Cocky Chef

by JD Hawkins

  “What exactly is west coast comfort food?” Andre asks, his face skeptical.

  “How about golden fried free range chicken with local sage blossom honey and chili, coated with chopped peanuts and served alongside crisp asparagus and flash-fried sweet-potato croquettes in lemon and dill sauce,” I say breathlessly, the menu items I’ve dreamed of serving for so long spilling out of me in a dreamy rush.

  Andre lets out a quiet ‘yum’ across the table, and I know at least one of them is on board.

  Tony leans forward, picking up where I left off. “Or maybe you opt for the slow-roasted red bell peppers stuffed with chili con carne cooked to perfection off a cinnamon base. Or the avocado and grapefruit salad with rosewater and herb dressing and pan-toasted almonds.”

  Then I cut in, “And for appetizers we have carnitas nachos with slivered pineapple, house-made kale chips with lemon tahini, and fresh baked rosemary focaccia or sourdough rolls for people to choose from. And these are just our preliminary ideas.”

  “I get it! California comfort food.” Even Lou looks liable to drool now. “You’re making me hungry, and I just ate,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like he’s joking.

  But despite the compliment, both of them are still looking us over critically, like they’re not quite sure what to make of our pitch.

  “So…?” Tony says, glancing back and forth between them.

  “Well,” Andre says, “this is the part where we tell you we’ll think it over.”

  Something sinks in me. I know what that means. I’ve been through this before.

  The deal is off.

  “Wait!” I say, quickly pulling out my phone and scrolling through notes. “I did do a few mental calculations, looking at some possible locations online, thinking about what our initial outlay might be for the first six months in terms of operating budget. It was just some back-of-the-envelope numbers but if you’d like to get a general sense of—”

  “That’s fine,” Andre says, holding up his palm. “We’ve seen everything we need to see here.”

  I swallow and lower my phone, body almost shaking with nerves and the agony of our failure, not even hearing the small talk Tony makes with them as we say our goodbyes and make our way through the lobby, back out through the revolving doors before Tony explodes into gasps of released energy.

  “Holy shit,” he says, almost panting.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Tony. I don’t know what came over me. That was awful.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tony says, putting his arm around me.

  “I don’t know why I always go off like that when I’m talking about food, I just can’t help myself when it comes to ingredients. I really apologize.”

  “Are you kidding?” Tony says, laughing. “That’s why I brought you! That ‘foodie passion’ thing you do? It was awesome! They loved it.”

  “I doubt it. That sounded like a ‘thanks but no thanks’ to me. They didn’t even let me tell them about the plan, price ranges, what kind of location we wanted. You think they would have just dismissed all that if they were seriously considering giving us a chance?”

  The valet brings the car to a stop in front of us and hands Tony the keys.

  “Oh honey,” he says as he tips the valet and we get inside. “We can draw up budgets and business plans all day long once they’re ready to talk logistics. For now we just needed to give them something to whet their appetites, something to believe in—and you are somebody to believe in.”

  I nod, completely unconvinced, as he starts driving.

  “Well you are somebody who can make people believe anything—what was all that about me giving Cole a ‘few ideas’?”

  “Just a little creative embellishment. These investors expect a bit of that.”

  I nod and grip the door handle as Tony speeds up and starts passing other cars.

  “Oh. That makes sense. At first I thought you’d heard a rumor or something,” I say.

  Tony looks at me, deadpan, and I experience the extreme fear that is becoming familiar as his passenger.

  “What do you mean?” he says, all curious now at the prospect of gossip. “You really did give him ideas? You’ve been there what, two weeks? Damn, girl. Workin’ it.”

  More for the sake of getting Tony’s eyes back on the road, I say, “He maybe, sorta-kinda, might have put one of my dishes on his menu. Just as a trial run.”

  “No shit! That’s incredible.”

  “I dunno. It just kinda happened after we got talking.”

  Tony shakes his head.

  “The things a man will do to get a pretty young thing on his side…”

  “It’s not like that. I mean…we keep having our run-ins, I guess, but…I don’t know. I don’t want to get into anything with him. He’s still my boss.”

  “Not for long,” Tony says, gleefully. “Not if we get what we want.”

  Tony drops me off outside Knife, still buzzing with excitement as he tells me not to ‘get too comfortable’ there. Already a couple minutes late, I rush through the delivery entrance as I pull my whites from my duffel bag, heading straight for the women’s bathroom to get changed and hoping nobody sees me scurrying in.

  “Hey. Willow.”

  Fat chance at sneaking in undetected. The unmistakably commanding voice comes from the back office, and I rewind a few steps to peek inside. There he is, shirtsleeves pulled up to reveal those muscular forearms, shifting a crate of salt so that his muscles are pumped and squeezing, hair mussed perfectly like only a man who works with his hands can get it.

  “Hey,” I say meekly, putting mountains of effort into sounding as effortless as possible. “I know I’m a little late, but I’ll make it up out of my break.”

  “Come on in. Let’s have a word,” Cole says, dumping the crate and sweeping another to the side with his foot.

  I look back at the end of the hallway anxiously, as if I even have the option of saying no, then step inside the office.

