by Allie Burton
During the pre-service meeting, Michael talked and the staff listened and tasted. The pork medallion was moist and flavorful. The zucchini blossoms were crisp. And the mousse for dessert was scrumptious.
Moving into her position at the pass, the staff wouldn’t see how standing close to Michael made her wary and uncomfortable. How one brush of his arm against hers would cause her senses to go on high alert. How even though her work appeared effortless, she’d had to focus to keep her mind off of him and the blonde.
Last night they’d moved in a well-choreographed dance. Tonight, they’d been out of step and out of tune.
“LOI is in.” Michael announced the last order.
Isabel’s body sagged. It had been a long night. Pain pulsed behind her eyes from trying to keep herself together. She didn’t know how to react around him right now. Her feet ached because he was right, the flat shoes had no arch support. Heels were more comfortable.
He took the wipe towel out of her hand. “Why don’t you head out early, Isabel?”
“Um, thanks. I just need to deliver the smallware to the dishwasher.” She gathered up cutting boards, foaming guns, pots, and pans, and placed them by the sink.
Normally, the sous chef helped the other chefs and assistants close down. Had he seen how tired she was, or was he trying to get rid of her? Putting together her resume had been wise.
With shoulders down as if he bore a heavy weight, he headed toward the office in the back of the kitchen. She wanted to touch him, massage his shoulders like he’d massaged her feet. She slammed a pot down on the stovetop. Feeling sorry for him shouldn’t have crossed her mind. He’d massaged her feet and gone on a date with another woman after. And she must never forget he’d stolen her job.
“Isabel, baby.” A slurred male voice called from the other side of the pass.
Edward. A guy she’d dated a couple of times and never really liked. He drank too much, pawed too often, and didn’t have much on his mind except wanting to get her in bed. His gaze appeared blurry, and he swayed, leaning on the counter separating them.
Surveying, she noted Tony and Alfred wiped their stations. They’d glanced up at Edward’s entrance, now they were minding their own business. Or at least pretending to.
She blew out an annoyed breath, not wanting to deal with a drunk male. Best to be pleasant and get him out of the kitchen. She plastered a smile on. “What’re you doing here, Edward?”
In my kitchen?
Well, in Michael’s kitchen.
Edward had never ventured into the kitchen before. He’d eaten in the restaurant and hung out in the bar, a lot. Maybe he’d invaded the kitchen this time, because she’d stopped returning his calls.
“Wanted to see you, babe.” Spit flew out of his mouth and on the counter. Ew. He stepped around the pass and lurched in her direction. His disheveled blond hair stuck up in places. “You never answered my calls after our date last month.”
Because he’d been pressuring her to sleep with him and she had no interest.
“I was busy with the holiday season, and then went on vacation.” And hadn’t thought of him once. She twisted the button on her chef’s coat. “I’m working right now.”
His leering scowl had her clamping her mouth shut in distaste. “I’ve dropped in on you before.” Only sending a message with a waiter, not coming in the kitchen.
“I’ll meet you in the bar in a few minutes.” Even though she didn’t want to. Anything to get him out of the kitchen, before he embarrassed himself and her. Then, she’d tell him goodbye forever. “Only staff members are allowed back here.”
Instead of heading back, he came forward. “But you’re not in charge. You’re not head chef like you wanted.”
“What?” Weird way to phrase things. How did Edward know what she wanted? She’d never mentioned her hopes and dreams to him, had she?
“So it’s not your kitchen.” He lunged toward her.
“Hey!” Tony rushed forward to help.
“It’s okay. I’ll get rid of him.” She pushed herself against the sink counter, the edge digging into her back. She’d dealt with over-amorous drunks.
Edward pressed against her, making it appear to be an intimate hug. Too intimate. Her clammy hands fisted. Yelling wouldn’t do any good. Reaching behind, her hand fluttered, trying to locate the sprayer. What Edward needed was a cold shower.
