Opposites Attract: The complete box set

by Higginson, Rachel

  Desperately trying to keep my voice softer than shrill, I said, “Oh my God.”

  “And Wyatt confirmed,” Vera confessed, nervous for the first time ever. “They both had unrelated questions, but the conversation naturally kind of… veered to you.”

  I tried not to fidget as the burning in my cheeks reached an all new level of volcanic hot. “Is this why we’re here? You want to interrogate me about Wyatt?”

  “We’re here to pick out low maintenance centerpieces for Vera’s tables,” Dillon said nonchalantly, like they hadn’t lured me into their trap to confirm all the scandalous details of my not-so-private morning. “Aren’t they pretty?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled, picking up one for myself. There were three different varieties in a kind of rock garden settled into a stone pot. Very pretty. It would look super cute on my island, next to my giant wood cutting board.

  “He’s a great guy,” Vera said gently. “Maybe you should give him a chance.”

  “It’s bad timing,” I confessed. “With my attempt at Sarita. And being his sous chef. And, both of our insane, chaotic lives. It’s not meant to be.”

  The eternal optimist, Dillon’s eyes lit with hope and she started to say, “Maybe—”

  “Look at those mossy things,” I said, cutting her off. “I’m going to check those out.”

  They let me have my space and graciously didn’t bring up the subject of Wyatt again all morning. I left with another backseat filled with purchases and a rapidly beating heart.

  I could handle ninety-hour weeks like a pro. I worked in one of the most stressful, sweatiest kitchens out there, my boss was a total tyrant and I had to consistently produce perfection to keep my position. Those things didn’t bother me. I didn’t get anxiety. I was a badass chef and comfortable in my role in the kitchen.

  But a harmless conversation about Wyatt? Entirely based on facts? Too much for me. My palms were sweaty, and my stomach had decided to grow an ulcer. I would have called in sick tonight if I would have thought I’d still have a job in the morning.

  What was it about Wyatt that turned me into a complete mess? I was so much better when he was yelling at me than dealing with the sweeter, softer, surprise version of him I didn’t even know existed until recently.

  Steeling my nerves, I said goodbye to my friends with promises to see Dillon very soon and Vera as soon as my parents headed back to Hamilton. Then I went to work. Because that was what I did. No matter what happened with Wyatt or my personal life, work was my center, my cure. I would throw myself into it tonight and forget everything else. And at the end of the night, I’d slip out before Wyatt could get me alone and trick me into more of his delicious kisses.

  Or maybe I’d stick around for them. As long as he swore on his kitchen knives that he wouldn’t tell anyone this time.

  Sixteen

  Holy shit! I caught sight of my reflection in the small mirror above the hand-washing sink and held back a laugh.

  My short hair shot out from behind my damp bandana every which way, frizzy loose curls, frizzier and curlier now that I’d been working almost fifteen hours. My mascara had smudged beneath my lower lashes and my cheeks were rosy from running around like a chicken with its head cut off for the last several hours.

  I undid the top three buttons of my jacket, hoping to cool down a little. The kitchen was extra hot tonight. And we were extra busy.

  There were rumors that Lilou, and by default Wyatt, was up for another James Beard award. There was talk that Ezra had entered the two of them into several categories, like he always did in October. The results would be announced soon, like they always were in May, which meant judging was well underway.

  Of course, there was no way to know if that rumor was true or what awards we had to strive our best to receive because Ezra wasn’t here to ask. Besides, he wouldn’t tell us anyway. We had gone through this every year while Killian was in charge. I thought Ezra would give us a couple years to calibrate to new leadership, but apparently, he didn’t want to waste time making Wyatt a chef to contend with.

  I had expected the rumors to wind Wyatt up, make kitchen life intolerable. Instead, he was in rare form. Completely unaffected by the pressure and operating as efficiently and effectively as possible. At a speed that I quite frankly didn’t even know existed.

