Don’t Touch
Penny Wylder
Contents
1. Arisa
2. Arisa
3. Arisa
4. Arisa
5. Arisa
6. Monroe
7. Arisa
8. Arisa
9. Monroe
10. Arisa
Epilogue
Copyright © 2021 Penny Wylder
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental.
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1
Arisa
I can see my reflection in the glass. I look so small. My hair is pulled up into a tight bun, and I'm dressed in all black. A light shade of peach colors my lids and my lips are nude but glossy.
There are giant locusts swarming in my belly. The tingling feeling radiates out through my entire body, sending an excited, but nervous, shiver over my skin. My feet feel like they’re filled with lead and secured to the sidewalk with metal brackets.
I can't believe I'm actually here at The Backyard.
This is surreal. This restaurant is the Cadillac of restaurants. It's a place that only needs its name to carry its legacy. Word of mouth is all it needs to bring people in.
The brick facade is painted bright white, and the glass windows are jet black. The tint is so dark you can't see inside at all. There's an etched picture of grapes and a bottle of wine in the glass, with The Backyard arching over it in white letters.
A blue awning stretches out, covering a good portion of the sidewalk. The same logo is printed on the dangling edge, and a neon light is bolted to the brick on the side, glowing the same bright blue.
I exhale a slow breath, forcing myself to take the final steps toward the door. Gripping the silver bar, I pull the door open and get hit with a rush of cool air and a flurry of scents. Garlic, onion, basil, tomato, all of them blend together into a delicious aroma that fills the dining room.
“Hi there!” a young girl says as she comes around the corner with her arms full of menus. “You're a little early. We don't open for another hour, sorry.”
“Oh no, I'm not here to eat. My name's Arisa, and today's my first day.”
“Arisa, yes, the new chef. I'm Daniel. Come on, follow me this way. I'll take you to the kitchen.” She smiles at me over her shoulder as she points out the bar and the dining area. “All the tables are numbered for the servers, to make it easy. You must be pretty special for Mr. Martisse to hire you without an in-person interview.”
“Special, no. I'm as surprised as you, but how could I say no?”
She giggles and nods. “Yeah, I hear that. Mr. Martisse is a hard man to say no to.”
Her long red hair is braided, resting almost against the center of her back. She's dressed nicely, wearing black dress pants and heels with a white blouse. There's a big pearl necklace hanging around her neck, and her earrings are long and thin with a pearl at the top. She has an old Hollywood movie star feel to her.
She's telling me a little bit about what a general shift looks like, and how no one shares tips, you get to keep what you make. “So, Mr. Martisse should be in the kitchen. If he's not, he'll be back shortly. He's a busy guy and tends to run around a lot. But Cheryl can get you started and show you the kitchen if he's not here.”
Daniel stops at the silver kitchen door and holds out her arm for me to go first. I push the door open.
“Hey,” a girl calls out with a touch of annoyance in her voice. “We go out that door, not in.”
“Calm down, Cheryl, she's new,” Daniel says behind me. “This is—”
“Arisa St. Germain? What the hell are you doing here?”
Cheryl Toomey. I know this girl. We went to culinary school together, and if I'm being honest, I didn't care for her much. She was one of those students who put themselves above everyone else. She was crass, loud, and reminded me of one of the girls from that movie Mean Girls. Eye rolls, snickers when someone else screwed up, everything you'd expect in high school.
“Hey, Cheryl. Today's my first day,” I say.
“Oh good, you two know each other,” Daniel says as she holds the door in her hands. “Where's Mr. Martisse?” she asks Cheryl.
“Oh, you mean Monroe?” The way she says his name makes me want to shake my head. She's playing a game with Daniel. One that says, I'm closer to the owner than you are. “Oh, he'll be back soon.” She sets down the knife and wipes her hands on the towel tucked in her waist. “I'm just doing some prep. Arisa, why don't you grab a menu and get familiar with it. I'm sure you won't know what half of the dishes even are.”
Of course, you don't think I will.
Cheryl is eyeing me, her lips pursed up tight with a sly smirk. I can already tell she isn't going to make working here easy. What she fails to realize is that I'm up for the challenge. I want this job. Having The Backyard on my résumé is going to do amazing things for my career. It will open doors that would never be available without it.
Most fresh-out-of-school culinary students start at holes in the wall or chain restaurants. It's supposed to be a build up to this, and yet, here I am.
Daniel lets her eyes drift to mine, and she gives me a sympathetic smile. “If you need anything, just let me know.” The door swings shut as she walks back into the dining room, leaving me alone with this crocodile of a human being.
“So,” Cheryl says as she picks up the knife and goes back to chopping stalks of celery, “I never thought I'd see you here. When did you get hired?”
“I applied a couple weeks ago and got the call to start two days ago.” I pull a menu from the stack, leaning against the counter, and begin to read through it.
