Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“That’s a surprise.” I just couldn’t shut up apparently. “Thinking was never your strong suit.”
She took a deep breath, flattened her lips, and tipped her chin up. Finally, she walked off toward my office upstairs. I punched the double swing doors to the back of the house, heading into my lair.
“Chef!” Taylor looked up from his station, dipping a spoon into a simmering sauce and tasting it. “Good afternoon.”
“We’ll see about that.” I slipped into my chef shirt mid-walk. “How much Wagyu beef is in the house?” I parked my ass in front of the sink, scrubbing my hands and arms clean. My kitchen was neater than a hospital. All white uniforms and squeaky quartz tops. It had earned me a reputation as a frightening boss, but whoever survived under my reign for over a year was usually snatched by the competitors or went solo to see great success.
“About twenty pounds, Chef,” one of my commis chefs called out.
“About?” I snapped my head up, shooting him a death glare. “Did I ask you to fucking guess? You better take your inventory before I step into my kitchen.”
I fastened the buttons of my uniform shirt at rapid speed, scowling at everyone in my radius.
“Yes, Chef. What I meant is twenty-two pounds exactly, Chef,” choked out the rookie.
“That’s better.”
“Thank you, Ch—”
“Where’s my Wüsthof knife?”
My chef de partie muttered, “The last thing I’d give this man is a sharp object.”
“Run that mouth again, Chef, and you’ll be running to the unemployment center near you next.” But I wasn’t that much of a dweeb to fire someone for speaking the truth. Especially when that someone worked fourteen-hour shifts five times a week for me. This was a demanding, harsh business. Not for the faint of heart. And I fucking loved it.
Loved that it was stressful, full of tension, hard on the body and the soul. Loved that most people in my position were nursing a fucking cocaine habit to keep them functioning. Running a Michelin-starred kitchen was like waking up and going to war every day. I felt like Napoleon, high on that power. Food wasn’t just food. Food was community, it was passion, it was art. It was the stepping stones of the body, nutrition, and science. It was chemistry and facts, and at the same time creative abandon. Food was everything.
A knife was handed to me by a brave soul, and I began sifting through my four-hour braised point-cut brisket. I tuned out the world and started working.
I cut, slashed, and scythed expertly, minding the overlapping muscles. My hands flew over the meat. This was my zone. My talent. My thing.
Making food was like stitching up a fantasy. Food was an erotic experience.
Cal’s voice drifted into my mind.
“I’m starting to rethink it.”
Normally, I didn’t mind being a dick to people. But with her, I cared. She didn’t like men for whatever reason. She might not like me, but at least she wasn’t scared of me. Though that was about to change if I continued acting like a dickhead.
I slammed the knife against the tender meat, suppressing a grunt.
“Tastes like ass to me.”
She hated me. Why wouldn’t she? I had spent every moment since she’d gotten back reminding her I hated her. My fingers tripped over the knife, almost dropping it. I cursed softly.
It didn’t help that I couldn’t look directly at her. That her existence was a stench I couldn’t un-smell. She was here now, not only in my territory but deep inside my head. Running circles in her little boots. I was just not used to having her in my vicinity. I’d get over my weird fixation in the next few weeks. Maybe even days.
You’ve gotten over her. She’s the past.
But if that was the truth, why didn’t I tell her I was McMonster?
My suspicion Cal was oBITCHuary had been confirmed the day she’d told me she was back in Staindrop. I’d put two and two together. And still, I didn’t fess up.
A sharp pain ripped through my forefinger.
Shit.
Blood oozed from my index, a thin river of crimson snaking along the cutting board. A fragment of my skin was nailed to the meat, which would now need to be thrown into the trash. “Shit, boss, are you okay?” Taylor rushed in my direction, tearing a wad of paper towels and pressing them against my finger.
“I’d be better if you’d fuck off,” I muttered. I hated being coddled.
It was the first time I had cut myself in the kitchen in over a decade.
And it was a great reminder of what I already knew.
When Cal was around, I bled.
My mood got progressively worse as the evening went on. Not because we were short on staff. We weren’t. Rhy had managed to hire two qualified temps from Vermont at an outrageous hourly rate. Still, I was distracted, uneasy; I checked on Cal through the window slit between the kitchen and the bar to make sure she wasn’t vomiting in anyone’s soup or accidentally falling in their lap. Seemed like she wasn’t.