  There was something oddly more relaxed about him, but at the same time his perfectionism had reached a whole new level of demand. I’d gotten through tonight with only one redo, but I’d been stressed out the whole evening making sure every single element of my dishes were without reproach.

  I should hate him all over again for what he’d put me through tonight. But these were the aspects about his personality I respected. These were the things I appreciated about him. I had only known head chefs to be totally, intolerably obsessive about their kitchens.

  From cleanliness, to the quality of ingredients they cooked with, to the level of finesse at which their dishes left the kitchen, most chefs at this level were control freaks times one thousand. And I gave every single one of them grace.

  Their name was on the line. Their reputation at risk. They weren’t selling food to hungry diners, they were creating an evening that was memorialized by smells and touch and taste. They were developing moments of excellence that would follow these people to the end of their lives. They were facilitating experiences that would change and mark people.

  Think back to your favorite meal. It wasn’t only the food. The memory encapuslated the people you were with, the ambiance, the aesthetic of the food, the drinks you ordered, the smile on your server’s face, the temperature of the restaurant, the smell, the lighting… every single aspect played a part in creating the most perfect dining experience of your life.

  And while the back of house might not have a say in décor and dimness, we controlled the main event of the evening. Wyatt, like Killian before him, wanted every single customer to leave tonight declaring that they had eaten the best meal of their entire lives—the meal every other piece of food would be compared to for all of eternity.

  I could get on board with that.

  One day, I would run my own kitchen and the same would be true about me. My staff would mumble, “That persnickety bitch,” under their breath and I would smile and pat them on the head, because a meticulous shrew was exactly what I would have to be.

  Dillon sidled up to me, wrapping her arm around my waist in a quick side hug. She’d already stripped off her chef’s coat and we’d only been closed for five minutes.

  “Hey, I’m taking off,” she said, clearly rushed to get out the door.

  “Already?”

  “Molly and Ezra asked me to pick them up from the airport,” she explained.

  I glanced at a nearby clock. It was just after eleven. My heart sank for two reasons. One, that Ezra was back. And two, that Dillon was abandoning me to close without her.

  Still, I was a good friend, so I asked, “Do you need me to shut down your station?”

  She grinned at me, backing up toward the side entrance. “Wyatt already volunteered you. I think his exact words were, ‘Kaya will do it for you. She loves to clean up your shit.’”

  My eyes bugged. “That asshole.”

  Winking at me, she put her hand on the door.

  “Can’t they get an Uber?” I called after her, but she was already racing to her car.

  “They’re engaged!” she shouted over her shoulder. “He asked her while they were on the beach!”

  My shoulders deflated as the heavy steel door slammed shut. Okay, so that was a no?

  Smiling at how loyal my friend was to her family, I turned around and got back to work. If I wanted any shot at six hours of sleep tonight, I needed to get my ass in gear. My parents were coming tomorrow night and I could not, in any way, be running on fumes while they were here. It would get my big mouth into more trouble and I seriously didn’t want to fight with them their entire stay.

  “Swift,” Wyatt called from across the
kitchen. “You good with sauté?” He was referring to Dillon’s station where she sautéed veggies and made the sauces for dinner service.

  “It’s my favorite,” I told him. It was my least favorite. And Dillon had been especially messy tonight. Probably because of the extra layer of mayhem and her excitement over her brother’s engagement. But dang, no wonder she was in a hurry to get out of here.

  I would be too if my station looked like she left hers.

  Wyatt made a noise that from across the kitchen almost sounded like a laugh. It couldn’t have been though, because Wyatt didn’t laugh in his kitchen.

  Benny shot me a funny look, roughly rubbing his closely shaved head. “Was that a joke, Kaya?”

  “Shut it,” I growled at him.

  He grinned at me. Benny was a gigantic man that seemed too large for a kitchen setting. And even though his fingers were as big as sausages, he did amazing things with meat. As the butcher, he carved the proteins and made them look fabulous. Besides me, he was Wyatt’s most trusted chef on staff.