He slanted closer, his mouth coming too close. “You can’t throw me out.”
“I can throw you out.” Michael’s furious tone cleaved the room.
Darn it.
His posture mimicked a poised-to-fight wrestler. His large body lunged forward in an aggressive stance. His lips were pinched together and his nose flared. His flint-sharp eyes cut Isabel similar to a nine-inch Yo-Deba knife.
The rake of Michael’s gaze sliced past Edward and toward her, ripping open her chest. Her heart drummed, fighting against her ribcage to get out. To escape from his glare.
Edward blanched and his body tipped, about to fall from one glower.
“Michael.” She sounded breathless, a damsel in distress needing rescue. She didn’t need rescuing, especially not from him. “I can handle this.”
“Can you?” His dark eyebrow arched.
“Yes, I can.” Just not here, in front of everyone. She gripped the sprayer tight, bringing it forward so it was in Edward’s view, not Michael’s. She didn’t want him to realize she had another weapon besides her words. “I’ll meet you in the bar, Edward.”
He stumbled backward and regarded Chef again. “I was told it would be okay to visit you back here.” Giving a loopy smile, he tried to salute, his fingers only going to his chin. Staggering forward, he left the kitchen.
Drip after drip plunked into the stainless steel sink behind her. The noise echoed through the quiet kitchen.
Michael scrunched his mouth into a disapproving line. Tension radiated off every part of his body.
“I think I need something in the back.” Tony stepped away.
“I need that thing, too.” Alfred slipped behind him.
The other staff members conveniently disappeared.
“I remember what an enormous flirt you were.” Michael’s fierce expression tried to intimidate. “I don’t want to see a parade of your lovers coming through the kitchen.”
“What?” She wasn’t intimidated, she was insulted. “I didn’t invite Edward.”
Michael’s expression of disbelief braised into her head, causing pain. “You’re inviting to every unattached male within a ten-mile radius.”
She did not take his comment as a compliment. “You should talk, Mr. Swoon-worthy Celebrity Chef.”
She’d seen the gossip pages, seen his legion of female fans, and seen the blonde he was with last night.
“You can’t even begin to understand—” His raised voice dropped and his expression became horrified. He peered around the kitchen, as if expecting someone to be listening.
Yet everyone was gone.
“Explain it to me.” Her anger hit percolation point. The fury bubbled and brewed from her belly. Anger about not getting the job, jealousy after seeing him with the blonde last night, frustration that he was taking Edward’s actions out on her. “Your notoriety is what got you this position. My position.”
Michael stared at a spot past her shoulder. “We can’t talk about this here.”
She glanced behind her, expecting to see someone standing there. There wasn’t. “I’m off shift and now have a date to deal with.” She unbuttoned her chef’s coat and shoved it at him. “We’ll talk some other time.”
She’d show him by getting the last word. She strode out with dignity. Her head high and her chin up. Her foot caught on the rubber mat and she stumbled. Her body steamed. Grabbing the counter, she quickly recovered.
So much for dignity.
Hurrying out of the kitchen, she paused at the dining room and straightened her pencil skirt and silky blouse she’d worn under the chef’s coat. At least s
he’d look good when she told Edward off.
He sat hunched over a clear drink at the bar. It better not be vodka. He didn’t need another drink. His hair fell in front of his face in a sloppy style. Why did she ever find him attractive?
She grabbed the stool next to him and stole the glass from his hand taking a sniff before slamming the water on the bar. “What did you think you were doing?”
“Visiting you, babe.” His slurred words were slower and sadder.
“How drunk are you?” She nodded at the bartender, and he shrugged.
“Guy just sat down.”
Edward hadn’t gotten drunk at the bar.
“Why would you ever think it was okay to come into my kitchen?” Even the few times they’d dated and they’d met at the lodge, he’d known not to bother her while she worked.
