by Natalie Ann
“Make it for me,” he said simply.
“What?” she asked, her smile dropping.
“We can sit here and talk food all day long, but I don’t know what you’re capable of unless you show me. So make me your favorite dish. Your grandmother’s chunky tomato sauce over basil pasta.”
“Garlic sauce,” she corrected him. “Lots of garlic.”
He nodded and walked around his kitchen grabbing what he figured she’d need and placing it all on a counter off to the corner. “Anything I missed?” he asked.
She looked over the tomatoes, garlic, flour, eggs, basil, and assorted basic spices on the counter. “Mushrooms, capers, and Chianti.”
He grabbed the rest and placed it there, then pulled up a stool and sat down. “What are you waiting for?”
She just stared at him. Maybe she was all talk and no action. This was the best way to weed out the talent from the talkers. Though honestly, she hadn’t done a lot of talking yet either.
“A pot and a pan,” she said. “I like to have everything I need out and ready to go. Pot filled with water and set on the stove. Pan for sauce right next to it.”
He got up and filled a pot with steaming hot water and set it on a burner, then brought two pans over for her to choose from. He placed the one she pointed to next to the pot and sat back down.
“Food processor and pasta roller,” she said, looking around the kitchen, speaking out loud more than to him. He wanted to be insulted, but was rather pleased she was more focused on the task at hand.
“You just want me to get a workout today, don’t you?” he said, grinning.
If he hadn’t been paying so much attention to her looks—and her smile—he would have grabbed those things too. But he was distracted by the dark waves of hair that she was pulling back out of the way when he told her he wanted her to cook. Her small round face nicely on display with no distractions. Little to no makeup and nice olive-colored skin. Watching her small hands unbutton the cuffs on her shirt and roll the sleeves up out the way, then tuck her shirt in instead of where it was lying nice and flat against her stomach.
He returned with the rest of her tools to find the counter all lined up and organized. Even better. His type of cook.
“Ah, could you not watch how much of the ingredients I use in my sauce when I get to it? It’s kind of a secret family recipe.”
He smirked but understood. He’d give her credit for asking him that, when not many would dare. He saw the nervousness she was trying to hide, but was impressed that she thought of her family first and foremost. That went a long way with him. “Not a problem.”
For the next ten minutes he watched her blend the basil with olive oil in the food processor while she made a hole in the center of the flour on her cutting board. Egg and basil mixture went in the center; then she quickly and efficiently kneaded the dough into a light green color. There was definite strength behind her small stature. A great deal of confidence, too. She could be as quiet as she wanted if she was sharp in the kitchen.
She continued to work in silence while he observed, almost ignoring his presence, and he wasn’t insulted in the least over that. It drove him insane when he interviewed the candidates and they felt they had to walk him through every single step of their meal, as if he couldn’t see or didn’t know what they were doing before they even did it.
When she was done wrapping the dough in plastic wrap, she set it aside and turned the burner on under the water.
“Do I need to turn around right now?” he asked when she grabbed tomatoes and started to cut them into identical cubes.
“Uh? No, sorry. I get kind of lost in my own world when I’m cooking. I’m just dicing right now. In a minute though. I mean, you know the basic ingredients. I guess it’s probably silly that I asked you to do that. I’m sure you could replicate this once you taste it.”
He probably could, but he wouldn’t say that. “I don’t have a problem turning away. I understand it. I’ve got plenty of my own recipes that I’d like no one to know. One thing about working here, there are seasonings and spices for dishes that I don’t share with anyone. Not one staff member here will ever know. It’s just that one thing that keeps it from being copied.”
“So you get it,” she said.
More than he’d ever tell another person. “I think it’s common for chefs to want to hide away a secret recipe. It’s what makes them unique.”
She glanced up, as if something just popped into her head. “Every dish? You have a secret part to every single dish? How do you manage that without having your hands in every order?”
“Not every dish, but a majority of them. What I do is have the spice blends mixed and set aside, all labeled in advance. If you get the job, then you’ll see how it is. Staff know how much of the blend to use, but not what is in it. Same with sauces. They know how to make the sauce, but not the blend of seasonings that I put together.”
“Do you sell your seasonings? I haven’t seen them before.”
Interesting and something he’d always thought of doing. He was just trying to figure it out in his head before he talked to Cade about it.
“Not yet. It’s crossed my mind though.”
She’d nodded and gone back to her cooking, totally ignoring him once again. He found he was charmed that she was paying more attention to her work than him, but still aware he was there in the back of her mind.
When she was done with slicing her mushrooms, which were now sitting neatly next to the diced tomatoes, she pulled the pasta roller over, picked the dough up, and started to test its form. “I’d really like it to sit another ten minutes, but because of the time constraint…”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. He wasn’t too worried. She obviously knew what she was doing right now, there was no doubt. He didn’t even have to taste it, but found he was impatient to.
