Get You Good

by Rhonda Bowen

When the first sous chef Phillip hired left two months after the restaurant opened to take a higher-profile job in New York, Phillip shocked Lauren when he told her he wanted her to fill the position until they could find a suitable replacement.

  “It’ll be a few weeks. Not much more than that,” he had assured her. “Think you can handle it, chérie? Help me out in a pinch?”

  But a few weeks had turned into a few months. Now it no longer seemed that Phillip was looking for a replacement. She was permanent sous chef at Le Bayou Bleu.

  Phillip trusted her and had taken a chance on her. His vote of confidence meant more than anything. Tonight she vowed that she wouldn’t let him down.

  Lauren turned her back to Nathan, focusing her attention on one of the line cooks. “Watch the heat on those onions, Enrique!” she shouted as she walked across the kitchen. “I want them caramelized, not burned!”

  “Yes, chef!” Enrique said with a nod as he removed the pan from the blue flame.

  Nathan slammed his hands on the stainless-steel countertop. “Damn it, where is Phillip?”

  “He’s not here, Nathan,” she finally answered, shouting over the kitchen din. “He didn’t feel well so he went home.” She pulled a ticket and started to bark orders. The kitchen’s manic activity continued.

  “Went home? When?”

  “A while ago.”

  “So who’s in charge of the line tonight?”

  “Me.” She frowned down at a plate that had been handed to her. “Way too much parsley, Tony!” She then began to address the offending parsley herself.

  “You? But you’re just—”

  “But I’m just what? Phillip put me in charge. That’s all you need to know,” she said firmly, daring Nathan to question Phillip’s judgment.

  Nathan closed his eyes and took a deep calming breath. “OK. That’s OK. If Phillip can’t come out, then . . . then you’ll just have to do it.”

  “Come out where?”

  “Come to the front of the house to meet our VIP guest,” Nathan said with a flutter of his luxurious fake eyelashes, as if she should already know the answer. “He liked his dish and he wants to meet the chef. Phillip’s not here and you’re in charge, so you’ll have to do.” He snapped his fingers again, motioning for her to follow him.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s not just Phillip . . . two other guys called in sick, so we’re shorthanded and we’re already well into the evening rush. I’m not coming off the line. Not now.”

  “But he’s a VIP guest! We can’t turn him down! Do you realize he’s a—”

  “I don’t care who he is, Nathan. Short of being Jesus Christ himself, I’m not leaving the line for him. That’s that. Just tell him that we’re glad he liked the food but to come back another day when the head chef is around. We’re too busy now.”

  Nathan’s olive-toned face reddened.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned her back to him again. “I’d like to get back to my work.” She pulled another ticket. “Turtle soup, blackened redfish, jumbo crab cakes!”

  Nathan was summarily dismissed. On one side of the kitchen, some of the line cooks began to snicker.

  Nathan’s nostrils flared. “You’ll regret this, Lauren,” he said menacingly, pointing at her. “You’ll regret this.”

  He then stomped out of the kitchen, letting the door swing wildly behind him.

  “You’ll regret this,” she mimicked in a pinched voice. She made a face and grinned.

  Lauren wasn’t intimidated by Nathan. She’d spent two harrowing years with James Sayers, the biggest, baddest bully in Chesterton. If she could survive James, she could definitely handle this guy.

  The rest of the evening progressed at the usual backbreaking pace, but it was uneventful. By eleven o’clock, the dinner rush had ended, so they turned off the burners and packed up for the day.

  Lauren flexed her feet in her tennis shoes as she leaned back against one of the counters. She languidly sipped from a glass of red wine. Her feet hurt. Her back hurt. She had a cut on her index finger and a grease burn on one of her wrists, but she had never felt so happy and exhilarated in her life. It was like this every time she ended the work day, but today she felt particularly good. For the first time, Phillip had entrusted his kitchen to her—his baby—and she had passed the challenge with flying colors. Pride is what she felt. She had experienced it so few times in her life.

  Man, I love my job, she thought with a smile.

  “What are you grinning about?” their pastry chef, Paula, asked as she walked toward Lauren and swatted her on the leg with a hand towel.

  “I’m grinning about the bubble bath I’m going to take later when I get home,” she lied.

  The plump blonde leaned back against the counter beside her. “Oh.”

  Lauren laughed. “ ‘Oh.’ What do you mean, ‘oh’? Were you expecting me to say something else?”

  “I don’t know. I just thought . . . I just thought you might be smiling about a guy, maybe.”

  Lauren set down her wineglass, unbuttoned the top button of her chef’s coat, and crossed her arms over her chest. “I haven’t met a guy in a long time who was worth smiling about.”

  “Not even me, mon amour?” one of the line cooks, Jorge, asked as he walked by the two women.