“I was talking to this dude in the lobby and he was talking about the big new celebrity chef the lodge hired and I mentioned I knew you.” He grabbed the glass and sloshed water into his mouth. “The guy invites me to his table. He bought me a couple of shots. Nice guy.”
“How many shots?” The entire story was odd.
“The guy knew a lot about what was going on and he told me about how handsome the new head chef was and if he had a girlfriend who worked here he’d be worried.”
“I’m not your girlfriend.”
“I know.” He sounded sheepish. “The guy suggested I should surprise you in the kitchen. Dared me.”
“I was definitely surprised.” And embarrassed. “What was this guy’s name?”
“John or George or something.”
Isabel’s head rung. She didn’t understand why a stranger would encourage Edward to become an idiot. They’d never had anything serious. A couple of dates. Her relationships never went beyond a date or two, because she’d never found that one special man.
Michael’s face floated through her mind. She popped the image away. He wasn’t special, either.
Edward grabbed for her hand. “Isabel, I’m sorry.”
She snatched her hand back and kneaded them together. It was time to end any connection permanently. “I don’t want—”
“Isabel.” Michael tapped her on the shoulder.
He wore street clothes and a sincere expression. But was he sincere? He knew she was meeting with Edward. Did Michael think she couldn’t take care of herself? She didn’t need him to rescue her.
His lips lifted into a not-full smile. “I wanted to apologize for getting upset with you and your friend. I shouldn’t have threatened.”
Heat rose from her neck to her scalp, and it felt like her hair was on fire. She didn’t want to discuss the situation any more. She wanted to forget it and get rid of Edward.
“Not as if I was scared of a chef.” Edward put his arm around her.
She wanted to shake his arm off. She didn’t. Let Michael think there were other men in her life.
Edward pulled her closer. She sensed he wanted to cause trouble. Obviously, he hadn’t noticed the size of Michael’s muscles.
She had.
His lips thinned and his chin tucked in, an animal about to charge. “Nice people you date.”
His sarcasm hit her like a sack of flour. The initial punch followed by a puff of smoke filled with his real meaning. Criticism. The smoke stuck in her eyes, making them burn.
Chapter Nine
Ignoring the intruding camera, Michael hoisted the barbell and continued the repetitions for his workout. He used his anger at Edward, Jorge, and himself to push harder. Because it was his fault he was in this situation. He’d signed the contract without fully reading it, based on the word of his business manager and a need to get out of town. He’d seen the opportunity to improve his image, while helping Parker and making up for past wrongs.
Except one right did not make up for all the wrongs, just like adding cream didn’t fix a burnt sauce. And now he paid for the mistake.
Sweat formed in rivulets on Michael’s chest, and his back stuck to the plastic bench he lay upon.
Damn, why had he agreed to take off his shirt?
Because his manliness had been questioned, and he wanted to prove to Isabel’s date, and Isabel, he was the farthest thing from unmanly.
His muscles pumped, throbbing with the physical effort, and his head pounded with mental anguish. His father’s words still yelled a blue streak through his subconscious. Why would you want to be kitchen pansy? That’s not real men’s work. The taunt had been a knife in his gut, digging and tearing and ripping his self-esteem as a teen.
Now, he knew better. Yet here, an insult or insinuation made him return to his teenage self. The boy who questioned his own psyche. Damn it. He wasn’t sixteen, and he shouldn’t react like a kid.
Yet, being back in Castle Ridge made him feel more childish. Made him remember. Scalding memories.
Clenching his reddened and scarred fist, the pain flashed him back to a time after his mother’s death. He’d been experimenting with using different flavored oils in pasta water when his father had come home.
“I’m hungry. Are you cooking up something fancy, or a real man’s meal?”
“Pasta is a real meal.” Michael hadn’t expected his father home. His sister was spending the night at Isabel’s. He’d thought he had the house to himself to experiment and taste.
His father trudged around the short counter and into the kitchen. He picked up the lid and sniffed. “Smells like flowers and fruit, boy.”
