife and accidentally stab me.

  “I worked in quite a few restaurants before we bought our first one. I had to start as a dishwasher and work my way up to the salad station. I did all the prep work for the chefs.”

  “Nice. You’re very handy, but don’t ever do that again around me. That’s reckless, and if I was your kitchen manager, I’d fire you.”

  Bash laughs from across the worktable. So much for our conversation being drowned out by the buzzing kitchen activity.

  Peyton leans over, his long hair brushing my cheek as he whispers in my ear, “Good thing you’re not my boss. I’d miss seeing you every day.” Now I understand the expression smooth talker. Peyton’s words and voice are so smooth I practically sway.

  “Peyton! Phone!” a pretty waitress shouts as she pokes her head in from the dining room. “It’s your sister. Greer says she’s back in the brewery, and Zander is still having major electrical issues.” The waitress leaves as quickly as she entered.

  “Why can’t we get decent cell service in here!” he shouts to the room. “This business of running to a landline is archaic.”

  So much for his playful flirting.

  He stalks across the kitchen, grabs the phone off the wall, and pushes the blinking red button. “What?” he asks tersely.

  Tying my long apron around my waist, I jump when he hisses, “What’s the problem this time?” Pause. “Damn!”

  I look at Bash, but he doesn’t seem concerned in the least about Peyton’s issue. I should know better, really. Restaurants are full of one mini drama after another, and those in charge tend to be emotional, hyper, control freaks who keep the stress and tension level high. Peyton fits the young, cocky, overachiever role perfectly.

  Bash, on the other hand, is Peyton’s opposite. Unlike most restaurant chefs who tend to be short-tempered, Bash calmly moves from station to station, assisting his cooks.

  Peyton slams the phone back on the wall, causing the kitchen staff to glance his way.

  “Excuse me,” he says directly to me as though we were in the middle of something important.

  I almost want to laugh at his gruffness, but I don’t.
I’m glad I’m not in his position of putting out a million fires before opening day.

  “You’re excused,” I reply, perhaps a little too coyly.

  Peyton looks at me and hesitates a moment. “Oh, we’re not finished, Natalia Madej,” he says coolly and then leaves the kitchen.

  • • •

  “He’s not always so serious,” Bash says as he arranges dozens of entrees on the counter. He wipes the plate rims with a clean towel and adorns the food with various herbs. His crew is done with the grills, so I move in to take one over with my pans of lamb chops.

  “I really only know Peyton from witnessing his outrageous behavior at his brother’s wedding. Peyton was the jokester entertaining the crowd, but we’ve never actually spoken, and until now, I’ve never seen him in his work element.” I jostle a few sauté pans and turn back to the worktable to set out the delivery containers I need to fill.

  Bash sneaks glances my way and watches with interest.

  “At work, he’s usually all business,” he says. “The family bar he owns with his dad and uncle wouldn’t be successful without him. Neither would the Midtown Manhattan restaurant he and I run together. He’s the driving force behind them.”

  “I remember the bar. When I was at the wedding, I took a good look around and thought Peyton did a very good job restoring the place. Cooper said it had been rundown and hadn’t changed since it opened in the 1960s.”

  “Peyton has a head for business, and when there are rough patches, he’s good at adjusting quickly to market trends. I’ve known him long enough to know that, when it comes to restaurants and bars, he’s the guy I’ll follow anywhere. Starting a brewery on top of all this is a new thing, but I have faith that Peyton is going to crush it. He’s that good.”

  “He’s fortunate to have such loyal friends and employees. But I guess he really sees you as a partner, not his employee.” Bash is so large and imposing that it’s hard to imagine anyone delegating orders to him.

  His sweet smile breaks through his rough exterior. “Peyton gives me free rein to do whatever I want in the kitchen and with the menu. He doesn’t mess with my area, and I don’t advise him on his, unless he asks.”

  “Does he ever ask for advice?” I’m genuinely curious.

  Bash smiles. “Only once. He asked me how he should politely break up with a woman who thought she was his girlfriend.”

  “Seriously? How does that work?”

  Bash shrugs. “Women like him. He went out with this one woman a couple of times, and she assumed she was his one and only.”

  “She was really one of many, right?”

  “Maybe not many, but a few. He did have a girlfriend—a woman he dated for almost a year. But enough about him. Try this.” Bash takes a forkful of food from a plate and cups it with his palm, walking over to me. He feeds me directly, and I oblige. When the flavors merge in my mouth, I am delighted.

  “Chicken pâté,” I say with my mouth full.

  “Yes, with truffle oil and lingonberries. What do you think?”

  “It’s delicious. Pâtés are not my specialty. This is excellent, Bash.”

  “It’s one of our appetizers. I think it’ll do well. I’m glad you like it.”

  Bash and his cooks finish putting out all the menu dishes, and then servers come in to sample the food and listen to Bash explain the ingredients. I try all of his dishes as well and give approving nods to the rich entrees, such as the Wiener schnitzel and the Hungarian beef goulash. There’s nothing ordinary about these classics, a testament to Bash’s talent.

  As the servers eat their way through all the heavy food, then clear away the empty plates for the dishwasher, Bash begins cleaning his kitchen, and I help with the pans and utensils.

