Diced
A New Year’s Novella
Ginger Scott
Contents
From the author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Also by Ginger Scott
About the Author
Original Text copyright © 2016 Ginger Scott
Revised materials © 2018 Ginger Scott
All Rights Reserved
No part of this novella may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This novella is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Ginger Scott
From the author
This novella originally appeared in a New Year’s Eve Anthology in 2016. This story has been rewritten with additional content since it first appeared. My goal was to give readers a fun little escape during a super hectic time. I hope you enjoy! And if you’re new to me, I hope you’ll consider checking out some of my longer works. I’m pretty proud of them :)
Huge thanks to TeriLyn for giving this reimagined dish a beta read! (Get it? Dish. LOL) I hope your new year is filled with love, wonderment, adventure, peace, a great book and damn good music!
XO
Ginger
Chapter One
6 p.m. New Year’s Eve, 2 hours before service begins
Mia Stone
I am not my father.
Thomas Stone would have looked at the job ahead, major New Year’s Eve gala for a thousand A-listers at Vegas’s newest it boutique hotel, and shrugged it off as no big deal. I guess when you’ve cooked for the president and The Rolling Stones, you sorta scoff at Vegas parties, even if they’re serving rock stars, champion fighters, Hollywood producers, and the guy I drooled over in the movie I took myself to just two days ago.
I miss my dad’s cavalier approach to enormous tasks. Fuck, I just miss him. I even miss his goddamned temper!
I inherited some of his qualities—temper, top of the list—but whatever it was that he had that kept his emotions in check definitely skipped a generation with me. My nerves are all Mom, which is why I didn’t mention this little gig to her. Mix my freak-out mode with Carolyn Stone’s inclination to cry, and the people attending tonight’s party might end up getting sack lunches instead of lamb with rosemary miso.
Though, I’d give just about anything to fly my mom in from her lovely retirement nest in Boca Raton right now. Because right now…I not only want to cry—I need to.
“So let me understand what you’re saying, Jeffrey…” My words trail off as I tremble, my hand working hard to simply hold my phone to my ear. “You…quit?”
“Mia, it’s nothing personal…it’s…”
I can’t stand the thought of his arrogant, stiff, fucking-hack voice finishing that statement, so I hang up, then whisper the last word to myself.
“Business.”
Jeffrey Rich is…was my sous-chef. We haven’t been together long, but I’d picked him from a long list of applicants. He was a prick, if I’m being honest. Late often, questioning me more often. But his touch on things reminded me of my dad. His even temperament—prickish as it were—was my perfect complement. In two short years, together, we’d climbed our way to this moment—on the cusp of closing the deal to land the coveted restaurant spot in the newest Vegas hotspot funded by…well…frankly, six of my favorite actors. All of them hot.
My eyes blink slowly, and I shake my head slightly, looking down at my feet and the very unsexy but orthopedic shoes they are stuffed in—shoes I broke in for weeks for a night where I’d planned on being on my feet for hours, thriving and killing it in that kitchen. My menu is perfection—an American fusion concept of lamb, vegan, salmon staples all turned upside down with my special twists on the palate I’ve become known for. Prep work has been going on all day, but the real work begins in two hours—when the red carpet rolls out and the Hollywood six show up to cut the ribbon.
Only…my second-in-command just bailed because if I fail, he gets a sweet deal from the competition.
“Chef, I think we’re short on scallions, and the risotto samples taste sour. Can you come…”
I walk away before the young face blathering words begins to cry. I walk away because it makes me look tough, like I have things handled, but the moment I round the corner and bury myself deep amidst the racks of linens and stacks of boxes filled with tiny creamers and sugar packets, I let the tears flow. It’s not a hurt kind of cry. It isn’t even because of the betrayal because I get it—the restaurant business is cut-throat and ugly. We lose our lives in here, surrounded by the literal heat, and we make practically nothing, all so people can put our art in their mouths and devour. I’ve seen it play out from all directions before—nice chefs lose, ruthless ones earn stars and Beard awards. My tears right now are from anger—and maybe a little from panic.
And they’re from the goddamned embossed card my thumb is flicking in my pocket.
I thought the universe was cruel enough when it slammed Jamie Augusthill and me together last weekend at a wedding reception for an old college friend up in Tahoe. I’d forgotten that we both knew the couple way back then. A decade makes you forget details like that. I suppose a broken heart makes you forget, too.
The exchange was short, awkward, maybe teetering on a fake sort of pleasant. I’d bragged, because he deserved to hear how far I’d come without him, and he handed me his business card. I didn’t read it until I dumped things from my purse the next morning. The moment I absorbed the few but important words on his card—Jamie Augusthill, Head Chef, Pilaf’s of New York, Los Angeles and London—I realized how unimpressive my little remark about being close to landing my own restaurant here on the strip really was.
