SWNOVELS Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 4
“What do you mean they resigned by text?”
I was standing at the heart of Descartes’ dining area, surrounded by rustic décor, stained glass, and useless idiots. I was two idiots short, though. Donny and Heather, my servers, had decided to quit together and hand me a generous twenty minutes notice, along with a figurative middle finger.
“Let me explain again. I’ll refrain from using big, scary words this time.” Rhyland, my restaurant manager, smoothed his crisp dress shirt with his palm, ignoring the staff milling around us to get the place ready for service. “Now, I’m going to talk extra slow, since I know your brain short-circuits once you’re pissed off. So Donny took out his phone, typed out a text saying he and Heather weren’t going to show up for service today, and hit the Send butto—”
“I suggest you get to the point before your balls make it to tonight’s entrée specials,” I said, cutting him off and glancing at my De Bethune watch. “You have five minutes. Use them wisely.”
“First of all? Work on your people skills. You’re about as personable as an STD test.” Rhyland sucked his teeth, shaking his head. He looked like a fucking Hugo Boss model in a suit. At six-foot-four with a blond, Charlie Hunnam man-bun, and a five-workouts-a-week physique, he distracted ninety-nine percent of my employees. “Second, you’re gonna have to tone it down. We live in an era where employees have rights and shit.”
“I can guarantee you their rights don’t include fucking me over with a ten-foot pole and twenty minutes notice.” I turned my thumb ring on my finger, imagining I was wringing someone’s neck.
He scrubbed his face exasperatedly. “See? This kind of language is why three of your ex-staffers filed a complaint against you to OSHA.”
“The R&B singer?” I frowned.
“OSHA, not Usher.” Rhyland pinched the bridge of his nose. “The pro-workers organization?”
“Doesn’t ring a bell. Why would Donny and Heather quit together, anyway?” I bit out. I was in a particularly dangerous mood today, having spent the last hour arguing, wrestling, and nearly creaming my pants thanks to Calla fucking Litvin, the bane of my miserable existence.
Rhyland stroked his chin leisurely, his douchebag vibes dripping all over my floor. “Hmm. Let me think. Maybe because they’re engaged?”
“To each other?” I tried to conjure them into memory, but I was bad with faces. And names. Fine, I actually had no fucking clue who Heather and Donny were. I just knew I needed them to open service tonight.
Rhy chuckled. “Shit, Row, do you care about anything other than work?”
“Baseball, during seasons the Mets don’t suck.” I glanced around, throwing blood-chilling looks at my staff to make sure they weren’t slacking. “How was I supposed to know they were bumping uglies?”
“Through the power of sight and deduction. They were all over each other like a genital rash after spring break.” Rhyland threw charming smiles at servers who smoothed tablecloths and arranged utensils around us. The man could flirt with a fucking Stanley cup and win it over. “You kicked them out of the meat fridge the other day, remember? Told Donny next time you saw his meat in that fridge, you’d make dumpling stuffing out of his intestines.”
That did sound like something I’d say.
Besides being my restaurant manager, Rhyland Coltridge was also my best friend. He’d been my wingman since I graduated from Le Cordon Bleu and called him up to supervise my restaurant in Paris. Rhyland was a boyfriend-for-hire by trade—a PC title for what really was de facto a male escort—but I’d convinced him to work with me through a fat paycheck, good food, and a limitless amount of pussy. That last selling point was his favorite. He’d yet to find a hole he didn’t want to shove his dick into.
Descartes was our last hurrah together, though. Rhy wanted to be a full-time pretend boyfriend in the Big Apple, after blazing through most of the willing women in Western Europe. The money was excellent, the hours measly in comparison to running a Michelin-starred restaurant, and one of his filthy-rich clients had bought him a condo in Manhattan as a birthday gift. Therefore, three weeks ago, he’d informed me he was done with the customer service field.
The only customers I want to service are millionaire women who pay me hourly for longingly staring at their eyes during family functions and telling their relatives and jealous ex-husbands how much I love them had been his exact words.
“You really don’t pay attention to anyone other than yourself and your kitchen, huh?” Rhy’s green eyes narrowed.
That wasn’t completely true. I did notice one person. She had blue-tipped, Rachel Green hair, wore overalls unironically, and possessed the ability to be klutzy without looking like a complete moron.
And I wanted to stay as far away from her as humanly possible. This wouldn’t be a problem, though. I had the uncanny ability to cut people off, and Calla Litvin had been plucked from my life five years ago, straight from the root. She was squarely on my shit list.
“Let’s get to the solution portion of this conversation.” I tapped my cigarette pack on my thigh, eager for a smoke. “How are we solving our staff problem?”