  “You’re an exception to the rule, Jorge!” Lauren called back.

  He chuckled and waved as he opened the back door that led to an alleyway behind the restaurant. “Somebody should tell my wife that! ¡Buenas noches, bonitas!”

  “Good night, Jorge,” they said in unison, before watching the steel door slam behind him.

  Paula turned back to Lauren. “You’re too young to have an attitude like that.”

  “And this from someone at the ripe old age of thirty-two?”

  “Hey, I’ve got two years on you, missy. I’m still riper and older than you—like a fine wine. I know what I’m talking about. You’re way too cynical about men and relationships for someone your age.”

  If you’ve seen what I’ve seen and been through what I’ve been through, you’d be cynical too, Lauren thought sullenly.

  In her life and in her family, Lauren had witnessed and experienced enough Jerry-Springer-episode-worthy relationships that the idea of falling in love with a man turned her off completely. But Paula hadn’t grown up in Chesterton and hadn’t lived in their small town long enough to know the Gibbons family history.

  If she did, she’d drop the subject.

  “Come on, let me set you up with someone,” Paula persisted. Her words broke through the hazy bubble of Lauren’s thoughts. “I know about five guys offhand who would drool over you.”

  “Thanks, Paula, but no.”

  “But, Lauren—”

  “I said no.”

  Paula rolled her eyes. “I swear, you’re so stubborn sometimes.”

  “Stubborn’s my middle name.”

  “And I guess ‘mule’ is your last name?”

  Lauren smiled despite herself. “Hardy har har.”

  “Hey! Excuse me!” a male voice suddenly called out from the other end of the darkened kitchen near the entrance leading to the dining area.

  Lauren and Paula exchanged a look.

  “Is anyone back here?” the voice asked.

  They could see his head bobbing over the metal shelving in the “pick-up” area. He certainly was tall.

  “Why don’t people read the sign on the door? Can’t they tell this is the kitchen?” Lauren whispered.

  Paula giggled.

  “Sir, if you’re looking for the bathrooms, you’ll have to go back where you came. They’re at the other end of the hall. This area is for staff only,” Lauren began, pushing away from the counter. She walked toward him as he rounded the corner. “You can’t come—”

  Her words froze on her lips as their eyes met. Her breath caught in her throat.

  The man who had wandered into their kitchen had the physique of a football player, though she doubted that he
was part of any defensive line. A face that nice couldn’t have encountered too many contact sports.

  His eyebrows, nose, and full mouth were finely sculpted yet masculine. Even his high cheekbones looked like they could have been carved out of marble, making her wonder whether, if she reached out and touched them, they would be smooth and cool to the touch. His skin was the color of nutmeg and his almond-shaped eyes were ink black, but not flat and expressionless. They seemed warm and kind as he smiled faintly. His dark, curly hair was closely cropped to his head. He wore a white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar and rolled up at the sleeves, revealing the tattooed scales of the Chinese dragon that encircled his forearm, and tailored gray slacks that showed off his muscular frame.

  “I wasn’t looking for the bathroom,” he said. “I was looking for the chef. I wanted to compliment him on tonight’s meal.”

  “Oh,” Lauren uttered breathlessly. “Oh, well, I know he would . . . appreciate that. So you . . . you liked the food?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He gave a vigorous nod and a chuckle. He then patted his rock-hard stomach. The ripples of muscle were visible even through his shirt. “I just decided to come here on a whim. Honestly—and please don’t take offense—I wasn’t expecting much from this place.”

  She didn’t take offense. People rarely expected a lot from small-town restaurants. Soup from a can and gravy and potatoes from store-bought packets is what they usually anticipated.

  “I’m glad I was wrong, though, because it was the best food I’ve tasted in a long time.” He looked around the now-empty kitchen. “I tried to do it earlier, but the manager said he was busy and couldn’t come out.” His eyes returned to Lauren. They locked gazes again. “I guess I missed him, huh?”

  So this was the VIP guest Nathan had spoken about earlier? She scanned his face more carefully. He did look vaguely familiar. Was he famous?

  “Oh, the executive chef left hours ago,” Paula suddenly piped up from behind Lauren. “But if you want to talk to the chef who was on duty tonight, you need to talk to Lauren here.” She nudged Lauren’s arm. “She’s our sous chef.”

  “So you’re the one I should be bowing down to?”

  With his eyes on her, Lauren felt like she was under the glare of a spotlight. Suddenly, she wished she wasn’t in a chef’s jacket, wrinkled jeans, and scuffed tennis shoes. Suddenly, she wished she had done something to her hair today and not thrown on a red bandana to hold her locks out of open flames and saucepans. She didn’t look like an alluring woman but rather a twelve-year-old boy in search of the nearest skater park.

