by Lila Moore
When I put the towel between her legs to clean her up, a chill twisted her body. I was spent, but I wished I wasn’t. That look drove me wild.
She spread her legs for me slowly. They still shook a bit; her orgasm was still working its way through her body. I cleaned her up gently, then kissed her stomach, breasts and neck. I took my time working my way to her mouth. I could have explored every inch of her with my tongue. Her soft warm body was so inviting.
I laid down beside her and ran my fingers over the rise and fall of her curves. Her round ass was firm. I couldn’t resist leaning over and sinking my teeth into it. Roche giggled with laughter.
“Stop!” she said playfully.
I kissed her sweetly. I couldn’t get enough of her full lips. I kissed them again. She ran her fingers through my hair, slowly massaging my scalp. It felt amazing. I was suddenly drowsy. I pulled her to me. Roche rested her head on my chest and curled her leg around mine. We fit together perfectly, as if this was our natural state. I rested my hand on the small of her back.
“You should get some sleep,” I said.
“Mmm,” she murmured in response.
She was already half-asleep. I kissed the top of her forehead and found myself drifting off. I woke with a start. It was light outside which meant I was late. I jumped out of bed and started to dress. Roche was still asleep. She barely stirred as I fought my way out of the covers to my clothes. I considered waking her, then thought better of it. She looked so peaceful sleeping there. Her soft, creamy skin and cherry lips gave her the look of a cherub.
For some reason the image made me laugh. Roche was no angel. She worked hard in the kitchen and was an animal in the sack. In other words, she was perfect.
I dressed quietly then slipped out of her apartment. I’d see her at work later. We could catch up then. It would have been nice to fuck her before heading into the restaurant, but there was no time. Wishing I’d had time to take a shower, I walked quickly towards the restaurant.
When I entered the kitchen, I immediately knew something was off. Everyone was standing around. No one was working.
“What the fuck’s going on?” I asked one of the dishwashers.
He shrugged and said we were shut down in Spanish.
“What?” I demanded. “Shut down? Who the fuck told you the restaurant was closed?”
“I did.”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. I recognized that voice. Gwen. The bane of my existence and my primary investor. She was a rich kid. She’d inherited a fortune at an early age. Her father worked in oil. She had little to no relationship with him, but he insisted she be raised in Texas near the heart of his work. She had a cute country accent that clashed with her polished, rich executive look.
I turned to face her. I wasn’t surprised to see her in a perfectly tailored, expensive designer top and skirt. She wore black stiletto heels; her calf muscles were perfectly toned and tanned. No doubt the result of hours with her personal trainer. She looked amazing.
“Gwen,” I said by way of greeting.
“Vincent, we need to talk.”
No one calls me Vincent, but I let Gwen get away with. There’s something about the way my name rolls off her tongue I find sexy. We stepped into my office and shut the door.
“You want to tell me why you decided to shut down my restaurant?” I asked.
“It was brought to my attention that we have a serious health risk.”
“What? What the hell are you talking about?”
“My understanding is that a dish contaminated by spoiled fish was served to one of our customers.”
“How did you know about that?”
“The customer in question is one of my father’s business associates. He’s also one of the richest men in the world. He owns several of the most popular newspapers and cable channels in the country. When he called me and told me my restaurant was serving spoiled food, I wanted to die from embarrassment. Can you imagine what would happen if word got out? He has the power to destroy us. Lucky for us, he laughed it off. He said the second dish brought to their table was so good that they forgot about the disaster that was the first course. My question to you is how the hell did this happen?”
“Gwen, I-”
“I’ve invested millions in this place, Vincent. I trust you-in the kitchen, anyway.”
I frowned. Gwen and I had a brief affair a year ago. She was married at the time. When her husband walked in on us fucking, he tried to fight me. I knocked him out with one punch. He was a soft, rich boy; a weasel that lived off his daddy’s money and connections. I had no idea what a strong, smart woman like Gwen was doing married to him.
When he filed for divorce, I thought it was for the best. As far as I was concerned getting caught in bed together was the best thing to happen to Gwen. She didn’t see things the same way, especially after her soon to be ex-husband tried to take half her money. He failed, but I heard he walked away from the marriage with a huge settlement.
Gwen was still unimaginably rich, but she didn’t like to lose. She blamed me for her divorce. When I reminded her that it takes two to tango, she gave me a death stare that I’ll never forget. Ever since then, we’ve been on thin ice. She still finances my restaurants, but only because she’s in love with my cooking, and because my restaurants are always a financial success.
Gwen hates me though. She loves my food, but she blames me for everything wrong in her life.
“I shut the place down until we can locate the source of the problem. I don’t want this getting out into the public. It could ruin us,” she said.
“I’ve located the source of the problem and dealt with it.”
This wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t sure who had sabotaged the dish, though I had a good idea who was responsible. The entrée preparer took over Roche’s job in her absence. He was the only one who benefited from her destruction. I never trusted that rat-faced bastard. Still, I couldn’t prove it. I needed to review the security cameras. Hopefully, they captured him in the act of sabotage, though I doubted it. The cameras weren’t trained on the freezers. They focused on the kitchen and the dining area. I suspected he was the guilty party, but I couldn’t prove it.
