by Molly McLain
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 seeing 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. 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.
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.
“My former sous-chef is a dick…”
“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.
“Someone wants you to fail,” Jamie chuckles.
“Yep.” 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?”
“MGM. 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.
“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 2
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 I wake up in cold sweats over 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.
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 where she was. I didn’t think I’d come so close so soon.
Her 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. A
nd here we are again—Mia needs me.
A better man would step in and then disappear. But that man doesn’t have a hole in his chest where love once lived.
I can see her passing by the open door to the kitchen, a whirlwind of confidence, milky skin peppered with golden freckles, and the voice of an angel—if angels struck fear in the hearts of practicing cooks and chefs desperate for approval. Her assistant came out to greet me. I saw him tell her I was here. And then I watched her proceed to ignore me for the better part of fifteen minutes.
No longer able to distract herself, she tugs the apron from her body and rolls it tight, tucking it under her arm. Her shoulders rise with her breath; she’s getting herself ready to turn around…to see me. I close the distance between us before she spins on her heels, and as a result, she jerks in surprise as she faces me, my hand ready to greet her.
“Mia.”
Her mouth goes crooked. I smile softly.
Please don’t run, Rabbit.
She takes my hand reluctantly, but her grip is firm—always showing how she’s in charge. And she is. She was then, is now, and will be...forever. My only hope is that she’s not in charge of ruining me for good. If I haven’t stopped after ten years, well…it’s clear I will never quit loving this woman.
I take a calculated risk and cover her hand with my other one as we shake, and I feel the slight tremble. I always did this, though, normally I’d bring her hand to my mouth and kiss it afterward. Her shaking tells me it’s not time to try that…at least, not just yet.
Her eyes glance beyond me, and she pulls her hand away quickly when she sees I didn’t come here alone, her stare pausing on my right-hand man, Neil Geist. For this plan to work, I needed my team. But she’s not going to see it as anything other than a typical power play.
“What is this? Male chef beats chest, make Jane his bitch?”
Her mouth quirks a wry smile and her brow dips. Spitfire. Goddamn, I’ve missed this.
“I wasn’t sure how short you were, Mia. Frankly, I just wanted to be prepared.”
I should have left that frankly word out because her eyes narrow on me the moment I say it, and she huffs as she turns.
“Follow me. I’ll show you the team.”
I feel Neil’s knuckles brush my elbow, and I turn and shrug him off. He grimaces, and I know he thinks I’m feeding him to a wolf, but that’s not the case. This had to look authentic though, so everyone’s in the dark. Neil needs to go into this with the story I put in his head—that this is our show to run, and that he’s sous-chef…to me. Everyone needs to be on the top of their game. If we can’t deliver the very best for Mia, then the wolf waiting to take her down will feast on our bones…and quickly.
We zip through the impressive kitchen, and I pay vague attention while Mia rattles off the menu, making note of the specifics, to her taste. Sea salt measured per batch. Crème never to boil, never to skin. Light milk, heavy sugar. And my favorite of all of her words:
“Caramelize, caramelize, caramelize.”
“I always did love your sweet potatoes,” I say, looking up at her sideways. I catch her take in a quick breath when I speak, and she shakes her head quickly as she turns away. It’s a simple side dish, perfected by her dad, the man who taught me everything. Everything…but his Southern sweet potato casserole.
When I realize where she’s leading me next, into the back where room gets tight and dark, I wave off Neil and the rest of my team. The six of them hover around the prep station, watching as Mia’s crew works like a clock—no emotion, perfect unison. She was always classical, and I was always rock.
“And here…” she says, pausing to grunt as she pulls the heavy walk-in door open, “is the refrigerator. Everything should be prepped and ready for open, for the most part, but we’re going to go through a lot of dairy tonight.”
I cock a brow as I pass her and step inside, but the moment my face is hidden from her view, I let my act drop. My mouth forms a hard line and my eyes lower. Of all of the things I want to say to her, planned to say when I saw her next, leading with this wasn’t one of them. But then she told me Jeffrey quit, and I just knew. I’d learned everything I could about her life now after the wedding—including who her sous-chef was.
“Mia, you need my help,” I say, back still to the girl that isn’t going to take any of this easily.
“Christ, Jamie…it’s why I called. It was hard enough for me to pick up that phone; please don’t gloat and reiterate the situation I’ve found myself in now, in person…”
“No, that’s not what I mean,” I interrupt, turning and leaning back on a sturdy metal rack. “You need me to run this show for you, if you want a shot at this.”
My teeth saw at my lip while I try to figure out the best way to explain. Before I can open my mouth again, though, Mia’s palm finds my cheek with a swift swing that leaves behind a sting so strong that I instantly begin searching for the most frozen thing available to hold against my face.
