Palmer
I dip my finger into the sauce and press it against my tongue. It's bland and devoid of depth.
"Are you fucking serious? This tastes like cardboard," I say. "Fix it."
Everyone is on edge as I drag my finger against my chef's coat, wiping away the sauce. The rest of my staff scrambles.
We're all working harder than we've ever worked in our lives. I smile, seeing my junior chefs work overtime to make tonight a success, but my joy fades away as quickly as it comes when I peep through the window of the swinging kitchen door, and spy none other than Percy Whitman.
The man.
The myth.
The dream-maker and the career-wrecker of this city.
But that's all bullshit because he's just a grade-A asshole.
He walks through the elegant glass doors of my restaurant, and I watch as the hostess seats him. She's friendly and gracious.
Shit. I can't remember a time when Percy showed up a restaurant on opening night.
He takes a few steps in and smiles, showing off a row of teeth more crooked than a broken fence. That matches his review ethic, I think to myself.
He removes his hat and tips it in an arrogant gesture. He combs his hand through his blonde hair, and his eyes scan the crowded dining room.
The only thing paler than his face is the table cloth in front of him, I think.
Brit bumps into me. Her hair rivals the flames of any kitchen, and she has the personality to match. She trips and spills a bowl of tomato soup on the ground…and me.
"I'm so sorry," she says, bringing her hands to her mouth. She's frazzled.
I reach over and place a hand on her shoulder.
"Take a deep breath, Brit," I say. "It could've been worse."
She gives me a reluctant smile and scrambles off. I grab a towel, soaking up the red remnants of soup and then set it on the counter.
I look around the kitchen … at the steaks drizzled with the finest brown butter sauces, and realize that even though it hasn't been the smoothest of nights, it hasn't been bad either.
This is the dream. This is still the dream. We're pulling off a lot of great plates.
I turn and head out of the kitchen. It's time I mingle with the patrons.
Immediately, a crowd of three women catch my eye. They're seated near the bar—three blondes in red. One of them turns to me and smiles.
I walk over and make an introduction.
"Evening, ladies," I say. "How are you enjoying the food?"
"Oh, you must be the chef!" one of the women smiles. "I adore your food!" She brings one hand to her chest, resting it on her cleavage.
I smile.
The two other women blush as I look into their striking blue eyes. If I had more time, I'd probably sit a minute and share a drink with them, but it's opening night, and time is precious.
"Well," I grin, "Just wait until you ladies try the desert."
With that, I leave them with a smile, and watch as their faces turn a shade of red that matches their dresses.
I walk past another guest, an older woman in her 60s. She reaches up and grabs my coat. "You must be Chef Palmer! I just love your food."
I nod my head in appreciation. "Thank you, ma'am," I say, giving her a quick smile before taking her hand and giving it a quick kiss.
Then I move on and head back into my bustling kitchen.
As soon as I enter, one of my line cooks, Alex, says, "Chef! I've plated the appetizer for table five!"
I approach it, eyeing it with the suspicion. "What is this?" I ask.
"Sir?" Alex says with a blank expression.
"Is this cat food? Do you think we're feeding feral cats?"
"Chef, I don't understand, I—"
I stop him mid-sentence. "Plate it like you mean it!" I say. "This isn't an all-you-can-eat buffet. This is fine dining. Make every plate reflect that."
“Yes, Chef," Alex says, and hurries off.
I let out a sigh and lean against the stove. A million thoughts zap through my mind, but they're all cut short when I feel a searing pain against my elbow. I look down to find flames licking the edges of my sleeves.
Fuck.
I hear Brit. "Hey Chef, I was wondering if—"
Her voice stops as soon as she eyes the situation. Then I hear Alex's voice over the growing heat of the flames.
"Chef, I re-plated the appetizer, and—"
He takes one look at the flames licking my sleeve and grabs a bucket of dirty dishwater and throws it onto me.
The flames instantly disappear, but now I look like a used mop.
"Fucking dishwater, Alex?" I ask, crossing my arms.
Both Alex and Brit give me a blank stare.
"What are you two waiting for?" I say. Move!"
They both scramble off to plate a never-ending row of orders. I grab a towel and dry my face, and then peer back out into the dining room.
Despite what I currently look like, I decide to walk back through the dining room, and gauge the crowd's experiences.
As I walk past one table, a piece of conversation catches my attention.
"Look, do you see this rice? It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice?”
“And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara,” the voice continues, and I swivel around to see who’s talking.
"It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab…a fish brick. And don't even get me started about the soup."
I can't help but stop and stare when see who this is coming from.
I can hardly believe my eyes.
Nicole
"He's like candy on a stick," Sarah smiles, sliding back into her chair.
I roll my eyes. "Are you serious? If you mean the kind of candy that melts and sticks, and gives you the world's worst toothache and puts you into a dentist's chair, then … okay, I can see it," I say, letting out a sigh.
I love Kate, but she can be one of the most dramatic people you've ever met, and she doesn't have the most rational mind.
"What's with you?" Kate asks, eyeing me suspiciously. "A bit harsh, don't you think? He looks good enough to eat—those eyes, and that smile. Don't pretend that you don't know what I'm talking about."
