by Nikki Chase
I know by now that even when Chef Alonso sounds angry or annoyed, I shouldn’t take it personally. He’s a genius, and along with that genius mind comes a hefty pile of dry wit and sarcasm, as well as the occasional flare-up of his fiery temper. He is quick to criticize, as most chefs tend to be, but he’s equally quick to compliment. If he seems pissed off one moment, I only have to wait a few minutes for his mood to swing back in the other direction.
At first, I found him utterly intimidating and difficult to read, sort of like Ben. But one thing I learned very quickly during the first few shifts I spent with Chef Alonso is that he appreciates a strong work ethic. As long as you’re working your ass off, he’ll like you. That’s a relief, because I absolutely need Chef Alonso to like me.
Despite the fast-paced environment of sous chefs and assistants rushing around at top speed and bumping into one another, I’ve been thriving here at Mojave Blue.
It’s been a couple weeks since Ben hired me to train under Chef Jorge Alonso in preparation for the grand opening of Ocotillo, and even though my heart still beats about a mile a minute during every lunch and dinner rush, I am blissfully happy.
There were certainly some dark moments back at the Patty Hut, when I would be dunking french fries into a deep fryer or squirting pickle relish on a hamburger and I’d think to myself, is this it? I began to wonder if my years of hard work at culinary school would ever pay off, or if I would have to abandon my lifelong dream of working in a fine dining restaurant.
Now, I’m one giant step closer to my dream. I’m finally making my own way in the world.
Hell, I finally even saved up enough money (and confidence) to move out of my old apartment and into a new one by myself. It’s my first time living alone with no roommates, and honestly, it’s been pretty amazing. I only have myself to clean up after, and the kitchen is always free for me to play around with new recipes.
Things are finally looking up. So, in a way, it’s been good for me that Ben is usually way too busy to make a lot of prolonged appearances here at the restaurant. When he’s around, it’s hard for me to focus, and right now I need to keep my eyes on the prize.
But today, I’m on edge. Ben’s taken time out of his busy schedule to stop by and run a sort of quality check on the kitchen operations. I finish up the scallops and dash back over to the stove, where I’ve got a pasta dish keeping warm.
As I carefully scatter some shaved black truffle over the pasta, Ben comes striding into the kitchen with an intense look on his handsome face. My body goes rigid instantly, and when he makes a beeline for me I feel like I might actually faint. He slides up next to me, radiating heat and smelling absolutely divine, and he points to the pasta dish.
“What’s this?” he asks curtly.
“Fresh-pulled tagliatelle with a parm-butter sauce and black truffle,” I answer.
He takes a pair of tongs and extracts a long, flat noodle from the dish, tipping his head back as he dangles it into his mouth. Overall, it’s a weirdly sensual display, and I can feel my cheeks burning even before he gives me his critique of the dish.
He chews for a moment with a contemplative look on his face, then says, “Not enough salt. Work on that.” And with that, he moves along to the next chef on the line without giving me a split-second chance to defend myself.
I sigh heavily, looking down at what I thought was a pretty damn good pasta dish before he unceremoniously condemned it.
Oh well, I remind myself, that’s how it is in the restaurant business. I’ll have to grow a thicker skin and learn to roll with the punches. It’s a learning process.
Ben is a tough critic, and so is Chef Alonso. If I can survive this training course in one piece, I’ll come out the other side a much more capable and well-rounded chef.
Later that evening, I’m trudging around the kitchen doing some last-minute cleaning before heading home. The lights are dimmed, and I’m looking forward to getting some sleep. But I’m interrupted by a familiar, suave voice from the entrance.
“Chef Alonso and the others have already headed home, but you’re still here?” Ben asks, arching an eyebrow.
I blush, stunned to see him there. “Yes, sir. I like to be the last to leave, if I can help it.”
“Interesting. That shows initiative. I like it,” he says, smirking. “Anyway, I think your parents and mine have another trick up their sleeves, because I just got a message from my father telling us to meet them downtown. You know anything about that, by chance?”
I frown. “No idea.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs, looking thoughtful. “Well, we’d might as well ride together, then. Come on. I’ll drive, if you’re not still too bent out of shape about my driving skills, that is.”
I can feel my cheeks burning as I reply softly, “Sure.”
I follow him out to the parking lot and slide into the passenger seat as he revs the engine. This car smells like him, and I wonder if his scent will stick to me by the end of the night from us having shared this ride. I’m painfully aware of how alone we are and how dark it is all around us. There’s only another car in the parking lot, and nobody else.
“So,” he asks as we pull onto the road, “how are you liking the restaurant so far?”
“I love it,” I say through my nervousness. “It’s amazing. I’m learning so much.”
“Good, good. You know, Chef Alonso seems to really like you. That’s something to be proud of. He and I have been friends since we met in L.A. and he’s not always an easy guy to work with. You must be doing something right,” Ben says, glancing over at me with those dark eyes gleaming. God, he’s so good-looking.
“That’s great to hear,” I reply. “I have to confess, I was starting to worry the only reason I even got the position was because of nepotism. My parents . . . they want what’s best for me, I know. But sometimes they cross boundaries to get me there.”
