Room Service

by Amy Garvey

  With Rhys, of course, there was a lot of touching. The nice kind, too. But now everything seemed to slap at her—she couldn’t help but notice how awful the carpets upstairs really were when she wasn’t looking at them through the rose-colored glasses of childhood nostalgia. She hadn’t realized that Josef’s Swedish meatballs and veal croquettes were stuck in the fifties like stubborn spinsters until Rhys introduced her to the glories of a good seviche and even simpler things like chiles, freshly made salsa, and artisanal cheeses. She hadn’t even considered how close the hotel had skated to the edge of disaster.

  But daydreaming her life away also meant that she wasn’t faced with a furious chef, who was at the moment slamming pots and pans around the kitchen as if he had a personal beef with each and every one of them.

  She took a deep breath and stood back as Josef crashed a saucepan onto the range with a ringing bang.

  He wasn’t happy about the Monsters’ Ball. Or the new sous chef, as it turned out.

  The line chefs and the other kitchen staff had fled to the pantry and the walk-in when he started ranting. It was a good thing the lunch service was over, Olivia thought, watching as he inexplicably picked up the same saucepan and hung it from its hook above the counter, where it clanged into the others.

  “I will not do this!” he shouted at her, turning with his hands on his hips, his chef’s whites as pristine as they must have been first thing in the morning. Josef was nothing if not fastidious. “I do not like this…this…Rusty you hire!”

  Rusty was pronounced a bit like “roosty,” which Olivia couldn’t imagine the new sous chef appreciated. Of course, he probably appreciated Josef’s veiled threats even less. He’d only been working at the Coach and Four for a week, and even though Josef had given his approval when Olivia hired him, Rusty’s skills, his recipes, and even the sneakers he wore in the kitchen had all come under fire. If she didn’t know better, she would have guessed that his eyebrows had been singed in the latest battle—the Great Turkey Roulade Debate.

  “Josef, you know you need a sous chef,” she reminded him gently. “You haven’t worked the breakfast service for years—Rick always did that. And you gave me the go-ahead when I narrowed down the candidates.”

  “Turkey roulade,” he scoffed, and suddenly stopped short and began taking off his apron.

  The beginnings of panic rippled through her. Why was he doing that? Josef was never in the kitchen without it, and the prep for the dinner service needed to begin any time now.

  “We don’t have to serve turkey roulade,” Olivia told him, rushing around the counter to follow him when he tilted his head to one side, as if in thought, and started for the pantry. “I’ll talk to Rusty about it, I promise. Josef?”

  He’d hung up his apron and taken his knife case from its place on the shelf. “Is not my problem anymore,” he said softly, and then allowed himself to glance at her. “Olivia, I work here for how many years? I love your family, your father, you, but I am tired. I have no more time for turkey roulade, or for silly parties with too many finger foods. I talk to my sister in Hamburg this week, and I think…yes, I think it is time to go home.”

  “Home?” she echoed, which was a miracle, since speaking when her heart had dropped into her stomach had to be impossible. “As in, Germany home?”

  “Yes, Germany home.” He put down his knife case and reached out to pat her shoulder. “You let Rusty make his…dishes. And you remember Josef Vollner fondly, yes?”

  “Remember…?” He was leaving? Now? Today?

  “I buy plane ticket tomorrow. Today I think I pack and relax for awhile.” Without warning, he beamed at her, this man who had been almost a grandparent, his pale, wrinkled face as familiar as her father’s. “I deserve it, yes? Maybe my sister will cook for me. I will go call her now.”

  Her mouth was actually hanging open, she realized, as he strolled out of the kitchen, looking lighter and happier than he had in weeks. Hanging open like an oven door. She shut it with effort and turned to see the staff trickling into the room.

  “He…quit?” Rusty said. “Because of me?” He looked about twelve in his white apron and hat, and all the color had drained out of his face.

  “No, no, not because of you,” she assured him, offering the room at large a weak smile. “Because of …Well, I guess because it was time.”

  “Now?” Jesus said incredulously. “With the party coming up?”