  Lauren had felt so much pride minutes earlier, and for some strange reason, it was being whittled away in this man’s presence.

  “Well, uh . . . well, no,” she answered nervously. “No, not really.”

  The stranger’s smile faded.

  “I mean, there are lots of line cooks in here and, uh, Phillip—he’s the executive chef—came up with the menu. He’s great at coming up with dishes. I just make a few suggestions here and there, but it would be wrong to take credit for his brilliance. They’re mostly all his ideas.”

  Oh, Lord! What the hell am I saying? What’s gotten into me?

  Lust: that was what had gotten into her, and it had come out of nowhere.

  “I mean . . . we’re a team, here,” she continued to babble. “I can’t take credit for this all by myself. We’re . . . uh . . . we’re a team. It’s a team effort. I couldn’t do it without . . . everyone’s help.”

  The kitchen fell silent with the exception of the steady chug of the dishwashers.

  “Well, my compliments to the team, then.”

  “We appreciate it,” Paula said. “Go, team, go!”

  The stranger laughed while Lauren turned to narrow her eyes at Paula. Paula grinned apologetically in return.

  “Well, thank you for the wonderful dinner.”

  “You’re welcome,” Lauren said, finally regaining her calm. “Thank you for patronizing our restaurant. We hope you’ll come back soon.”

  “Oh . . .” He gave a slow and meaningful nod. “I most certainly will.”

  Butterflies started to flutter in her stomach again.

  Don’t start, she silently told herself. He enjoyed the food. That’s all he meant.

  He stared at her for several seconds more, not saying anything. Lauren stared back. Paula coughed loudly to break the awkward silence and he smiled.

  “Well, it was nice meeting you ladies.” He headed back out of the kitchen. “Good night.”

  “Good night!” Paula called after him.

  “Night,” Lauren whispered.

  When the door shut behind him, Paula grabbed Lauren’s shoulders and turned her around. “Oh my God, he was so checking you out!”

  Lauren yanked her bandana off her head. “No, he wasn’t! He was staring at me like I was an escaped mental patient. I wasn’t making any sense.”

  “Yeah, what was all that stuff about ‘team effort’?”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “He made you nervous, didn’t he? You liked him, didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know him, Paula.” Lauren walked across the kitchen to a door that led to the women’s locker room. “I talked to him for two minutes.”

  “Thirty seconds is all it takes. Ever heard of love at first sight?”

  “Ever heard of a quickie divorce?” Lauren muttered as she shoved open the wooden door. “Because that’s what happens when you believe in love at first sight.”

  She slouched onto one of the wooden benches perched in between two rows of green metal lockers.

  “I told you to stop being so cynical. It doesn’t become you.” Paula began to tap her fingernails on one of the lockers. She dropped her other hand to her hip. “Is it just me or did that guy look like someone I’ve seen before?”

  Lauren nodded. She unbuttoned her chef’s jacket and opened the locker directly in front of her. “No, it’s not just you. I thought I recognized him from somewhere, too. I just can’t place where. He must be someone important, though, if he was the VIP Nathan was raving about earlier.”

  Each woman tried to summon a recollection of his face.

  “I know his name,” Paula said. “It’s right on the tip of my tongue. But I just can’t think of it.”

  “Well, don’t strain yourself. It’s not like you win any money for remembering.”

  “He said he’d be back here to eat again. Maybe you’ll find out his name and you two will have a chance to talk a lot longer than two minutes.”

  “I doubt it.” Lauren tossed her chef’s coat into her locker and retrieved her sandals. She sat down and changed out of her tennis shoes and sports socks. “Besides, I’m not interested.”

  “Oh, come on, Lauren! How can you not be interested in him? Are you blind? That man was beautiful! Did you see his tattoo?” She closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, I love a man with tattoos!”

  “Yes, Paula, I noticed him . . . and his tattoo.” Lauren rose to her feet and shut her locker door. “But he just didn’t do it for me,” she lied. “Besides, I’m just focused on other things.”

  “Like what?”

  “My life . . . my goals . . . me. I’m focusing on me. I’m making myself better. I’m my biggest priority—in a good way.”

  And I’ve still got a lot of work to do.

  Lauren climbed over the bench and waved. “See you tomorrow.”

  “Wait! What are you going to do if he comes back?” she called as Lauren walked toward the locker door.

  Lauren glanced over her shoulder. “If who comes back?”

  “The guy from ten minutes ago! Mr. Gorgeous! Who else?”

  “Feed him, I guess,” she answered nonchalantly. “Nighty night.”

  Paula sighed. “Good night, Lauren.”

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

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  Copyright © 2013 by Rho
nda Bowen

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  ISBN: 978-0-7582-8136-4