Fucker was just fine without me. And he’d gone to the wedding with a date! A date with long legs, a tan, golden hair that looked like ribbons and some French name I could never pronounce the way she had. She shook my hand and said her name, and I swear it sounded like she said “sex.”
“Hello, my name is sex, and I fuck your ex every morning and night, and he’s going to marry me soon, happy that he doesn’t have to see your pasty white legs and deal with your neurotic need to live up to your father’s legacy every damned minute of the day. Have fun pretending to take important calls for the rest of this wedding party, out on the patio, while the snow flattens any hope you had that at least your hair looked good.”
That…that is what I heard when she said her name, as I crammed his card in my purse. The moment Jeffrey said he was quitting, though, I marched into my make-shift office and slid open the top drawer, pulling out the card I brought with me on some strange whim. It’s almost like I knew I’d need it. Maybe I was hoping he’d show up to this party. Or maybe I was planning to carry it with me everywhere until I’d actually become bigger than he was, so I could dial him up and brag for real.
Or maybe I just never got over how broken he left me, and how much my heart hurt seei
ng his blue eyes and his body in that suit and tie.
Whatever the reason, Jamie Augusthill is the only person who can help me right now. He had said he was researching some things here for the next two weeks. He’s in Vegas. And he owes me this much.
Ten years ago, he left my father’s restaurant in handcuffs. All that was left was a note that he was sorry, but he couldn’t be the man I needed him to be. I waited to hear something for weeks—a phone call, word from one of our mutual friends, a visit from his parents, even though they weren’t close. After three months of silence, I threw his note—and the engagement ring I’d been wearing desperately—into the Chicago River. I moved to Vegas when my father died, and over the last two years, I’ve finally started to heal. I’ve even gone on several dates! Granted, none of them amounted to second dates, but there has been sex! One guy even sounded French, or at least he did when I closed my eyes and imagined really hard.
“Hello?”
My head jars, and I start to blink rapidly, not realizing that my fingers just started to dial, and that I was staring at my phone’s screen while my mind was working through scars Jamie had left behind.
“Uhmm…hello?”
His voice is muffled, but his second answer shakes me enough to be able to reply. I feel sick, and my body is rushed with a morphine-like sensation.
“Jamie, yes…hi…it’s…it’s Mia.”
I swallow. I’m sure he hears it.
“Mia, wow…I…I’m just surprised you called. How are you?”
Ten years older, the timber in his voice is still the same. It’s sweet and tender, the rasp of long nights wearing it thin. I lean back into the wall behind me and let my head fall to the right, against a cold metal shelf. I have to be strong—I have to sound better than him, stronger than him—more important than him. If I don’t, then even if he agrees to help, he’ll just end up walking all over me—both professionally, and emotionally.
Truth is, I’m not really anyone in this culinary world. I don’t know fancy names, and I didn’t come from some great school. I learned under my dad’s watchful eye and vengeful tasting spoon. I was his silent sous, a woman he never gave public credit to but praised and adored when nobody was watching—I choose to believe that part was sincere. He pushed me; he wanted this for me—this…success. He just wanted it to happen when he was done with his. Then he died, and I had no idea how to get any of it because who was I really…some girl who called Thomas Stone her dad. I had to prove my way around the kitchen all over again, working my way up from nothing—from fucking dishes!
I won a contest to get me to this point. And I bullshitted my way through interview after interview to get to this night. It was fine because I always knew I was doing better than Jamie was. Only I wasn’t at all. He went from prison to…to…goddamned famous in the food business. And now I need his help.
After a short deep breath, I stand tall and push out from my nook in the depths of the catering hall’s kitchen.
“I’m fine, listen…I have a bit of an issue, and since you’re in town, I thought maybe you’d like to help me out. Sort of for old time’s sake…if you know what I mean?”
Cavalier. Just like Dad.
“I’m listening,” he says, and I can practically see the smirk through the phone. I bet there’s stubble, too. That man has constant five o’clock shadow. He had it at the wedding. Somehow, I held my hand back from running my fingers along the grit of his strong chin.
“My former sous-chef is a dick…” I blurt that out, shaking off my fantasies and getting right to the point.
“He quit on you, didn’t he?” he interrupts.
I let out a heavy sigh.
“He got a better offer from the competition.” I roll my eyes, playing the part of tough woman, pissed off boss, and fearless leader as I pass through trays, taking samples and tasting from pots—my kitchen already going. Nothing in here tastes right. I think maybe I’ve suddenly lost my ability to taste.
I’m a hack.
“Someone wants you to fail,” Jamie chuckles.
“Yup.” My answer short and sweet, I wait through what feels like ten seconds of silence while Jamie mulls over the only facts I’m going to give him. He knows this business, and he can fill in the blanks for himself.