  Guilt isn’t a feeling I enjoy—I guess that’s why I always try to do the right thing. It’s like a bad meal, sitting in your stomach heavily like an illness, impossible to digest, difficult to purge. Its aftertaste lasts a hell of a long time.

  During the next few seconds, as Cole leans back on the table, scanning my outfit from the meeting earlier—cigarette pants with a crisp white blouse and tailored blazer—my mind works overtime coming up with excuses. For my lateness, for the fact that I’m hoping to start my own place, for the undeniable truth that the girl who slammed him up against the wall of a nightclub and wrapped her tongue around his cock last night was actually me, and that despite all my reservations there’s nothing in the world I’d like more than to do it again.

  “You look amazing,” he says, once he’s done taking in my outfit. “Special occasion this morning?”

  “Uh…no,” I mumble, effecting a feeling of coyness at the compliment. “I just did a little shopping. This is L.A., you know?”

  Cole smiles at me.

  “City finally getting its claws into you, huh?”

  “Something like that.”

  “I like it,” he says, leaving a silence afterward that feels like he’s holding back.

  “Look,” I say, unable to bear the silence, the way he looks at me. “About last night…uh, I haven’t had that much to drink in a while, and it’s been so long since I went out. I guess I got kind of carried away…”

  “I thought you said you weren’t drinking last night?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

  Shit. Caught in a lie by my hot-as-fuck boss, minutes before starting a shift I’m already late for because I was at an investor meeting for a restaurant I’m trying to open behind his back. Batting a thousand, Willow. “Right. Well. Anyway, I’m really sorry about everything. Do you mind if we just…like, forget about it? I didn’t really think it all through, and I’d like things to remain professional between us. It’d be the best thing, I think.”

  Cole seems to consider it for a moment,
though he keeps that enigmatic smile on his face, so I have no idea what he’s actually thinking. Does he buy that I’m not interested?

  “If that’s what you’d prefer. Though I’d rather not forget about it,” he says.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I wanna take you out. For real. You. Me. A date.”

  I laugh nervously, push hair behind my ear three times in a second.

  “What about the last time we went out?”

  “That wasn’t a date. That was formal. Business,” Cole says, waving it away.

  “Well if that’s how all your formal meetings end, I can only wonder how a date would.” Now that I’ve said it, the array of images flashing through my mind are more than enough to send my pulse racing.

  “Yeah,” Cole says, stepping toward me, his voice lowering, “I wonder too.”

  I look up at him, half of me debating whether I should run out the door, while the other half of me fights the urge to tear off his shirt and pull him onto the crates on top of me. Instead, I settle for looking awkward and uncertain.

  “I know it’s a bit much to take in,” he says, “me being your boss, you being new to L.A. You probably still think I’m like the guy on TV.”

  “And the magazines.”

  Cole squints a little. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you have a reputation. When it comes to women.”

  He laughs. “Even more reason to let me prove you wrong.”

  Suddenly Leo’s voice comes through the door, shouting to Cole before he pops his bald head in the doorway.

  “Boss! Boss! She’s late again! This is getting—shit! There you are. The hell are you doing still undressed? We’re fifteen minutes into a shift and you haven’t prepped anything. We’ve already got an order of Basque and no garlic sauce!”

  “Control yourself, Leo,” Cole says, switching into boss mode easily. “You think anyone takes you seriously when you shout like that? Willow and I are in the middle of a meeting right now, so get back to work and leave my employees to me.”

  Leo glances from me to Cole, seeming to consider the bad idea of saying something else, before wisely shaking his head and disappearing.

  “I’d better go,” I say, pulling my duffel up on my shoulder and turning for the door. I look back before leaving though. “Um. I have Monday off—are you free then? We could do something, if you want.”

  Cole smiles, licking his lips like he just tasted something great.

  “You like the beach?”

  I grin. “It’s one of the main reasons I came to L.A. But I haven’t really had a chance to go yet.”

  “Perfect,” he says. “It’s a date.”

  11

  Cole

  Time seems to slow until Monday. Every business meeting twice as long, every minute spent in cars and planes twice as boring. My problem used to be thinking about work when I should be having fun, now my problem is thinking about Willow when I should be working.

  Her smell, her taste, her smile. The passionate way she talks about her ideas, her stubborn refusal to kiss my ass, the impression she gives of being an unlit firework of talent about to explode over L.A.

  My impatience is all exacerbated by Martin running names by me of two dozen chefs he thinks could replace Holly, until they all blend into one. Now that I’ve seen what real talent looks like, now that I’ve watched it dance through a kitchen making work look like a performance, now that I’ve seen that headstrong dedication to perfect food, these other chefs pale in comparison, experience be damned. Memories pull me into a constant state of distraction and arousal, compelling me to check clocks and calendars until Monday comes around. It’s been a long time since I had to wait to get what I want, and the waiting just makes the wanting even harder.

  By the time Monday comes I feel like I’ve gone through a desert. I take my time picking out swim shorts and a t-shirt, take more time to stand in front of my cars and pick the right one. When you’re an ex television celebrity and the most well-known restauranteur in Los Angeles, women start trying to impress you, rather than the other way around. You can wear pajamas and show up in a beat-up Civic and, if anything, it only makes you glow even more in their eyes. But Willow…something tells me she doesn’t buy into all that shit. If I want to impress her, I’m going to have to work at it.

