Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“Wouldn’t you?” Zander asks.
“Course I would. I’ll be in the corner, watching all the hot young women you bring back to your bed.”
“Okay,” Zander says, grinning but looking uncomfortable. “He means young compared to himself, first of all. I don’t–” Zander clears his throat, deciding it’s better not to finish that sentence. “And you do realize that would mean you’d be seeing me, too? Should I start worrying that all those times you brushed my ass weren’t an accident?”
“Secret’s out,” Edgar says, shrugging. “Some nights are taco nights. Some nights are sausage nights. Wanna fight about it, asshole?”
I’m watching the exchange with widened eyes, not sure if this is normal or out of character for them. Paisley sees the look on my face and nudges me. “They do this all the time,” she whispers. “It’s okay.”
Edgar throws his hands up, ending the fight. “If you’re done fiddlin’ my balls, I actually got some work to do.”
Zander shakes his head. “I’d blow out my back reaching low enough to mess with your balls.”
Edgar grins. “I’ll give you a blown out back, you pretty-boy-motha fucka. Just give me a minute to stretch.”
Zander runs a hand through his hair, still smiling when he turns his attention back to me. “Sorry about him. He’s harmless. I think he’s off his medicine today. Just wait till noon time when he gets sleepy because he’s missing his nap.”
“I’m old, not deaf you piece of shit,” Edgar snaps.
Zander ignores him, pointing to a collection of clear plastic bins holding all sorts of vegetables that still need to be broken down, I’m assuming. “The servers will all get here in a couple hours. I’ll introduce you when they get here. Until then, we’re going to prep.”
I spend the next few hours listening to Zander carefully run me through my morning tasks. He warns me that we may be tweaking some of the things he’s teaching me now as he makes adjustments based on the next week of service.
He stands dangerously close as he supervises me, sometimes touching my arm or my shoulder to emphasize a point. I’m almost positive it’s all innocent–just a guy who was probably brought up with Italian parents. At least I think his parents could be Italian, if the last name, olive skin, and dark, wavy hair are any indication. Still, every time he touches me, I glance toward the door, making sure Nolan hasn’t suddenly appeared.
I flatten pastries for one of the desserts, prep dough to be rested for the dinner rolls, boil scraps for stocks, and help make one of the main sauces that gets incorporated into several recipes. All three of us team up to pull tiny bones from fish, cut three different colors of pasta and roll them in a special order so they look like flowers, and finally to pick edible flowers for last-minute garnishes.
As the morning goes on, I feel my first wave of relief. Nothing he shows me is outside my abilities. I’d worried that culinary school was just something to pad my resume and wouldn’t actually prepare me for this. But I know everything he’s showing me. If it’s not a recipe I’ve seen, I at least understand the principle well enough to figure it out and adapt. I even make a suggestion about the roasted potatoes that Zander seems impressed by and promises to try out.
Mostly, the four of us work silently when Zander isn’t explaining a new task to me. But the constant way he keeps touching me is ramping up my anxiety. He’s doing it to Paisley and even Edgar–it’s just that I know I need to find a way to tell him to stop before Nolan happens to see it. I hate that Nolan is looming over me when I would otherwise be enjoying the hell of this morning.
After an hour, I’m already convinced I’ll need to have a conversation with Zander before long. He has put his hand on mine to make a suggestion to my technique. He puts his hand on my lower back when he passes. His face comes close enough to mine that I can smell the mint on his breath when he tells me my julienne cut on the onions is exactly what he’s looking for.
It’s fine, though. Zander seems like a good guy, and I’m sure I’ll be able to have a quick talk about personal space with him and he’ll understand. I don’t have to admit I’m mostly just worried Nolan is going to walk in and try to murder him if he sees him in action.
I’ve been at Taste for a little over two hours when Nolan arrives with the serving staff. There are two women and a young guy all dressed in nice black clothes. The four of them stand out in the dining room talking about something I can’t hear as I watch over the sauce.