"It's just that I'm not buying into the hype," I say. "Sure, he has the name and the money, and that Michelin star, but so what?"
"So what? I mean, look at the man! A Michelin star isn't easy to get you know," Sarah says. "It's not like you can snap your fingers and will it into materializing. And c'mon … you can't tell me that he isn't easy on the eyes."
I let out another sigh and allow the potato leek soup to slip off my spoon and drip back into the bowl. "I know," I say, "but this food is soulless. I mean, look at it. It doesn't have heart. It's as bland as these white linens … and it's cold."
"It's only cold because you've refused to touch it for the last twenty minutes," Kate laughs.
I watch as the soup plops into thick, white lumps back into the bowl.
I didn't want to be here, but Sarah insisted we show up since it's the grand opening for The Pearl on Park. I could think of a million things I'd rather be doing—like scooping cat litter, or plucking my eyebrows, or washing dishes, or folding laundry, or—
Sarah breaks my train of thought. She grabs my arm and squeals. "There he is again! He has to be the sexiest piece of man meat I've ever seen."
Her eyes look glassed over, like she's entered a new state of nirvana.
"Give me a break," I say, rolling my eyes. "Whose side are you on anyways?"
"I can't believe you're even asking me that," she says. "I'm on your side babe, but now you're just being unreasonable."
As much as I want to argue that point, I let it go.
I watch as Chef Palmer walks between his kitchen and back through the dining room, mingling with the crowd.
Women seem to swoon and melt in his presence like clockwork, one after the other.
They bat their eyes.
They pucker t
heir lips.
They lower their blouses to show extra cleavage.
They fan their faces as if the heat emanating from his body is too much to handle.
It all makes me sick.
This chef … this restaurant … is threatening to put me out of business, and it makes my stomach do somersaults.
That's a cold, hard fact.
With that knowledge, I think he's about as handsome as a cockroach.
I watch him walk back and forth, from the kitchen to the dining room and back again, and can't help but scowl at his swagger.
Who does he think he is? He's got an ego bigger than Mt. Kilimanjaro … not that I've ever hiked it, but I've seen the pictures.
"Look," I say, "Do you see this rice? I scoop it into the prongs of my fork. It's overcooked. It's like paste. I mean, what chef can mess up rice? And this fish? It's drier than the Sahara. It's not flaking apart. It's a hard, dry slab … a fish brick."
"Um, Nicole," Sarah says, but I don't let her finish.
"And don't even get me started about the soup again," I say. "These potatoes? You don't even—"
But Sarah clears her throat and nods her head over my shoulder.
"I wouldn't, um—I, uh—" she says, her voice catching in her throat.
But I cut in again. "Oh come on Sarah. We all know he's easy on the eyes, but that doesn't mean his food is—"
Then I stop. I notice Sarah's eyes fixed on a figure just beyond my left shoulder and I can't help but turn around and see what she's so focused on.
And when I do, my heart nearly stops in my chest.
I look over and lock my gaze on two eyes the color of the Atlantic.
They pierce me like a set of hooks.
It doesn't take me long to realize who it is.
It's Chef Palmer.
And he's … smiling?
My mind races. How long has he been standing there? What exactly did he hear? Did he hear the part about me talking shit about his food, or the part where I dismiss his Michelin star?
And how did I not know how handsome he was?
It's times like this where I wish I had an invisibility cloak, or a button to teleport right out of this restaurant. Anything to disappear.
Palmer senses my discomfort.
"You were saying?" he smiles, flashing me a disarmingly white smile.
His teeth are unnaturally white … like something out of a toothpaste commercial.
I'm in the hot seat now. I can't hide from this, or backpedal.
I need to own up to it.
"I was just expecting something … different," I say.
"I take it this isn't meeting your expectations?"
He knows it isn't. It's a rhetorical question.
"I've had better," I say, standing my ground.
His eyebrows jump in an arc. "Is that so?"
"This fish … this starch … I was expecting more from The Pearl. There's a lot of hype about this place."
I watch as he crosses his arms and I notice a black blemish on the sleeve of his chef's coat … as if it caught on fire. It looks like he hasn't had the smoothest of openings, and I find my heart going soft at the thought … as a chef, I know how hard it is to run a kitchen, but I quickly shake that from my mind.
He's the competition.
He's part of the problem in this city … overpriced, soulless food.
"Fine," he smiles, his eyes still on mine. "Come here tomorrow after closing hours and I'll show you what real food is all about."
Nicole
Whenever I'm feeling this way, I like to sit down at the small table for two in the corner of the restaurant that gets the most sunlight. I close my eyes and let the warm rays caress my skin. Today is one of those days; and lucky for me I get to share a few minutes with Kate before the lunch rush hour. She’s the best friend, and employee, I could ask for. But even she's testing my nerves today.
I take a deep breath and gaze out the window into the busy street; his words ringing in my ears. I’ve replayed them so many times, overlapping them with my own thoughts that they morphed into something else. An uncontrollable ravenous monster that is eating all my time and concentration.