  I finish packing all my individual dinners of lamb chops and rosemary potatoes and the various side dishes while Bash watches me arrange and cover each container, treating them with care and a ridiculous amount of attention, as though they are precious. They are my babies. Each dish I make and deliver is something I’m keenly proud of. At the same time, I’m always conscious that something can go wrong and a customer may be unhappy.

  “Now your turn,” I say to Bash. Using tongs, I hold out a fried pepper to him.

  It’s cool enough that he takes it between his fingers and pops it in his mouth. He looks cute as he tries to decipher the ingredients.

  “This is good,” he says while chewing. “Red cherry pepper stuffed with prosciutto and …”

  “Fontina cheese,” I add. “I serve it with a balsamic reduction and cucumber yogurt. It’s not a fancy dish, but it’s always a big pleasure for crowds.”

  “A crowd-pleaser,” Bash politely corrects me. “I love this. If Peyton gets his hands on one of these, he’s going to demand you put it on the restaurant menu.”

  “I’ll give you the recipe. And you’ll have to give up one of yours, too.”

  “Whatever you want. I’ll swap recipes with you any day.”

  “Who’s swapping what?” Peyton demands as he enters the kitchen. He looks around, surprised that the kitchen is spotless and all my food is already packed in insulated tote bags.

  “You missed the taste-testing,” Bash remarks, hanging up a knife against the magnetic strip on the wall. “It went well. I think everyone is prepared … to sell food, at least. How are the tap lines?”

  “Wouldn’t you know, the pilsner line is the only one that isn’t working. A German pub without a pilsner. There’s a sad joke for you,” he says. “At least the electricity is back on in the brewery.” He shakes his head. “All these fucking problems.”

  “Try this,” Bash demands as he pings one of my stuffed peppers at Peyton. I think it will hit Peyton’s chest and drop to the floor, but his reflexes are quick and he catches the golf-ball-sized pepper. I’m surprised he pops it in his mouth without questioning Bash.

  “This is damn good.” He finishes eating it. “Did you add this to our menu?”

  “Nope. It’s Talia’s.”

  Peyton casts an undecipherable expression toward me. “You see, Ms. Madej? This is why you and I have a few matters to discuss.”

  “Peppers?” I ask with a light laugh. I pick up one of my delivery bags, realizing I can only carry one at a time to the van.

  “Peppers are just the beginning.” He picks up my other bags, stacking them, and then proceeds to follow me out to my van. “You’re full of surprises.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re stuffed peppers. Nothing more.”

  Peyton balances the bags in one hand and opens the back of the van for me. I start to place the bags inside, but he takes over, arranging them in a way so they won’t move during transport. This is something I always do, but he beat me to it, as if he could read my mind and understands my system. Then he closes the back doors and leans against them with his arms crossed.

  “It’s more than that.”

  He’s waiting for me to say something.

  “Now you’ve lost me. You sound like Cooper when he goes off on one of his abstract, philosophical rants.”

  “You’re mysterious. I like that. And it’s also why everyone refers to you as the little Russian spy. I’ll figure you out, though.”

  “Once again, I’m not Russian,” I say in annoyance. “And I have nothing exciting to hide. Besides, people in Hera can vouch for me. They know there’s nothing mysterious about me. Nothing.”

  His gorgeous smile is sinister. “This is going to be fun.”

  Talia

  THE DELIVERY ROUNDS ARE more wearing than I anticipated. Something I’ve been doing with easy vigor for the past few years exhausts me in my current condition. I’m in good shape, but my energy level is not where it should be for simply driving around, delivering meals. Maybe the few hours I spent in the steamy kitchen over the hot grill was all I could handle for today. Still, I only have one delivery left for this evening. I timed it so a certain new customer will be the last one of the day.

  A
dam Knight’s home is spectacular. It was one of the first contemporary “green” homes built by one of Carson’s other businesses, a home development group that specializes in LEED construction, using sustainable materials and creating these modern, box-style homes with soaring windows to capture natural light and garden rooftops to recycle rain water. Carson and Jess’s home is similar, and after working there for a few years, I’ve grown accustomed to the serene simplicity of the minimalist style. The poured concrete floors mixed in with bamboo woodwork and forged metal fixtures blend in nicely with the surrounding green shades of nature.

  The original owner of this home was an executive at a Manhattan firm and only spent weekends here before being transferred to San Francisco. The home never made it to market. From what Carson told me, Adam Knight bought it from photos off the Internet and moved in two weeks ago.

  I park my van in the unpaved driveway and take in the tall home of glass. I can see all the way through the two-story front windows to the back of the house and its impressive views of the hilly valley below.

  All I know about Adam Knight is he’s a rich CEO of a successful hedge fund, which he runs out of a converted warehouse in Tribeca. I don’t recall the name of the company, but in his email to Aleska, he mentioned living in a loft above his firm and plans to spend at least three days a week working from his new home in Hera. He said we came highly recommended from Carson. Of course we did. He had house keys delivered to us and had the home security system disarmed since he didn’t think it was necessary. A lot of people in Hera sleep with their doors unlocked. It’s one of those towns.

  I carry the insulated bag to the front door and have no problem unlocking it. Everything seems brand-new, as if never used, but then the previous owner was rarely ever here.

  As I push open the door, fortunately, no alarms go off.

  Once, when I was younger, I was picked up by a deceptively friendly cop—it was such a minor incident! But sometimes I still think I’m going to be stopped by police and questioned by the authorities, and they’ll tell me my citizenship was a mistake and I have to go back to Poland.