  “I wasn’t prepared for you to be funny. You should warn me next time.”

  “I’ve always been funny,” I shot back. “You just haven’t had a sense of humor until tonight.”

  “I don’t think it’s me that needed to find their sense of humor.” His gaze darted back to Wyatt and I fought the urge to slap my palm over my eyes and curse.

  “Maybe he’s finally settling into the role.” I shrugged, pretending it was no big deal.

  “Maybe,” Benny agreed.

  We separated, getting back to our work. He finished way before me and disappeared to find Wyatt.

  I was left alone in the now empty kitchen space since I had double the workload. Benny and Endo had offered to help me finish, but I’d declined their help. It was late enough. They didn’t need to stick around for me. We all wanted to get to bed.

  Benny and Wyatt had left twenty minutes ago to drop the nightly deposit off at the bank. I’d watched them walk out the door and breathed a sigh of relief when they’d gone.

  It wasn’t that they were bothering me, it was that I loved being alone in this place.

  As sous chef, I had the rare privilege of closing by myself. I had my own set of keys—I could open by myself too. Wyatt and Ezra had entrusted me with a lot when Killian had left, and I was only now feeling gratitude to them.

  Dropping my cleaning towel on the counter behind me, I turned around and admired the gleaming kitchen I busted my ass in day and night.

  I had been so angry at Wyatt for waltzing into the head chef position unchallenged, so frustrated that the job had been handed to him on a silver platter, that I hadn’t considered how hard he’d worked for it before Killian had left.

  This had been Wyatt’s job during Killian’s regime. He’d been second in command. He’d worked these insane hours. He’d never gotten days or nights or holidays off. He’d been here from open till close every single day. There were days he worked harder and longer and more ferociously than Killian did.

  I knew, because that was what I was doing now.

  And on top of that, he’d had a relationship with Killian, a friendship that existed long before Lilou and James Beard Awards.

  The executive chef job at Lilou was never mine. It was never mine to claim or fight for or want.

  In the still quiet of the kitchen at the end of a long, hard day, I could finally admit that to myself. I could finally rest in the truth that this job was, is, and will always be Wyatt’s.

  And that was okay. Because there were other kitchens out there for me. I would take every second of experience and training I could get from this place. I would take the long hours and turn them into an indomitable work ethic. I would take the grueling demands and insane expectations and turn them into my version of perfection. I would take my difficult coworkers, my impossible boss, and the demanding, never-satisfied customers and create my own style of leadership. And I would take my success here, my steady climb up the hierarchy, my stellar reputation, and turn it into more success, more of a meteoric rise, more of an industry-wide reputation that came with accolades and household name recognition.

  My rise wouldn’t happen overnight or even in the next several years, but I was in it for the long game. This was a marathon not a sprint, and I planned to finish this race as strong and solid as I started.

  My fingers wrapped around the edge of the counter, the steel edge biting into my tender palms, but I couldn’t help but smile. There was something different about tonight, about being alone in such a renowned kitchen. I could feel success skittering up my spine. I could taste victory dancing on my tongue. I could practically see the future and it included everything I’d hoped for… my very own dreams coming true.

  I didn’t know if that was Sarita or not. Ezra’s arrival back in Durham meant shit just got real. No more practicing. No more pretending. I would have to face him and his judgment. Was I up to that challenge? I might have only gotten practice at Sarita doing front of house tasks, but I had a career in the kitchen gleaned from my efforts at Lilou. I knew how to run a kitchen. But would I be enough for Sarita?

  Catching movement out of the corner of my eye, I swallowed a scream and swiveled to face the intruder. My hands patted the counter blindly, searching for a knife or sauté pan or something I could use to defend myself.

  “It’s me,” Wyatt soothed, his voice a calming rumble.

  “God, you scared me,” I accused him. My heartbeat slowly began to calm down and my breathing returned to normal. “I thought you went home for the night.”