The rest of the meal was prepared in silence, not even an awkward one. He was always more comfortable working in the quiet, but found most of his employees loved to chat, not to mention yelling out orders and times. He knew that was how an efficient restaurant ran, but his best creations came at home in his own kitchen when no one was around.
He watched how she rapidly folded the thin sheet of basil pasta, then cut slices to make nice strands of fettuccine, picked them up and lightly coated them in flour so they didn’t stick together. When she started to throw the tomatoes and mushrooms into a pan with some olive oil, he politely excused himself to talk with some of the staff, then came back ten minutes later when he felt she’d added all her ingredients and was watching over everything now.
He was just sitting down when she said, “The pasta will be done in a minute.”
All he did was watch her clean up her station, impressing him even more. He was about to ask what she was looking for when she walked over quickly to the shelf with plates and bowls and found the same one he’d have chosen for plating.
She returned to drain the pasta, then poured it in with the sauce and tossed it around expertly, pulled it out with tongs, and twisted it just so on the plate. She finally grated fresh Parmesan cheese over it, wiped the edges clean, and set it in front of him.
The aroma was making his mouth water. It had nothing to do with watching her work. The quick easy movements, the smooth flow of her hands, and her dark brown eyes so serious and almost intoxicating as she worked. The way she inhaled the scent before she plated the meal, as if savoring a lover for the night.
What was wrong with him? He never thought of sex—or women for that matter—when at work. Yet this little slip of a woman had him focusing on her more than the food…or the job she was interviewing for. Cooking was always sensual to him, but he found not many shared that trait and it was best left for when he was entertaining outside of work.
He pushed thoughts of sex out of his head and rolled the pasta on his fork, took a bite, and sighed. Yeah, this might be better than anything he’d tasted in Italy.
“When can you s
tart?”
Heating Her Up
Nic walked out an hour after she’d walked in. Her hands were shaking more now than they were before.
She didn’t just get offered the job on the spot, did she?
She pinched herself, then yelped. Okay, guess she wasn’t dreaming.
This couldn’t be happening. She was going to be making almost fifty percent more an hour just to start. No one made that much as a line cook. Not just starting out with little schooling, like her.
For now, she’d be doing the pub fare and that was completely acceptable. Pretty much preparing the light menu to start, even staying late one or two nights a week to cook food for the bar after the restaurant closed down. A limited menu, but she had to begin somewhere.
The hours didn’t matter to her. Yes, she was used to working days, but for this pay, she’d take any hours she could get. Not to mention the experience of just working here and learning.
When she’d walked into the kitchen, she had all she could to hold back the gasp. Not just by the sheer size of it, or the high-tech appliances and tools, but how organized it was. It was so clean, just the way she liked to cook.
Then again, no one had really started cooking for the day yet, so it could just be nothing more than that. But it did give her insight into how the restaurant should look at the end of the night.
Aiden Fierce. Now that she wasn’t worried and stressed about impressing him with her cooking skills, she could reflect on what she thought of him as a whole.
Cute. Definitely cute. Nah, cute was for boys. He was a man. He was hot. Plain and simple.
She shouldn’t be thinking of that, but there it was. Her brain took in the sight of his dark, neatly trimmed hair, brown eyes assessing her every move, and full lips when he smiled. The type of smile that moved from your cheeks to your eyes and lingered over like a simmer just waiting to bubble up.
She’d like to say she was only warm because of the nerves, but she knew that was a colossal lie. It was Aiden and his gaze that were making her sizzle.
She knew he was around thirty. She’d seen he was only twenty-five when he received the coveted James Beard Award and that was five years ago. He looked his age. Young for his experience, but mature in her eyes. He seemed to have a pretty carefree attitude about life in general. Nothing at all like some of the horror stories she’d heard about other head or executive chefs in a place the caliber of Fierce.
Aiden didn’t look to have a mean bone in his body. The intimidation she felt was more from just being in his presence rather than fear he was going to start screaming and yelling or talking down to her. None of that happened and she’d kind of expected it when she walked in.
Instead, the interview was peaceful and engaging. She’d been on plenty of interviews before she was hired at her current job. Half the time, she was asked a few basic questions and sent on her way, even looked down on. Her confidence level for interviewing was at an all-time low before today. She’d never had to cook anything for them before and wondered why that was. Maybe if she had, she would have gotten other jobs.
And then she wouldn’t have been at the cafe where Jolene Fierce came in and loved her food enough to ask to meet with her. So she wasn’t going to wonder or worry about it. And she was going to try to find the same confidence she had when she was working with her grandmother all those years ago under her watchful eye and was given so much praise she thought she could conquer the world.
Those days were long gone, but she could recreate them in her mind if need be.
“Grandma, I’m home,” she said, walking through the front door of her grandparents’ house.
“Nicolette, in the kitchen, sweetie.”
She rolled her eyes over the use of her full name, but she wasn’t kidding when she said only her grandmother called her that. “Where’s Grandpa?”
“He’s out in the garden right now.”