  “I don’t think he liked the idea of the Monsters’ Ball much,” Olivia told him and turned back to Rusty, who was still white as a starched shirt, and beginning to look a little wobbly.

  “What about…dinner?” he asked her and fumbled blindly behind him for one of the stools that were kept at the end of the counter.

  “You’ll make it,” she told him with what she hoped sounded like confidence. “You and everyone else here. You can do it. Regular menu, no surprises. I have faith,” she added with a smile.

  She also had the beginning of a fierce headache, but no one else had to know that.

  What on earth was she going to do? She’d finally pulled Callender House out of its decades-long torpor, and sold tickets to their first ever house-sponsored event, and her chef had just quit. Leaving her with a sous chef just barely out of culinary school and with only two years of professional restaurant experience.

  She sighed as the staff started throwing out assignments and ideas for the dinner service. Why had she hired Rusty again?

  Oh right. Because he was cheap. Suddenly her own knees felt a little wobbly. How was she going to pull money out of the budget to hire a new chef, when Josef hadn’t asked for a raise in more than ten years?

  “Olivia?” Josie poked her head in from the hallway, her brow creased in a frown. “Can I see you for a minute?”

  “Don’t tell me the sign fell down again,” Olivia said, her shoulders slumping.

  “No, not that,” Josie said. “Not yet anyway.”

  Olivia glared at her before she turned to the kitchen staff. “I know you’ve got this under control, right? Jesus, you help Rusty with where things are, and Willie, maybe you could go over the menu with him, okay?”

  She was met with blank stares.

  “Okay then,” she said brightly, and fled to the hallway where Josie was waiting.

  “Josef just told me to wish him luck in Hamburg,” she said darkly. “Why is Josef going to Hamburg?”

  “Because he’s retiring,” Olivia told her, and slumped against the wall after waving to one of the new guys Angel had hired. Marty, she thought. Unless he was Davey. Well, he was one of them. He smiled back before pushing a broom past her into the pantry. “Right now. Today.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t ask.” Olivia shook her head. “I don’t think he’s going to change his mind. But someone is going to have to pull a chef out of a top hat. Aside from the ball, we’ve got three meals a day to serve.”

  Josie shrugged. “Well, you’ve got yours. Whip him out.”

  “My what?”

  “Your chef!” Josie raised her eyebrows. “Rhys, remember? Professional chef, currently doing nothing more than cooking up a little good loving for you?”

  “Hey!”

  “Excuse me,” Josie said with exaggerated courtesy. “Great loving.”

  “Josie, I can’t ask Rhys!” Olivia protested, lowering her voice to a stage whisper when Hector walked by with a broom in his hand. “He’s a guest!”

  “Oh, come on,” Josie drawled. “He’s your boyfriend and you know it.”

  “He is not my…boyfriend,” Olivia hissed, glancing around to make sure they were alone.

  “Well, you could have fooled me, what with the handholding and the public kissing and the romantic carriage rides.” She sidled closer to Olivia and said without even a trace of sarcasm, “Seriously, Olivia, he’s crazy about you. Have you seen how he looks at you? If you asked him to retar the roof he’d do it with a smile on his face. I mean, hell, I don’t think sanding the woodwork in
the lobby is exactly one of his favorite things to do, you know?”

  Josie was probably right about that, Olivia mused as Josie hooked an arm through hers and they walked out to the lobby. Rhys wasn’t the home improvement type, no. The first time she’d given him a paintbrush he’d looked about the way she thought she would if someone handed her a blowtorch.

  But he was there helping, all the time, and without her even asking him. She didn’t really understand it, not that she’d ever met a man like him before, but as far as she knew a fling meant a week or two of fun and laughs and good sex. Not scraping woodwork and painting walls. Oh, and fixing the broken handle on the broom closet door. He’d insisted on that one. That didn’t sound like a fling to her, even though they were certainly fulfilling the requirement of lots of delicious sex.

  “I can’t ask him,” she said to Josie now, and tugged her down on the banquette, newly re-covered in a Bohemian silk print. “No way. He’s…we’re…it would be taking advantage. Three meals a day is a lot of work.”