I chuckle and then frown. I can’t remember what he said word for word anymore, just the gist of it. Real food. He said he’ll show me what real fucking food is. That bastard.
“You okay, boss lady?” Kate asks full of concern.
I must have a sour look on my face, because she only calls me that when she is trying to brighten my mood.
“It’s just…” I mumble, struggling to find words. “How do I put this plainly, Kate—”
“Careful now, Mrs. West is here for tea and scones with her daughter in law.”
I’m glad she interrupted me; it saved me the embarrassment of having to apologize for the long string of foul words that was parading through my head. “He’s an asshole,” I whisper. “A total asshole.”
“A rich one,” she says with a nod over her, ‘Coffee, because crack is not allowed at work,’ coffee mug.
“Sure, whatever, but I don’t have to—”
“Wait!” Kate blurts out while slamming her mug down to the table, clearly harder than she had expected as her eyes widened. “Nicole, you’re not…”
“Not what?” I say over the rattling of silverware.
Gasping, she says, “Tell me I’m wrong?”
I want to play it off, but it's like she can read my mind. Just another reason why we work so well together.
“You’re going to pull one of your, ‘I’m too busy working’ tricks,” Kate says while rudely pointing at me. “You’re gonna close yourself down and hide in that tiny office of yours all day and night.”
I was beginning to question who I was most annoyed with in the moment: Kate or Palmer. “No, I’m not.”
“Yeah you will. You’ll treat last night like it never happened. You’ll pretend the most famous chef in the world didn’t just move in on your territory and issue you a challenge. Damn, girl, people got shot for things like that in the wild west. You gonna let him claim jump you? Cause I’m not going to allow that to happen.”
I laugh. “You’re not, huh?”
“Nope.”
I sit there and watch a plan formulate behind her eyes. My head is swimming. His words. My words. Kate’s words. It's all a jumbled mess. Should I just tell her to stop and go back to work, or should I pull rank and tell her it's over—to drop it? Maybe she's right. I'm not sure, and something holds my words inside my throat, so I let her keep talking.
“You like checklists, Nicole, well, let’s make one.”
Tilting my head, and narrowing my eyes, I give her a cross look. “Okay…”
“Palmer is gorgeous. I mean-yeah-hot.” Kate turns apple-red in the face as she says so. Is it the steam from her coffee? No, she's been sipping that for the past thirty minutes. “Before he came to town, I would have said you were the best-looking restaurant owner around.”
“Great. Fine. Sure, he’s good looking.” I shrug. “Yeah, hot, I guess. Why does that matter?”
Kate is mirroring my look, a habit of hers when she thinks I'm saying something off. Normally I see this during business related decisions, but her meaning in this moment is not lost on me.
“He’s a super-famous celebrity and that alone equals a ton of attention. Just think about the burst of social media awareness you’d be getting. I bet a hundred or more tweets.”
“And how would I glean from his celebrity, Kate? How?”
“Any fucking way possible.”
I nod at the nearest customers, causing Kate to grimace as she continues.
“All it would take is a couple of dates—”
“Dates?”
“Yeah, public ones. Get people interested in you two, then redirect all the attention back here to the restaurant, Nicole. You know, we could use the business.”
“I want people to come to my restaurant because the food is good, not because…”
L
eaning forward, Kate begins to whisper. “Because you’re sleeping with the hottest guy in town?”
“No!” I raise my voice, nearly spitting in her face.
She shakes her head while crossing her arms and leaning back; I can tell she is frustrated with me. She wants to see me find a good man. All she wants is for me to be as happy as she is. But Palmer—yeah—he’s an asshole.
“Fine… Because you and another restaurant owner are battling it out for best of the best.” Yawning, she sarcastically says, “So scandalous…”
I think a moment. I already knew Percy was on my side. “You think the critics would compare us?”
“Haven’t they already?”
Kate is making a good point. But how can I compete with Palmer’s money and celebrity? I begin to wonder. The food. I realize. My food is way better. He might have more Instagram followers, but I’m the better chef.
“You’re right, Kate.” A calmness washes over me. “I’ll go to his restaurant tonight. He can spend all his time and money trying to impress me, because in the end I know what really matters.”
Kate smiles. “And what’s that?”
“The backbone of any good restaurant.” I say retuning her smile. “Heart.”
Now I can’t wait to see Palmer fail.
Palmer
I pace the kitchen, and look at my watch.
She should be here any minute. It's not like me to feel this anxious…especially not over a woman I hardly know. But this woman seems different.
Just as I think this, I look up and see her figure through the glass doors. I walk over and unlock it for her.
"You made it," I say, gesturing her inside.
"I thought I'd give you a chance to redeem yourself," she grins. "How could I say no?"
My eyes travel the length of her body. She certainly didn't dress up for the occasion, but she looks stunning all the same.
She's beautiful, with waves in her hair curvier than macaroni, and she smells like a garden—fruity and floral, like apple blossoms and amber and sliced peaches and sandalwood.
It's intoxicating.
Honestly, I'd fuck her if she wasn't such a smart ass.
"So what's on the menu tonight?" she says, pulling her hair over one shoulder.
The Other Brother_A Billionaire Hangover Romance Page 100