The garden being the laughable little strip of land behind the first floor apartment that her grandparents lived in. They owned the two-story house and always rented out the upstairs. Every little bit of income helped.
When they said they’d evict the tenants for her, she’d objected. She couldn’t afford the rent and she refused to let them give up the income. She was fine living in the cramped little room off the kitchen as long as they’d have her. This allowed her to help them with expenses, too.
“I got the job, Grandma!”
“That’s wonderful. Come here and give me a hug.” Nic walked over and hugged her four-foot-eleven-inch granny tight. She always felt so tall around her grandparents, which was laughable since she was all of five feet one herself.
“I start in two weeks. I’m going to give my notice tomorrow at the cafe. Aiden actually said I could start this weekend if I wanted since I don’t work on the weekends at the cafe. I told him I’d let him know tomorrow.”
“What’s holding you back from starting earlier?” her grandmother asked, giving the look that Nic was coming to know meant a lecture was on the horizon, that she better find a seat and get ready.
“I don’t know.”
But she did know. She wanted to spend some more time practicing and reading up on other recipes. She wanted to go in with more experience than she had, even though she’d only be preparing the same foods she was doing right now. It was silly, she knew, but she wanted to impress Aiden with more than her Italian roots.
“Sure, you do. Tell me,” her grandmother said, pulling out a chair and pointing for her to sit. She obeyed now just like she did when she was five and ten and twenty. Her aging grandmother might be a short, skirt-wearing, rolled-up-knee-high-stocking type of granny, but when she talked, you listened, and you zipped your lip until she was done. Otherwise Theresa Moretti started mixing her Italian and English when she was annoyed and Nic had a hard time keeping up.
“Am I good enough to be there?” she asked.
“Nicolette. Don’t go doubting your abilities. You’ve probably got more esperienza than half those employed in that kitchen and you know it.”
“But that’s experience at your bakery, not in a real business.”
Her grandmother snorted. “Real business? Just because it was owned by famiglia and small didn’t mean we didn’t know how to cook. Maybe we weren’t the best at the business end, but we knew food and we knew what customers liked. Just think, all you need to do there is cook. Do what you enjoy. You don’t have to worry about the business nuisances. You can do what you love and put the stress behind you now.”
It wasn’t what she loved, but she’d never tell that to her grandmother. And those business nuisances were the things that put her grandparents in debt. Past due invoices, ordering more supplies than needed. Sticking with vendors because they were nice rather than going with lower prices with equal quality.
It wasn’t as if Nic knew the first thing about running a business either, but some of it was just plain common sense. “I’ll try.”
“And you’ll call your new boss tomorrow and tell him you’ll gladly start this weekend. That you’re excited and itching to get going.”
“Yes, Grandma,” she said, then stood up and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. It was the right thing to do, Nic knew that. And she always did what was right.
***
“I hear you hired a new line cook,” Jolene Fierce said.
Aiden turned to look at his mother. She didn’t look a day over forty, even though she was on the short end of pushing sixty. How she managed to stay so youthful looking was something Ella had asked her a million times.
“I did. Nic Moretti. She’s going to start part time this weekend, then full time in two weeks.”
“Is that the girl I told you about?” Jolene asked, a smirk on her lips.
That same Fierce smirk they all had and used often, but not as often as his mother. “Yes, it is. Wish you’d told me it was a woman and not a man instead of just handing me the resume and saying you love their food.”
“W
hat fun would that have been?” His mother had a warped sense of humor. “Did you do anything to embarrass yourself before you found out?” She was frowning at him now. They’d all learned to back away when his mother frowned, sighed, or had her teeth in something. There was no winning against her. She might be tiny, but she was mighty. It kind of reminded him of Nic just now. Tiny with a lot of strength.
“Of course not.” He didn’t think so. Not unless his mother counted the number of times he caught himself staring at Nic while she worked. Nic didn’t seem to notice, so he figured he was safe.
“Then what’s the big deal? You could use some more women in the back.”
“It’s not a big deal. Yes, I like diversity, it’s just I haven’t found what I’ve been looking for before. I look at the quality of work, not gender. It just seems the men have had better quality in the past year or so that I’ve been looking. But you’re right, it will be nice to have more women back there.”
“So what did you think of her on a personal level?”
“I don’t know,” Aiden said, shrugging. He wasn’t about to tell his mother that he found he was attracted to Nic when he’d never found himself feeling that in his kitchen before. “She seems nice. Was nervous when she came in, that was easy to see, but once I told her to cook me her favorite dish she just zoned in and tuned me out.”
His mother laughed. “Bet you loved that. When was the last time a woman tuned you out?”
“We weren’t on a date,” he said, frowning. “It was an interview. I was fine with it. I wanted her to focus on cooking and she did.” His mother wouldn’t know he was lying, would she? He hoped not.
He couldn’t remember the last time his mother asked him specifics on an employee’s personality. And definitely not this early during employment.