  “But he wouldn’t have to do breakfast,” Josie argued. “And it wouldn’t be forever. I mean, he’s leaving in two weeks anyway. So it would be just long enough to get us through the ball successfully and put out feelers for a new chef. A cheap one. With probably very little experience. Or a wanted poster at the Department of Health.”

  Olivia elbowed her. “Not funny.”

  “I know.” Josie sighed and slouched against the back rest, her ponytail flipped over its top. “But not exactly untrue. Anyway, like I said, it wouldn’t be forever. Just ask Rhys, will you?”

  It wouldn’t be forever. That’s what she needed to remember about Rhys. Especially in moments like these, when her first instinct was to run and find him and spill everything.

  “Ask me what?”

  She looked up to find the man in question walking over from the elevator, his wicked grin in place and his eyes twinkling with a now familiar mix of desire, interest, and fondness. Not forever, she reminded herself as she stood up to meet him. Because that would be like a fairy tale coming true. And everyone knows that never happens.

  She didn’t want him to feel obligated. She really didn’t want him to resent her. Anyway, he’d done enough rescuing. This was her problem, and she would fix it. Somehow.

  “What you think of…the new upholstery,” she began, when she had found her voice, and shrugged helplessly.

  He cocked one dark eyebrow and put his arms around her. “It’s lovely? I thought I told you that.”

  “Josef quit,” Josie said without warning and folded her arms over her chest. “He’s leaving tomorrow. We have no chef, as of now.”

  Olivia twisted around to smack Josie’s arm even as she protested, “But I’m going to fix it. I’m going to…make some calls. And in the meantime Rusty is going to get some valuable experience.”

  “Rusty?” Rhys snorted. “He’s a kid, Liv. I can take over the kitchen for a bit.”

  When she shook her head, he put his arm around her. Confusion and something that looked like surprise flickered across his face. “Don’t be ridiculous, love. Let me help you out, yeah?”

  One day, she thought as she let him steer her into the bar, she was going to rescue herself. Right and proper, as Rhys would say. But in the meantime…

  She glanced up at him with a little smile. “So, have you ever made Chicken Veronique?”

  With one last look in the mirror, Gus took a deep breath and straightened the brim of his cap. Okay. He was ready. For sure this time.

  His heart stuttered wildly when he took a step toward the door.

  All right. That was okay. In one more minute, he would definitely be ready. Definitely. He was pretty sure.

  Maybe his red sweater would be better, he thought, staring at his reflection in the cloudy glass on the back of the bathroom door. Red was a confident color, wasn’t it? Not that there was anything wrong with blue. And blue went with jeans. Although maybe jeans weren’t serious enough. Maybe the khakis were a better idea. More formal.

  Oh God, he was sweating. “Stop that,” he said out loud, shaking his finger at himself in the mirror. Great. Now he looked like a mental patient. Yeah, Josie would really jump at the chance to go out with him.

  “Stop that,” he said again, and took a deep breath. He could do this. He had done this before, just not often. And if Josie said no…well, it wouldn’t be the end of the world, although he might want it to be. And there was no way to find out without asking.

  He adjusted his cap again, checked his teeth and his breath, and straightened his spine—mentally as well as physically. It was late afternoon, so Josie should still be around, but if she said no to a date, at least she would be leaving soon.

  Which would give him time to pack his bags and check into another hotel before morning.

  Not that he would do that, he admonished himself as he got on the elevator. Callender House had become home, in a weirdly comfortable way. He’d wanted somewhere discreet and out of the way when The Other Side of the Moon hit the best-seller list, and although he’d never said as much to Olivia, this place had struck him as the perfect solution. He hadn’t wanted to leave New York, but he really hadn’t wanted to find an apartment at first—too much solitude after all those months at Riverside, where the company had been constant if a little unbalanced.

  Not unlike the hotel, actually.

  The bell dinged and the doors groaned open when the elevator reached the first floor. Now to find Josie. Her office was the sensible place to look, and he’d already taken the risk of going there once, just a few weeks ago, although he’d been able to fib and say he was looking for Roseanne when he found her in Josie’s office. One look at her face and he’d forgotten whatever ruse he’d planned for showing up in the first place.