“Did it ever occur to you that shutting down the restaurant looks worse than letting us operate with a few bad reviews?” I said. “Now we look like we’re in crisis.”
“I don’t want to make anyone sick with our food.”
“Nor do I.”
“Good. Fix this problem.”
I rolled my eyes. Gwen had no idea how much work went into running a restaurant. She provided the financial support, then did nothing to manage the restaurant. She had it easy.
“Look,” she said, “I don’t want to deal with your attitude. Fix this. Find the source of the problem, then fire them. I’ve shut us down for the day so you can clean house. I want this issue fixed, the freezers immaculate and the chefs at the top of their games by tomorrow. Understood?”
“Aye aye, captain.”
“Don’t give me shit. Just do your job.”
She stepped forward. We stood close together in my small office. She touched my shirt. Her hand lingered on my chest.
“I hired you to do a job, so do it,” she whispered.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said sarcastically.
She moved even closer. Her face was an inch away from mine.
“You’re a pain in the ass. You’re temperamental, demanding, a perfectionist, impossible to work with…”
“And?”
“And you get the job done. Your food is amazing. Your restaurants are insanely popular.”
Her hand moved lower, passing over my abs. For some reason, her touch reminded me of Roche. The memory of Roche’s body beneath mine, her tight pussy and cries of ecstasy sent a small tremor through me. Gwen saw the way I reacted to her touch. She misinterpreted my reaction as being turned on by her. She didn’t realize I was thinking about someone else.
“Let’s talk later,” she
said. “We can hammer out the details. If worse comes to worst I can pump some more money into the restaurant, but only if you cooperate.”
I didn’t like her tone. It implied I’d have to fuck her to keep the restaurant open.
“Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” I replied.
Her smile twisted into a crooked grin. “Hopefully,” she replied sarcastically. She took a step back, but not before planting a soft kiss on my lips. “Fix this,” she said. “We’ll talk later.”
I hoped there was no later, but I couldn’t avoid seeing her again. She’d pumped millions of dollars into this restaurant. There was zero chance she’d walk away from her investment.
Gwen turned and left. As I watched her leave, I thought of Roche. She was probably still at home, wondering where I was and what last night meant. I looked up and was surprised to see her on the other side of my office window. She stood in the kitchen, glaring at me. Had she seen Gwen kiss me?
This was just what I needed. If the girls were at each other’s throats, I’d never get anything accomplished. I needed a kitchen that ran as smoothly as possibly. No fighting. No conflict. No drama. How naïve I was.
Beatrix
I woke to find Moreau gone. Why had he left? Did he regret sleeping with me? Was he embarrassed? I was sickened by the possibilities. Why would he sneak out? The only explanation was that he regretted sleeping with me. I wanted to die. Last night was amazing. Moreau was better in bed than I had imagined. Now that it was over, I started to worry I’d made the worst mistake of my life. What if he decided to fire me? It wasn’t unheard of. Plenty of men slept with their employees then decided to fire them rather than see them on a daily basis. It was terrifying to think about. My career could be over.
I didn’t believe that though. Moreau had gone out of his way to make sure I stuck around. It was unusual. Most chefs would have fired me for fucking up the way I did. Once I was gone they would never think about me again. Moreau was different though. He understood that I was sabotaged. But by who? Why would anyone want to have me fired? I’d never crossed anyone. I tried to be friendly and professional. Why would someone want to destroy my career? It made no sense.
I stumbled out of bed and glanced at the clock. Late again. Moreau was going to kill me. I took the fastest shower of my life, then threw on a pair of jeans and a black sweater along with a peacoat. I practically ran to the restaurant.
When I walked into the kitchen I immediately picked up a weird vibe. Everyone was standing around, waiting for orders. I started to ask one of the fry cooks what was going on when he nodded towards Moreau’s office. Through the window I could see him with a tall, thin woman. They kissed sweetly.
My stomach twisted into knots. Did Moreau have a girlfriend? People talked about him as if he was a lifelong bachelor. Who was this woman and why was Moreau kissing her?
The woman turned to leave. Moreau made direct eye contact with me. Now I knew why he’d run out of my place like a thief in the night. He had a girlfriend.
I went to the employee area and took off my coat and shoved my things away into a locker. I couldn’t let him get to me. Moreau may have seen me as nothing more than a cheap lay, but I couldn’t let that effect my work. In fact, I was going to use this as motivation. Today would be the best day of my career. Every sauce and hors d’oeuvres I prepared would be perfect. Not even Moreau would be able to find fault with my dishes. I would channel all my anger into my work. Today was the first day of a brand new beginning.
I slammed my locker shut and tied my apron around my waist. I headed out into the kitchen to begin prepping for the day. The entrée preparer was standing at my station.
“You can go now,” I said irritably.
“I’m the saucier,” he said with a thick French accent.
“No. I wasn’t fired. I was just sent home for the day.”
It was an embarrassing admission, but I was sure everyone in the kitchen had been publically yelled at, or sent home by Moreau at one point or another. It was just part of working in one of his kitchens. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself.