It was going to be a bitch to hire and train two new employees if I could even find them in this godforsaken town. The citizens of Staindrop weren’t exactly fans of mine, and Descartes was booked to the max until its closing date, the day before Christmas.
January first couldn’t come soon enough. That was when my one-way ticket to London was scheduled.
New restaurant. New adventure. Zero baggage.
“Become a tolerable, relatable human being and stop scaring off everyone around you.” Rhyland sauntered over to the bar, crouched down to throw the fridge open, and popped open a bottle of Kronenbourg 1664 by banging the cap against the edge of the bar.
“Thanks for the tip.” My nostrils flared. “Any other ideas that fit our time constraint?”
“You wanted something immediate?” He took a pull of his drink. “Then your best bet is your sister and your mother.”
“The former is on bed rest, and the latter is recovering from the flu. Think harder. That brain of yours is good for more than taking directions from lonely rich women.”
“I’m too hot to use my brain. Only average people have to saddle themselves with an actual personality.”
“You have a personality,” I informed him dryly. “A shitty one, but it’s in existence nonetheless.”
He pointed at me with the bottle, not even a little offended. “What’s your idea, Einstein?”
“Find me Donny and Heather, drag them here by the hair, and make them give us the two weeks’ notice they owe us.”
“Donny’s bald.” Rhyland took another greedy sip.
“He’ll be limbless too, once I’m done with him.”
Rhy swished the beer in his mouth, mulling over my words. “Even if I did want to spend my night at the police station awaiting bail for assault and harassment, they’ve probably already boarded the plane.”
Fuck.
Descartes attracted people from all over the East Coast, mainly out-of-towners. The price point and fine-dining aspect of the menu didn’t appeal to Staindrop’s usual palate, which favored anything that was breaded, deep-fried, oversalted, and swimming in ketchup.
“You must know some servers looking for a job.” I began pacing. Service opened in less than thirty minutes, and I had left Taylor, my sous-chef, to handle the kitchen while trying to extinguish this fire.
Rhy gave me a concerned look. “Not anyone desperate enough to work for your grumpy ass. Flip side? You’re about to run off to London to open your shiny, new restaurant.”
Flip side, my ass. He knew me better than that. My perfectionism wouldn’t allow this ship to sink, even if it had a hole the size of Antarctica at the bottom. Descartes was still mine, until it closed. I’d die before I failed.
“Hold on a minute.” Rhyland held up his finger, brows pinching into a tight V. “Why are you dressed like an Italian mobster who got lost at a Neiman Marcus store?”
I looked down. I wore a black dress shirt and designer slacks, a departure from my signature Henley and black, ripped denim uniform.
“Is it a crime to look good?” I really didn’t need him riding my ass about Cal right now.
“Hope the fuck not.” Rhyland pulled another beer from the fridge, uncapped it, and slid it my way across the bar. “I’d get life without parole, and do you know what they do to people like me in prison?” He gestured toward his face.
“Ten hours of community service and sex addiction rehab?” I asked conversationally. Someone needed to keep his ego from overtaking the continent. I was doing the whole nation a service.
“Oh shit.” Rhyland slapped the back of his neck. “Artem Litvin passed away. You went to his funeral today, right?”
Better get it over with. Rhy was going to find out sooner or later that Cal was in town. “He was the one teacher at school I didn’t want to set on fire.” I shrugged, bringing the bottle to my lips.
“So you saw Cal.” Rhyland’s eyebrows were floating somewhere above the atmosphere.
“Briefly,” I grunted.
“Wanna talk about it?”
“Hard pass. She did enough talking for the entire decade.”
“Still adorably weird, I see.” He plastered his palms against the designer bar between us. “Well, if you wanna talk about it, we can grab a beer after we close.”
Rhy and I never “talked” about things. We bickered and taunted. Sometimes even brawled. Had I really been that pathetic growing up? I remembered being in love with her, but I didn’t recall handing her my nuts in a flower bouquet for Valentine’s Day.
I banged the empty beer over the bar after one sip, pointing at the thick butcher block between us. “Clean up the condensation before we open. This is not amateur hour.”
“Just remember you are not that kid anymore.” Rhyland produced a rag from a drawer behind the bar, slapping it over his shoulder. He made his way back to me. “You know, the one who’d have stayed here getting a McJob if it meant she let you in her flowery corduroy pants.”
“Shut up.”
“Eyes on the prize, Row. You can’t afford to veer off plan. You have a new restaurant to open.”
“Listen to yourself,” I snarled, fingers tightening around the shape of my cigarette pack in my front pocket. “I’m not changing shit for anyone.”