“When do you need me?”
My heart stops beating briefly, and I stumble on my feet at his words, righting myself as I catch my balance on the swinging door before I step out into the ballroom. Nobody saw my fall, but I pull a chair from one of the tables and indulge in a moment of rest to finish this conversation.
“In about five minutes,” I say, giggling as the words come out. This whole situation is more than pathetic; it’s comedy and tragedy rolled in one.
“Where?”
“Guest. That new boutique hotel they just opened down here. I’ll have them hold you a space in the executive lot.” I taste bile before I utter the rest. “And…I’ll split my commission.”
My lip sneers as I swim in dread. That commission is literally supposed to keep me afloat for the next six months. I calculated my budget down to the penny, and that was with cancelling my cable.
“Okay,” he says, hanging up before I can choke out a thanks.
I leave my phone in my palm, pressed against my head, for the next five minutes as I stare at the men and women dressed in black, white and silver. They dash about the massive space, picking at details, testing sound and lights, and setting tables so they are all exact, the space perfection before the sun dips and the fight crowd pours in. Somewhere in my daydream, one more tear rolls down my cheek. I wipe its evidence away and roll my shoulders as I get to my feet. Jamie Augusthill, at least for the next few hours, is my employee—and no matter how blue his eyes are, how soft his golden-brown hair is, and how much I miss standing under the shadow of his chin while his hands undress me, I can’t let him in beyond the rules of this kitchen.
My kitchen.
My fucking dream.
That one tear—that’s all he gets.
Chapter Two
7:02 p.m., panic mode in full swing, one hour to go
Jamie Augusthill
I’ve had men twice my size press loaded guns against my temple—at least a dozen times—yet I’ve never wanted to piss myself more than I do now. This idea might just be my worst, and I used to run cons against card sharks and mob bosses in downtown Chicago. I know if I don’t at least try, though, then the what ifs that wake me up in cold sweats every single night are going to swallow me whole.
Success is a fickle thing. I’ve been on the bottom and the top, and both places feel the same—lonely. When I agreed to let the FBI take me in as part of a takedown set-up for Marcos McQuistion, head of Chicago’s biggest underground gambling ring, I could only see my out. I figured I’d finally break free of my fuck-ups, clear the slate on my rap sheet and debt, and wipe out all of those warning flags that would always hold me back. I didn’t give two shits about myself, but I didn’t want my misdeeds to bleed over into Mia’s dreams.
Her father didn’t want them to, either. And when he came to see me in federal prison, before I was swept away for five years of witness protection, on the off chance that my testimony would be needed at some point, he made it clear just how serious he was about my ugliness mixing with Mia’s beautiful soul.
“Let her be,” he said.
My cold sweats come with those words in the background.
Let her be. Her dad was like my father, too. In the kitchen he was, at least. Mia and I trained side-by-side under his strict mentoring. He didn’t share his secrets with many people. He barely shared them with us, and some of them I think he preferred to die with. But he shared the kitchen with us…with me. He invited me into his palace—that’s what he called it, and believe me, it was as clean as one every morning and night. I was some troublemaker who kinda thought maybe I could cook. Turns out he thought I could, too. I just couldn’t ruin his little girl with all my shit.
So I promised.
I’ve spent the better part of a decade believing he was right to tell me to stay away for good, to let her find a good man, find her own path and make her own name. He didn’t like how much she depended on me. I loved how much that woman relied on me. But we were young—twenty-four—and now older and wiser, I realize now just how selfish I was to need her needing me.
I got the wedding invitation and responded with a yes, simply hoping I might see someone who knew her, knew how she was doing—really doing. I didn’t think I’d come so close so soon.
I had let Neil talk me into taking Reine to the wedding with me. Not that he had to push me that hard. She’s beautiful…and a model. But had I known I would have seen Mia there, I would have preferred to have been alone. Reine and I weren’t and aren’t anything. She invests in our restaurants, and honestly, she sells us to her high-end clientele friends—aka more models. It’s the more models part that Neil really likes. But I saw Mia’s reaction. She couldn’t hide the little blip her eyes made, the tightness in her jaw and instant consumption of not one…but two glasses of wine.
Shit. She probably has this idea about me now, that I think I’m above her. I come off that way a lot because this business…it makes you be a dick. If you’re not a dick, you get dicked over!
Mia’s brown hair is shorter, but tousled in waves that jut out wildly, like her golden eyes. I’ve only seen her in that yellow dress she wore to the wedding, yet my imagination ever since has dressed her a million different ways—sometimes not dressing her at all. One look was all it took to throw reason out the door and invite selfish back inside. And here we are again—Mia needs me.
Diced: A New Year’s Novella Page 1