“Well, Monroe and I go way back. I started here as a waitress two years ago. Then, after I got my culinary degree, Monroe bumped me up to sous chef. Don't worry, I'm sure he'll keep your degree in mind, but I highly doubt he's going to let you cook. He's very particular, and I know exactly what he's looking for. I'm sure you'll do fine with the customers, just make sure you smile when you take their orders.”
“Oh, I'm not here as a waitress, I'm a chef too,” I answer casually with my eyes still down on the menu. Surprise, I think to myself, keeping the teasing that's itching on my face in check.
I hear her knife stop, causing me to look up at her. Her eyes are wide, and she's glaring at me like I just insulted her. Her jaw is tight, and slightly crooked to one side. Thick lines crease her forehead, and her brows fold in.
As quickly as the expression is there, it's gone. She simply drops her eyes back to the celery and begins to chop again. “Well, I hope you know that Monroe has standards. He has expectations that I'm not sure you're ready for. If you disappoint him, he'll fire you on a dime. So, don't look to me to save your ass. We're not a team.”
“If I wasn't ready, I wouldn't be here.” Tilting my head, I give her a smug grin. “Maybe he sees something in me he's not getting from you, and that's why I'm here.”
She laughs out loud, her knife coming down on the cutting board with a loud snap. “Now that's a lie if I ever heard one. I'm here because I can cook. You're the one who's going to have to prove themselves. Not me.”
We're not teenagers in high school anymore. We're not even in college anymore. This is my career, and I'm readier than I've ever been. It's time to use my skills and do what I'm trained to. Cook.
She's not entirely wrong.
I know I shouldn't be in this position considering I'm a new graduate. Yet for some reason, I'm here, and I'm not going to let this opportunity go to waste. She can badger me all she wants; I'm not going to let her get to me. I'm going to prove her wrong. I belong here just as much as she does.
“Okay, I read the menu.” I slip it back in the rack and look around. “So, what can I do to help? Can I prep something.”
“Yeah, I don't think—”
A door slams in the back, cutting her off, and a man comes around the corner. He drops a box of sweet potatoes on the counter and places his hands on his hips as he looks up at me.
“You can start prepping the lobster bisque.”
Oh my lord. My lungs freeze, and my heart starts to pound instantly.
I've heard about Monroe Martisse. I've heard he's tough. I've heard his standards are high for his food. I also heard he's drop dead gorgeous. I can honestly say now that the rumors do no justice.
He's hot as hell. Dark brown hair is tousled on his head to perfection. He has high cheekbones, and a chiseled jaw that looks so sharp it could cut diamonds. His skin is smooth, and his eyes are light brown, almost gold under the lights. His forearms are both fully covered in ink, the designs dripping down to the tops his hands.
He folds his arms over his chest and lifts his head higher. Massive muscles pop and thicken as he flexes. “Or is that too much for you?” he asks, his voice husky and deep, sending a chill up my spine.
I can feel a lump forming in throat as my stomach starts to swirl. “No, no, not at all. I can do it. Not a problem.”
“Good, then let’s get on it. We'll have customers to feed soon.” He goes back down the small hall, disappearing into the back.
Cheryl has a smirk on her face as she shakes her head and goes back to chopping. “I'd wish you good luck, but we both know it isn't on your side.”
Frowning, I walk past her and go to the walk-in fridge. I scan the shelves, grabbing the butter, heavy cream, lobster, and all the other ingredients I can fit in my arms. I set them on the counter, and search until I find the right size pots.
Cheryl is watching me closely. I'm not sure if she's taking notes in her head or if I'm doing this all wrong. But I know this recipe, and I'm confident I can do this right. I chop the carrots and onion, the fresh parsley, tarragon, and thyme sprigs.
“Brandy and white wine. . .” I say out loud, looking around. I glance at Cheryl, and she shrugs her shoulder, but doesn't guide me to where it is. “All right, I'll find it myself.”
I cross the kitchen, but don't see any liquor for cooking. With my hands on my hips, my eyes spot the hallway that Monroe walked down. Maybe it's down there, I think to myself. Taking the sharp corner, I slam into another wall.
“Whoa,” he says, his hands gripping my arms and keeping me upright. “You need to slow down and watch where you're going.”
His fingertips press into my arms, sending a wave of electricity buzzing through my skin. I can feel the heat flush my cheeks and my heart starts to race. His eyes pin me in place as he looks down at me.
I'm in awe. He's hard as granite, his hands so large they wrap all the way around my arms. I can smell his cologne. Sandalwood and mint, that's what's invading my senses. He smells so damn good I want to lean in and smell more of him.
Monroe licks his lips as he releases my arms. His fingers linger for a long second on my skin, filling my body with intense heat. I swallow hard as his eyes soften. His thumbs swirl across my arm before he releases me completely. Our eyes dance around each other for a moment. His move around my face, hovering over my lips, then coming back to my eyes.
He clears his throat and runs his hand through his hair. “I don't want to see you being so neglectful in my kitchen again. Be aware, and always know your surroundings. You're not the only one working in this kitchen.”
“I'm sorry, Mr. Martisse, I'm just looking for the white wine and brandy for the bisque. I have no idea where it is.”