Ben chuckles, nodding. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”
I look down at my simple black blouse and jeans, wincing. “Wow, I hope we’re not on our way to some fancy dinner. If I’d known we’d be going somewhere after work I might have worn something a little less . . . casual.”
“Your parents didn’t mention this little get-together to you at all, then? Nothing?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“I wonder what they’ve got in store for us,” he murmurs. Then he gives me a look of approval and adds, “By the way, you look fine. Better than fine. You look great.”
“Oh. Um, thank you,” I answer, taken aback by the compliment, my cheeks heating up with embarrassment.
I don’t know why I react the way I do to Ben. I’m not exactly what most people would call inexperienced when it comes to guys, but Ben . . . he’s different.
Most guys have a mission when they’re with me—they want me to think they’re funny, or intelligent, or something. Ben, though, has this quiet air of confidence. He knows what he is and he’s completely comfortable in his own skin. He doesn’t have anything to prove.
We ride along in relative silence, only occasionally making small talk as we reach our destination. Despite the casual tone of our conversation, I can’t help but feel something else crackling between us. Like an electrical current. Something that makes my heart race.
When we step out of the parked car, a hint of disappointment creeps into my chest. I haven’t had enough of my private time with Ben. Having his full attention is intoxicating and I want more. I knew it would only be a short ride downtown; I just didn’t expect twenty minutes to feel like five.
On the sidewalk, both sets of our parents look positively ecstatic. They’re practically bouncing on their feet.
“So what’s up?” I ask, a little warily. “Why all the secrecy?”
My father laughs and leads us around the corner.
Ben and I share a look, and I see the realization dawning on his face before it occurs to me all the way.
“Wait a second,” he says, “Ocotillo is j
ust down the block from here.”
“M-hm! We’re here for a little look around,” his mother says, grinning.
Ben and I exchange confused glances as they lead us up to the entrance to the future location of Ocotillo.
“Seriously, what’s going on?” he asks.
“Should we be nervous?” I add.
“No, no! Don’t worry about a thing,” says his father.
“You’ll see,” quips my mom with a wink. “Open it up.”
With some hesitation, Ben takes out the key and opens the front door, and as soon as it swings open, we hear an entire crowd of voices shout, “Surprise!”
“What the hell?” Ben asks, looking around.
To our complete shock, the whole restaurant is set up perfectly. It looks stunning, totally ready for operation, and the entire crew of waiters, chefs, and other staff members are standing there grinning at us.
Ben swivels around to look at his parents in confusion. “But—how? The restaurant wasn’t supposed to be ready for another week! At least!”
His father chuckles and replies, “Well, you both are working so hard, so the four of us decided to give you a boost. We paid the contractors extra to speed things up and get it all done by tonight. Congratulations, Ben.”
“This is incredible,” I breathe, looking around with wide eyes.
Ben nods, and I can see a muscle in his jaw twitching a little as he fights to keep his emotions in check. He smiles and nods. “Yes. This is amazing. Thank you.”
“Phew, it was so hard keeping this a big secret,” my mother sighs. “I’m glad the cat’s out of the bag at last.”
We all join the celebration, popping champagne bottles and eating hors d'oeuvres. While our parents mingle and chat, I can’t help but catch Ben’s eye from across the room. He smiles at me, lifting his glass, and my heart races as I return the gesture.
Oh, no. I think I like my boss.
Ben
“What do you mean, there are reporters?” I ask with widening eyes as one of the servers crosses the room, looking dazed after a peek out the windows. It’s opening night at Ocotillo, and there’s been a crowd gathering outside for the past few hours.
“There are reporters,” the server repeats, shrugging his shoulders, running a hand through his hair. “And cameras.”
“Chef Alonso?” I call back to the kitchen, making my way to the back door and sticking my head in.
Jorge looks up, in the middle of barking some orders to the rest of the kitchen crew, including Claire. The poor girl has looked like a deer in the headlights for half the night so far, but she looks like she’s finally getting her bearings as the whole crew comes together to make the night possible.
“Don’t suppose you advertised yourself to the media recently, have you?” I ask.
“My work speaks for itself,” he says without missing a beat, quirking a perfectly trimmed eyebrow.
“Then why do we have reporters out there?” I ask, looking around for a word from literally anyone.
But nobody gives me any answers. What in the world is happening?
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Alright, fine. I don’t have anything prepared, but we’ll have to make do. Crew, if anyone tries to come back here to ask questions, don’t let them. Chef Alonso, the moment you see a thirty-second break to make a statement coming up, you let me know. I’ll do most of the talking. We open in five. Everyone ready?”
“Yes!” the kitchen says in unison.
I grin, feeling some of my anxiety melt away. We’ve got this. “That’s good. Damn good. Let’s knock this shit out of the park.”
Five minutes pass by in the blink of an eye. Soon, I’m standing proudly at the back of the restaurant, watching one of my servers make her way to the doors and open them, letting the flood of customers trickle in group by group.