  “I forgot something,” he said.

  I ignored the thoughtful way he was looking at me, the way his eyes had darkened and heated, laser focusing on me.

  How long had he been standing there? I’d only noticed him a few seconds ago, but he looked so… fixated.

  My body knew the answer, but my brain forced my mouth to ask the question anyway. “What did you forget?”

  He crossed the kitchen in six long strides, reaching me on the seventh. One hand slid around my waist, bringing my body flush with his. The other glided over my jawline, tipping my head back so he could steal a kiss from my mouth.

  His mouth was so hungry, so completely desperate for mine that I couldn’t do anything else but submit. I was helpless against his tsunami of desire. He swept me off my feet and into the devastation that was Wyatt wanting something.

  And that something was me.

  I kissed him back—that was the only logical response, the only reaction my body was capable of making.

  It was this man. No matter how much I talked myself out of a physical reaction with him, I had to admit to myself that I wanted him. And who wouldn’t?

  Yes, he was inhumanly gorgeous to look at. And his tattoos perfectly tempting. But it was more than that.

  It was the way he looked at me across our busy kitchen, the way his eyes burned hotter than the flames we cooked with. It was his tragic story he shared with me on Tuesday morning and the way he pulled on my heartstrings because of the little boy he was, the same little boy I sometimes still saw in him.

  He’d snared me with his rare smiles and even rarer laughter and the way he commanded the kitchen so fiercely. He’d captured me with the flawless way he cooked and his relentless expectations of perfection. It was the way he respected and trusted me and didn’t think he could handle this kitchen without me. It was this thing that had been simmering between us for years and years. This thing that I was only willing now to admit existed. This thing that was threatening to consume me entirely, drown me in the sheer force of it.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck and held on as the storm between us grew more electric. Our mouths fought, and our tongues warred. We were comfortable with this now, we knew each other’s curves and angles. He preferred having my top lip and I wanted to nibble his bottom. We’d developed this greedy synchronicity between us, our constant push and pull, bringing the desire between us to a boil.

 
; His mouth moved to pay attention to my jawline, my ear, my neck. His hand reached up and flicked open the remaining buttons of my coat that were still clasped. I started to shake off the coat and he helped by tearing it from my arms.

  He’d lost his hours ago and stood pressed against me in only a thin t-shirt and pants. But they were too much. I couldn’t stand anything separating us. Now that I’d given into this, I wanted him stripped bare. I wanted all of him.

  Every part of him.

  My fingers gripped the edges of his shirt and tugged. “Are we alone?” I asked as I tasted his earlobe for the first time. God, he was decadent, rich, like the best meal I’d ever had. I wanted more. And more. And more.

  “Totally,” he confirmed. “The doors are locked.”

  Together we ripped his shirt over his head and tossed it somewhere… else. He crashed against me, his skin unbelievably hot. He pressed his chest to mine and a breathy moan escaped the back of my throat.

  “This is crazy,” I murmured, trailing kisses along his hairline as he dipped his head to kiss the tops of my breasts.

  As if the taste wasn’t enough, he cupped my breast with his large hand and squeeze, his thumb brushing over my nipple, teasing, tantalizing, tearing down whatever remained of the walls I’d built to keep him out.

  He pulled his head back, so he could meet my eyes. His were so dark, so perfectly deep and warm. “Not crazy,” he said firmly. “It’s a long time coming.”

  I smiled because what else was I supposed to do? I wanted to ask him only a hundred questions to get to the bottom of that infuriating and cryptic response, but I couldn’t seem to form the words.

  He stepped closer to me, letting me feel his body against the most intimate part of mine. I hadn’t thought we could get closer.

  I was wrong.

  His thumb brushed over my nipple again. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he ordered. “And I will.”

  “Don’t stop,” I begged, sounding more desperate than I had intended to. “Please, don’t stop.”