“I’m the saucier,” he repeated.
His cruel eyes focused on mine, never wavering. His face was pale with deep dark circles running beneath each eye. His mouth was a tight bloodless line. He was not going to budge. The only person who could solve this was Moreau. Great. The last person I wanted to talk to right now.
Moreau walked out of his office and said: “Listen up!”
Immediately, everyone stopped what they were doing and turned their attention to Moreau.
“We’re shutting down for the day.”
The chefs and servers started to mumble disapprovingly.
“I know,” he said. “This wasn’t my idea.”
The woman still lingered in the doorway, listening and watching. Her eyes scanned the kitchen, taking in every chef. When her eyes fell on me, they lingered for a beat longer than the others. Women are rare in the culinary world. The men outnumber us a hundred to one. I was the only girl working in the kitchen, so it wasn’t unusual that I drew attention. Still, I couldn’t help feeling there was something more in her appraising stare. I felt like I was being sized up.
“I want every inch of this kitchen spotless,” Moreau continued. “Clean your stations top to bottom, then I want you to do it again. I don’t want to see anything out of place or dirty. Maurice, I want you and your guys to focus on the freezer. Throw out anything that’s been in there for longer than a day. Clean it out then replace everything. I want it organized perfectly.”
Most chefs are pretty OCD about their kitchens. They want everything perfectly lined up and clean. They’re meticulous about cleaning and putting their tools exactly where they want them. It helps things run smoothly when we’re getting slammed during lunch and dinner service. It’s rare you’ll meet a sloppy chef. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever encountered one. No one working at this level would be that messy. You don’t get this far unless you take pride in your work.
“Let’s get busy. We open back up tomorrow.”
He gave the woman a hard look, as if he was challenging her to defy him. She stood to the side surveying the room. Who was she and why did the goings on of our kitchen concern her?
Everyone in the kitchen got to work cleaning. The Frenchman trying to steal my job started to clean my station. He moved all my things around, rearranging them the way he wanted. I was on the verge of snapping. You don’t mess with another chef’s things.
I started to march up to Moreau and demand he fix this. I was too slow.
“Vincent?” the woman called.
Vincent? No one called Moreau that. I was under the impression he hated his first name.
Like a loyal dog, he came when called. I was surprised. Moreau didn’t answer to anyone. I never would have guessed there was a woman out there who could tame him. They spoke confidentially. Moreau listened with a tight jaw. He didn’t look happy about what the woman had to say.
I waited for them to finish talking, but they never stopped. Or rather, the woman never stopped. She talked while Moreau listened. It was a nice change of pace. Usually Moreau was the one who gave the orders while the kitchen was held captive.
“Do you need something?” the woman asked.
It took me a second to realize she was talking to me. Moreau glanced over his shoulder at me. His gaze held mine for a long time. What did that look mean? Was he scared I’d reveal we’d just slept together? I bet his girlfriend would give him an earful. A part of me wanted to spill the beans just to watch him squirm uncomfortably. If I did, I’d be fired immediately and I’d never work in a restaurant I could be proud of again. I cleared my throat and tried to stay professional.
“I need to speak with the chef for a moment.” He gave me a look that said I don’t have time for this. “It concerns my station,” I said. I motioned towards the angry Frenchman. “I’m afraid he’s taken over and won’t leave.”
“Marcel,” Mo
reau yelled, “fuck off back to entrée’s.”
The Frenchman, Marcel, gave Moreau a cold stare. He didn’t seem eager to give up his job. Of course, what he wanted didn’t matter. This was Moreau’s kitchen. He was the captain of this ship. Grudgingly, Marcel stepped back to his station.
Satisfied, I smiled smugly and turned to leave.
“Wait,” the woman said, stopping me. “What’s your name?”
“Bea,” I said.
“Roche,” Moreau answered at the same time.
“Bea Roche? That’s an odd name.”
“Beatrix Lorraine Roche actually. Most people call me Bea, except for here. Moreau only calls me Roche. I think it’s because he likes the way it sounds when he’s screaming out orders.”
To my relief, the woman laughed. “You seem to know Moreau well.”
I could tell she was fishing for something. She wanted to know just how well I knew her boyfriend.
“Not that well, actually. I’ve only been working here a few days.”
“Who did you replace? The pastry chef?”
“No. I’m the saucier.”
“Oh, wow. Good for you. You’re young. Most sauciers are older. You must have really impressed Moreau with your work.”
“I only hire the best,” Moreau replied. “The best is what you pay for.”
“Indeed, it is,” she replied. She raised a skeptical eyebrow.
I wondered what Moreau meant. What was this woman paying for?
“Well, Roche, I wish you more luck than the previous saucier. He lasted less than a week. Hopefully, you’ll last longer.”
“I’ll do my best.” An awkward moment of silence passed between the three of us. “I should get back to my station.”
“I want everything immaculate,” Moreau said. There was a catch in his voice. The authoritative edge to his orders had dulled. If I didn’t know better I might have mistaken his words for a request instead of an order.
“Of course,” I said. I turned and got back to work.