“Mother fuck!” I breathe out, settling on what I think may be a stack of pork chops. Mia reaches to grab the meat from me, so I take two strides back and hold up my hand.
“You’re going to contaminate the meat!”
Her hands are on her hips. She’s being serious.
I chuckle with tilted eyes that still show the pain I’m in.
“Are you serious? That’s not even a thing…and fuck, Mia!”
I pull the icy pack away and touch the raw skin with my other hand. It’s half numb and half welted. She hit me hard!
Her eyes are searing, and she’s moved her arms across her chest. Her nostrils flare with each breath, and I know she’s slipped into that unreasonable place she goes when she feels attacked. I understand—she’s a woman in a boy’s club. But that’s not what this is.
I move the pack back to my face and hold up my hand again, my brow lifted, urging her to just give me a breath, to hear me out.
“I know Jeffrey,” I say, deciding it best to hit her with the confusing truth as quickly as possible to stun her silent. It works, and her face twists with her confused expression.
“You…know him? Did you…did you set me up?”
Her face tilts, and her skin is growing red with anger. Shit! She’s misreading me.
“No!” I hold my hand up again, shaking my head. Doubt covers her face. “Listen, I know him…because I fired him. He tried to undercut me with our investors, did a few sketchy things on the line for our big opening in New York, and then he stole from me. The fact that he quit today isn’t the end of him trying to ruin you. His eyes are on a bigger prize, Mia.”
“Yeah, I figured that out on my own, thank you,” she sighs, shaking her head and turning away from me.
“I know, but it’s more than just wanting to make you look bad so he can step in. This guy doesn’t make a move like that unless he has every domino in place. I know this event is like your interview, Mia, but there must be people here that Jeffrey knows are coming and you don’t. There are people on your line that you can’t trust. There are hazards in that kitchen, and you need my eyes—my team’s eyes. My guess is that Jeffrey’s still going to show up today; he just won’t be working in the kitchen. He’ll be out there, at one of those important tables, bending ears. He’s not looking to be someone else’s sous-chef; he’s looking to be their head. He’s got money lined up and everything.”
She looks at me over her shoulder, each breath coming in harshly, forcing her shoulders to rise and fall. Her eyes lock with mine, and I pour everything into the way I’m looking at her.
“I’m telling the truth,” I say.
It’s quiet between us for several seconds, until she breaks our gaze and moves her sight to the doorway.
Rabbit always runs.
It’s rash, and probably dumb, but the second she moves toward the exit, I rush forward and pull the door closed, standing in front of it to block her. Her head flicks up and her eyes flash wide as she raises her hands up, nearly touching them to m
y chest before balling them in fists and squeezing them between us.
“Goddamn it, Jamie. Move!”
“I can’t do that,” I say.
“I believe you. Now let me get out there so I can do my job and find that rat! Or rats, apparently.”
She is determined, and I know if it were that simple—if it were just another arrogant chef looking to take down the competition, she could handle him. But there’s more she doesn’t know. I’ve only known for a week, since I found out where she was working, and who was working with her. The odds were just too strange—why would he move from me…to her.
“You have to let this be my kitchen, Mia. Just for tonight,” I say. I try to disarm her by setting the frozen meat on the shelf nearby, relaxing against the metal door, and letting my hands fall into my pockets. It only seems to fire her up more, though, and she reaches behind me, her right hand gripping the handle while the left tries to push me away.
“Move!”
I grab her by the wrist, eventually pulling her other hand away, too, and we tangle and struggle like school kids for nearly a minute until I have both of her hands tethered in my grip, held between us. Her lips part as she exhales in frustration, and my eyes can’t help themselves, taking in the soft pink, the light touch of her tongue against her top teeth, the tiny twitch of nerves that hits her mouth.
The world grows slow, and I want to kiss her. I’m buried alive with years of memories, with years of lost memories, with regret and fear and selfish greed.
And I want to kiss her.
She jerks in my hold. I hold tighter. My eyes flit to hers a fraction of a second before hers come to mine, and I see her looking at my mouth, too. Her world is slow. She wants to kiss me. But then there’s the truth that needs to be said…said now. Kissing her is going to have to wait.
“Mia, Jeffrey…he’s your brother.”
Her color is gone in the first blink of her eyes. After her second, her strength falters. The third blink never comes, and I take her weight into my body and slide with her down to the floor, her face against one arm, her limbs lifeless, and her skin cold from the walk-in refrigerator. I sweep her hair from her forehead and run my thumb along her cheek until she comes to. I have about six seconds to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain this to her.