  First off, there aren’t many women who’d tell the owner of a successful restaurant their entire food philosophy is wrong. Not many who’d pin that owner against a counter and force him to try their food. Not only that, but Willow looks me in the eye, talks like she’s not afraid of me, and doesn’t hold back when it comes to her own principles or opinions. She’s a challenge, and I like it. I won’t even get into what she did to me with her mouth in that dark corner of the club, how hot it was when she made eye contact with me, how much of a turn on it was that we might get caught. That’s a girl with some untapped talent right there.

  I meet her at my favorite Santa Monica beachfront hotel. One with a private beach area that I know will give us some time alone. She’s standing outside the front entrance when I valet my car, by the swaying palms that hide the footpath to the beach. A wide-brim straw hat, a wicker tote bag, and a chiffon kaftan over that tight body. Slightly see-through, so her bikini clad figure teases behind it like the haze of a dream.

  I walk toward her slowly, taking my time to appreciate the view, and when we get close enough I make sure she knows how good she looks by kissing her on the cheek, a little too slow, a little too close.

  “You look incredible,” I murmur into her ear. “I’m not gonna be able to take my eyes off you.”

  “It’s so beautiful here,” she says, turning her blushing face away from me to gaze at the azure waves.

  “You haven’t seen it yet,” I say, gesturing at the beach path.

  I take her hand, leading her down the steep steps as we move toward the isolated cabana. A wood platform that juts out onto the pearlescent beach, a couple of loungers set out on it, folded towels neatly stacked on them, and a small table with a crystal vase of flowers and some bottles of expensive sparkling water. The scene surrounded by four posters holding up the thin white linen that acts as a shade, swaying in the breeze.

  “Oh my God,” Willow says excitedly when she sees it, hurrying her step to get there quicker. “It looks like actual heaven. This is amazing!”

  “I’m glad you like it,” I say. It’s sincere. Willow’s so different from the usual women I take out that I was worried about hitting the mark. “It’s ours for the day. What would you like to drink?”

  I glance over at the waiter emerging from the fauna, and Willow follows my gaze to see him.

  “Something with fruit. Fresh,” she says.

  “Alcoholic or no?”

  Willow shrugs easily, as if she’s up for anything now that she’s happy and relaxed.

  “Sure,” she says. “It is my day off.”

  The waiter nods graciously in her direction, much like Charles, as if he knows exactly what’ll make the customer happy.

  “We have a green tea mojito that is very popular,” he says.

  “Perfect,” Willow smiles. “Cole?”

  “I’ll have a single malt whiskey,” I tell the waiter. “Your choice.”

  “Very good, Mr. Chambers,” he says, before turning primly and heading back.

  Willow eyes me playfully.

  “He knew your name.”

  “Don’t believe what they tell you—TV still has reach.”

  Willow dumps her bag and pulls off her hat, swishing her hair in the wind to loosen it.

  “Oh, I’m sure you come here often. I bet the ladies love it.”

  “Is that jealousy I’m hearing?”

  “Nope,” Willow says, laughing so that I know she’s not lying. “Just figuring you out a little.”

  “You don’t have to figure me out—I’ll tell you exactly who I am.”

  “Is that so?” Willow says, pulling the knot at the back of her
kaftan and sliding it away to reveal a body that stirs every masculine fiber inside of me. So lithe and beautiful it’s almost torture to look and not touch. “Tell me then: Do you swim?”

  I stand up and perform my own show, pulling off my T-shirt and standing proud, knowing the long hours I put in every week with my trainer at the gym have sculpted my physique to near-perfection.

  “What does it look like?” I ask.

  Willow looks me up and down, then shifts her weight to one side, sassily.

  “It looks like you’re probably too worried about your hair to be a good swimmer.”

  I laugh in disbelief.

  “Imagine that, being judged as a swimmer by someone from Idaho. What coast is that on again?”

  “Hey, I was the captain of my swim team in college.”

  “And I’m sure the swimming pools in Idaho are really something.” I look out at the roaring ocean. “But I grew up by the ocean, it’s another level.”

  Willow beams at me, bouncing a little with eager naughtiness. Then she winks, spins, and starts running down the short beach to the lapping waves. I watch her for a second, just admiring her, a little stunned at how this girl is bringing out a side of me I didn’t even know I had. Then I take off after her, giving chase as she laughs back at me over her shoulder, until we’re wading into the water, diving synchronously into a rolling wave.

  We swim out a little, and I find out Willow wasn’t lying. She’s a good swimmer, good enough to tease me, to sweep away when I get close, submerge herself, long legs flicking into the air before they disappear. I let her go, enjoying the push and pull, satisfying myself with the sight of the water catching her wet hair, gentle laughter mixing with the rush of waves. Until she emerges right next to me, taking me by surprise. I whip around and grab her waist underwater, pull her toward me, a shrieked laugh emerging from that pearl white smile as she brings her sun-glowing face to mine.