“It’s blood-orange-infused oil, and it brings out a vibrant citrus flavor in the pasta.” He grabbed for the lid.
“Brings out the pansy in the cook.” His father snagged the lid back, playing a game of keep-away.
Michael had crashed into the pot, his arm knocking it over. Boiling water had poured over his hand, searing his flesh. Flesh that had reddened, blistered, and scarred.
His father had told Danielle it was an accident. And maybe it had been. Michael had his doubts.
Similar to how he had doubts about this entire reality television situation.
Avoiding Jorge last night would’ve been the smart choice. Except Michael had been so focused on getting away from Isabel at the bar he hadn’t seen the producer in the lobby until it was too late. The producer had pounced, sensing his need to prove himself to the world.
A need that hadn’t gone away even with the death of his father.
He gripped the sweaty metal of the bar tighter. So sue him, he liked to cook. He liked to create with ingredients. He loved how he could combine the smells and the textures and make a beautiful palette. He was an artist.
And he was a man.
He dropped the bar onto the rest, clanking louder. His father had never accepted him.
He was a man. Lifting the hundred-pound weight, he repeated. The repetition good for his soul, and his confidence.
“Jorge’s going to love these shots.” The cameraman stood to the left of the door, behind a shelf holding free weights.
Michael didn’t care what the producer wanted. He had barred cameras from his personal life. His hotel room, his sister’s house, and his daily workouts were off-limits.
Until now. He shoved the bar up faster and higher. His knee-jerk reaction was to show people his strength. To prove himself.
Stupid.
Jorge wanted to build on Michael’s stud image, believing it would be good for ratings. Hence, not wearing a shirt. Give the producer an inch and he’d take the entire cake. And the frosting, too.
“Do you have enough footage?” He let the weight settle on the rest with a heavy thump. Grabbing the white towel, he rubbed the rough surface across his face trying to stop the internal torment. “Can I finish my workout in peace?”
He didn’t mean to take his anger out on the cameraman. The filming had made his workout last longer, asking him to repeat moves or face in a different direction. The man had filmed through the mirror on the far wall and straight on.
“Sure.” The cameraman moved toward the
locker room. “I’m going to get some background video.” He swung the door open.
The door didn’t close all the way. Michael didn’t care. He moved into rolling dumbbell extensions. He rolled his shoulders, stretching his triceps.
In high school, he believed the people of Castle Ridge thought as his father did. Old-fashioned, sexist, anti-gay. Shame poured out with his sweat. That was the reason he’d rejected Parker’s friendship. That was why he’d left for school and rarely returned. It was the impetus driving him to succeed. To work harder, to create better food. It was also the reason he started working out. He wanted his body to be in prime condition. Not an ounce of fat.
The machismo act worked well for his television show. The women loved when he rolled up his sleeves to heft an industrial-sized bag of flour. Or when he left his shirt open. Or when he flirted with the camera. It was part of his television persona.
A persona that grew weary.
Contracting his laterals and triceps, he pulled his arms forward and locked out his elbows. He’d started working out so no one would doubt his heterosexuality. Which was silly, because many gay men worked out and had great bodies. Now, between the restaurant industry and the television industry, he was friends with lots of people who were gay. He wasn’t prejudiced. Still, he didn’t want people to assume anything about him, and he didn’t want news of the legal battle in Los Angeles leaking out.
Because of his father.
He did an extra ten reps not even noticing the exertion, working through his fury, past and present.
His father had ingrained his beliefs and prejudices into Michael’s subconscious. He knew what his father believed was old-fashioned and untrue, but he couldn’t always control his own reactions. Especially being back in Castle Ridge.
Which was wrong. Consciously, he knew this. Unconsciously was a different story.
He’d been wrong then, and he’d wanted to make it up to Parker by signing this reality deal. If Michael did the show, the Castle Ridge Lodge was the guaranteed location. He hadn’t realized at the time he’d signed the restaurant’s death certificate.