He looks up at Cheryl, his brows knitting hard. “So, you haven't had the tour yet. We need to fix that,” he says it loud enough so she hears him.
Cheryl's peeking over her shoulder, and quickly turns back to what she's doing.
“Call me Monroe,” he says. He jerks his head for me to follow him. “We keep all that stuff back here.”
I follow him down the hall to another storage room. My phone buzzes in my back pocket, but I ignore it as he points at different items. Monroe hands me the brandy and the white wine, and I follow him back into the hall.
“Thank you, Mr. Martisse.”
“Monroe,” he corrects me.
“Right, Monroe.”
“One more thing.” He holds up his finger and pulls open the door to his right. Monroe goes inside, coming back out holding a white coat. “If you're working for me, you need to look like it. Here, put this on.”
I take the chef coat and put it on. It fits perfectly, as if he already knew what size I wore. Buttoning the front, I run the pads of my fingers over the embroidered logo on the left breast. I love it.
“That's better, now you look like you belong here. All right, after you prep the bisque, I want you to start seasoning the scallops, and then take care of the sweet potatoes I brought in.”
“Absolutely,” I say, trying to not sound too moony over his looks. I need to stay professional. Monroe is definitely a guy who takes his business seriously, and I plan on showing him that I'm a serious chef, too.
Cheryl is glaring at me but doesn't say a word. What is she going to say? She knows as well as I do that he expected her to give me a tour and show me the ropes. She didn't. She chose to treat me like a thorn in her side instead of her new co-worker.
My phone buzzes a second time, so I check to see if my new boss is around. He's not. Tugging my phone out quickly, I see it's my best friend Corrine.
How's it going? is the first text. The second that came in a few minutes later is, Hello? You dead?
Not dead, but busy for sure. And it's good so far, I text back.
And your boss? I've heard he's easy on the eyes. So, how hot is he?
I giggle to myself and glance over my shoulder again. It's still safe. Cheryl is busy making fresh French fries, and she's facing away from me.
Omg, I have no words.
Do tell! Come on, don't leave me hanging!
He's hot as hell, Cor. Like if you combined Chris Hemsworth and Channing Tatum with Brock O'Hurn.
Wow, I need to see this for myself. Can you take a pic?
No! Are you crazy?
There's a noise behind me. I look back to see Cheryl giving me a death stare. Setting my phone down on the counter, I go back to prepping the food.
I'm so hyper focused on not messing up anything, that I'm locked in my own little world. I want this to be the best lobster bisque any new chef has ever cooked for Monroe Martisse.
The pot is starting to simmer. Adding the brandy, I flame off the alcohol. The second the flames are gone, I stir in the white wine and scrape the bits off the bottom. I reach inside my back pocket to get my phone and check the time, but it's not there.
Shit, what did I do with it?
I spin around, and my jaw falls open. Monroe is standing at my station with my phone in his hand. His eyes flick to mine. My heart is in my throat instantly, and I feel like I'm going to throw up.
He looks back down at my phone, then back to me. With firm strides, he crosses the room. I can't help but notice how his lips are thin and his jaw is jutting out. Deep lines crease his forehead as he stops right in front of me, his eyes so sharp they're stealing all the oxygen around me, leaving me breathless.
My face is on fire. The heat spreads down my neck and over my chest, making the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. This isn't happening. It can't be happening. I blink slowly, allowing the blackness to shelter me. I pray that when I open them again, Monroe is nowhere in sight, and this is just a trick my brain is playing on me.
As my lids open, he's still there, my phone securely tucked in his large palm. The screen is glowing bright, and I can faintly see the small, white letters floating in the blue and green bubbles.
He saw the messages. . . Holy shit he saw the messages!
No, no, no, no. This can't be happening!
That's it. I'm done. Fired. I didn't even make it a full shift.
What the fuck do I do?
“Here,” he says, handing me my phone. “You need to be more careful about personal chats. And for future reference, your phone stays in your pocket. I don't want to see it out again while you're in my kitchen.”
Monroe throws his body around and goes back to getting the kitchen ready for tonight's service. With embarrassment curdling my gut, and my heart hammering inside my chest, I can't make eye contact with him.
This is the worst first day ever.
2
Arisa
The dead bolt snaps shut with a loud thud. I drop my stuff into the basket at the entryway, and sluggishly walk into my living room.
I unbutton my chef coat, letting it hang open as I fall onto the tiny love seat against the wall. My apartment is small. Very small. The kitchen and living room are basically one room. There's a thin strip of metal that separates the beige carpet from the checkered linoleum.
The kitchen has a half-sized fridge with a single row of four cabinets that extend out over the sink. There's no dishwasher, and no central air. I have a small air conditioner in the living room window that doesn't even work.
My landlord claims he'll have a new one for me, but I'm starting to doubt it since I told him about it two weeks ago and I haven't heard anything since. The bedroom is the only door off the kitchen to the left, and the airplane sized bathroom is connected to that.
Don’t Touch Page 1