  But that wasn’t going to happen now, he told himself firmly. He had it all planned, what he would say, how he would say it.

  How she would respond. He hoped. As long as his heart didn’t gallop off like a racehorse, he’d be fine.

  He hoped.

  The sound of voices from the bar caught his attention the minute he stepped into the lobby. Sounded like Rhys—there was no mistaking that British tone. And if Rhys was there, surely Olivia was, too. He hesitated outside the archway, in a corner where he hoped he couldn’t be seen. Yup, there was Olivia’s voice—and Josie’s.

  Okay, show time. He swallowed hard and walked in. There was safety in numbers, wasn’t there? Maybe it would be easier to ask her out with Olivia and Rhys present.

  Inspiration struck. Maybe she would be too polite to say no in front of them!

  Stop it, he warned himself, pulling up a smile as he approached the bar. Confident. Think confident.

  “You cannot change the whole menu tonight, Rhys, you know that,” Olivia was saying, shaking her head in dismay. “They’re already prepping for dinner!”

  “We could throw in a special, yeah?” he argued, and scribbled something furiously on a cocktail napkin.

  “Ooh, make bangers and mash!” Josie chimed in from a barstool. God, look at her. She was perfect. He couldn’t even have described what she was wearing, but the sound of her voice, the full curve of her mouth, that bouncing ponytail…. He melted a little bit and felt his resolve melting with it. He couldn’t ask her. She would never say yes. Not to him…

  “Gus, hi!” Olivia said brightly. Or was that a note of desperation in her voice? “Come save me from the marauding chef. Please?”

  Josie whirled around her stool, and the smile she flashed at him was so genuine, so dazzling, a flicker of hope sparked. “Hey, Gus! Don’t you think bangers and mash is a great idea? I don’t even know what it is, really, but it sounds cool, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s sausage and potatoes, for Christ’s sake,” Rhys grumbled, flipping through what looked to be a stack of cocktail napkins. “I am not putting bangers and mash on the menu here.”

  “Rhys…” Olivia sent Gus a pleading glance, but he wasn’t interested
in whatever scheme Rhys had come up with now.

  “I’m not going to cause chaos, love, don’t worry,” Rhys reassured Olivia. “But I am going to have to have another glance at that party menu. I’m thinking a whole new assortment of appetizers.” He glanced up when Olivia whimpered. “No worries, love, it’ll be brilliant.”

  This time Olivia groaned, and Josie reached over to pat her hand in comfort.

  “He’s the chef,” she said with a shrug.

  Olivia glared back in reply. “This was all your idea.”

  “But the ball was yours,” Josie pointed out, and tried to hide the mischief in her grin.

  “You know, I do know what I’m doing,” Rhys protested with a grunt. “I’m a finalist in a sodding cooking competition, if you’ll recall. I’ve cooked all over the bloody world.”

  “The world?” Olivia asked with a dubious expression.

  Rhys’s glare was much more threatening than Olivia’s. “All right, Europe. Happy now?”

  Josie snickered, but she looked up at Gus and waved him over. “Come on,” she said. “Have a drink. Watch the lovebirds peck at each other.”

  Olivia blushed fiercely, but Rhys didn’t appear to have heard Josie’s remark—he was fumbling with makeshift notes and muttering something about lamb shanks.

  “I’d love a beer,” Gus said after he took the stool Josie patted. Right beside her. Oh boy.

  “Rhys, get Gus a beer?” Olivia said, tapping the bar. “Sorry, he gets a little distracted when he’s thinking food,” she said in apology.

  “Where’s Tommy anyway?” Josie asked. When she swiveled on her stool, her thigh brushed against Gus’s, and he started at the electric thrill of it. “Is he coming in tonight? We’re going to need to hire another bartender for the Halloween ball, aren’t we?”

  “We’ll need more than one in any event,” Rhys said absently and looked up from whatever it was he was doing. “Judging by ticket sales, we’re bound to have quite a crowd. Guinness, Gus? Or something domestic?”