As soon as the first few groups of customers gets seated, I make my way toward the front to deal with the press. I’ve been furiously going over different lines in my head, readying myself for any question—most of them about Chef Jorge Alonso, who is the only reason I can fathom a crowd like this is here. I knew he’s the kind of man who makes waves, but this is a surprise.
I step outside into the dry, desert air and put on my best PR smile for the handful of cameramen waiting for me. I make my way a few paces from the nearest window, drawing the flashing lights out of view of the diners, then give the small crowd a brief introduction of myself and the restaurant. The words are barely out of my mouth before their questions start firing off.
“Mr. Graham, congratulations again on the Ocotillo’s grand opening— how do you feel about the beginning of this partnership?”
Partnership? Who would bother doing the digging to find out that this is technically a partnership with the Madsens?
I know we’re both influential families in the city, but this didn’t strike me as a groundbreaking deal. But this feels like a press conference, and all I can do is roll with it.
“Thank you, and it’s just ‘Ocotillo,’” I clarify with a smile. “And I feel very good about tonight, it’s the culmination of a lot of work on all parties. What we’re working toward today is a slice of desert cuisine the very heart and soul of Las Vegas can be proud of, and our partnership is emblematic of that.”
Cameras flash, and a few bystanders crane their necks to watch while the line of guests continues to filter into Ocotillo. It’s all coming together like clockwork, and the smile on my face grows a little more genuine.
“Do you want to tell us a little about the celebrations last night?” one reporter asks.
“Things were very lively,” I say with a laugh, “but this, tonight, is the real celebration for us—being able to serve the people what they deserve. Chef Alonso is the cornerstone of that vision.”
“What about Claire Madsen? Would she like to give a statement?”
That’s the last possible question I was expecting, and I almost let my face show it. How the hell does anyone know about that, much less care?
“She’s busily working in the kitchens to make sure this afternoon is everything we all want it to be,” I say. “We’re both Vegas locals, and we couldn’t be prouder about this partnership. It’s going to be a very exciting first year.”
“Thank you again, Mr. Graham,” one of the reporters says after a final round of camera flashes. “And congratulations again on your new partnership, I’m glad the two of you get the chance to see your business off to a strong start.”
Two of us?
I give the cameras some final waves and smiles, and soon, the crowd disperses. I take a deep breath and head back inside, where I’m beyond happy to see the appetizers already coming out of the kitchen. I spend a minute making the rounds and chatting up the guests, making sure that everything is running smoothly and spirits are up. The smell coming from the kitchen is astounding, and I see smiles all around the place. It’s perfect.
I make my way back to the kitchens after realizing nearly half an hour of schmoozing has passed, but the thrill is incomparable. This is happening. Ocotillo is up and running, and people seem to be loving it.
I have a broad grin on my face when I make it back to the kitchens during a short lull, and I’m surprised to see a couple of the cooks gathered around a tablet, looking at something.
“Alright, everyone,” I say, expecting to get their attention away from it, “Press has cleared out and we’re in good shape. How are things back here?”
No answers. All I hear is the usual background restaurant sounds—banging of pots, clinking of utensils, low murmur of conversations—and the audio track of whatever supremely interesting thing is playing on that damn tablet.
I realize at this point that even Chef Alonso is glancing over at the screen with a raised eyebrow, and he looks up at me. “Didn’t realize you and Claire had that kind of relationship, chief.”
I furrow my brow. “What are you talking about?”
I didn’t tell my staff about how I cam
e to rent this prime piece of real estate, partly because I don’t want them thinking badly of Claire and partly because it’s none of their business. So what if Claire’s technically my business partner? That doesn’t change a thing. It shouldn’t.
“They didn’t waste any time getting an article up about the restaurant, boss,” the junior cook who owns the tablet says.
“You don’t have to hide this kind of stuff, you know,” Chef Alonso adds with a wry smile. “It’s just life.”
“What’s happening?” I hear Claire’s voice ask as she comes out of the bathroom, drying her hands.
Everyone in the kitchen is giving us funny looks.
“Let me see that,” I say, marching forward and taking the tablet out of the guy’s hands. My jaw drops at the headline.
DINNER AND A SHOW: RESTAURANT PARTNERSHIP KICKS OFF WITH AN ENGAGEMENT PARTY FOR VEGAS ROYALTY
“What in the fuck…?”
My jaw drops as I look over the front page of not a news journal but an online tabloid, a local press that runs ridiculous articles on the rich and influential faces of the city. I’m on the front cover, and a candid shot of Claire working in the kitchens is pasted next to me.
Claire herself bustles up next to me to look at the article with just as much shock. “What . . . what did you say in that interview?” she asks, eyes widening as she takes the tablet from me. “‘Restaurateur likes his women in the kitchen’? ‘Brags about exciting night after engagement party’? What is all this?”
“I . . .” My voice trails off as I find myself at a loss for words. “Claire, I never gave them this impression, but this makes it sound like they think the party the other night was . . . an engagement party.”
“They think we’re engaged?” Claire asks faintly. Hers is a face of utter confusion, and mine probably looks just as bad.
I might be in hotter water than I thought. Or should I say we’re in hotter water? As in, me and Claire?