“She eats saltine crackers with a fork.” He slid the rag over the butcher block, wiping the condensation and ignoring my words. “Anyone deserves better than that. Even your sorry ass.”
I still remembered Cal sitting with those saltines at my kitchen table, acting a fool because she didn’t like the way the salt clung to her fingers. Rhy was right. The woman was barely civilized. I had no business thinking about her, let alone pining after her. Was she even a woman? She was still acting like a child. She needed a babysitter, not a boyfriend. And I wasn’t interested in either position.
“Enough,” I barked out. “I’m at no risk of liking Calla Litvin again. Not from afar and definitely not up close. You’re wasting your breath talking about her. You have twenty-four hours to find us two new servers.” I rapped my knuckles on the bar. “Get your ass in gear.”
Rhyland downed the rest of his beer, heaving out a sigh. “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt.”
I flipped him the bird, trekking my way to the kitchen. “No fraternizing with the patrons!” I called out, as I did every night.
“No promises,” he called back, as he did every night too.
The evening couldn’t get worse if a meteor landed directly on my fucking head.
I was wrong.
The evening got worse.
Exponentially so and at a plane-crashing speed. Hot mess would be putting it mildly.
On the outside, it looked normal. Expensive utensils clinked in harmony; chatter rustled through the aromatic air. There was laughter, hushed conversations, and upholstered chairs scraping softly. The kitchen sweltered, the scents of sweet marjoram, thyme, and rosemary clinging to my nostrils. I loved the sensory overload that came with helming a restaurant. The fast-paced culture of it. It drowned out my fucked-up thoughts and forced me to focus on the here and now. And there were a lot of fucked-up thoughts, courtesy of my messy childhood.
Our normal ratio was one server for every three tables. This service, it was one server for every six. Considering we had a ten-course prix fixe menu, availability was nonexistent. And the patrons were pissed. Rightly so.
Tables had to wait up to twenty minutes between dishes, and the flustered servers were so overworked, one had spilled red wine over someone’s Dior dress, and another had stepped over a customer’s casted foot. My chef de partie had decided now was a good time to have a mental breakdown because a customer had insulted his scallop caviar tartare, and the kitchen porter had thrown a tantrum after Rhy had asked her to serve beverages for the night.
Overall, if I could erase this entire day from my memory bank, I would, and pay handsomely for the pleasure.
“Chef!” The maître d’ popped her head into my kitchen. A twentysomething Swiftie with blond side bangs and bright red lips.
“No,” I said automatically.
She cringed, about to shrivel into her face.
“What is it, Katie?” Taylor, my sous-chef, spun on his heel, giving her his full attention. He was a good-looking kid. Tall, Black, tatted, with hazel eyes that made every female staffer swoon whenever he was nearby.
“There’s a VIP customer who wishes to speak to Chef,” she said sheepishly.
“No,” I reiterated, chopping celery at the speed of light.
“Yes.” Rhy zipped into the kitchen, bypassing the maître d’. “People come here to get a glimpse of the famous Chef Casablancas. You need to make an appearance anyway. You do every night.”
I put the knife down. We stared each other down. I knew he was right. I hated people, but I loved my career. If parading myself around like a zoo animal meant getting patrons more hyped for my next culinary venture, it was no skin off my back.
“Fine.” I slapped the swinging doors of the kitchen open, prowling to the dining area. “Can tonight get any fucking worse?”
“Absolutely,” Rhyland said ardently, high on my misery. He joined me as we sliced through the white-clothed tables and candlelit chandeliers. “Wait till you see who wants to have a word with you.”
That got me intrigued. It couldn’t be Cal. First of all, she wasn’t a VIP. Second, she was too broke to afford a glass of water in my establishment, let alone eat an entire meal. Third, even if she had all the funds in the world, she still had the palate of a toddler. Her taste in food—if you could even call it that—was deplorable. She lived on a steady diet of corn dogs, Pop-Tarts, and Sour Patch Kids. She would eat her own foot on national television before willingly tasting an ortolan.
We approached a square table of what seemed to be a couple on a date. The first person appeared harmless enough—blond, leggy, the too-short-to-be-a-model type, in a dress that could moonlight as a sports bra, it was so short. Then my eyes landed on the man sitting in front of her.
Kieran Carmichael.
A privileged piece of shit whose daddy owned the one and only department store in town. The human answer to smegma.
I had suffered through twelve years of school with this prick. We were bitter rivals. Both jocks, both popular, both wanting to piss on each other’s territory. Ran in the same circles, dated the same girls.
Kieran’s favorite hobby used to be telling me I stank of the fish my fisherman dad sold to his father every day, and I’d enjoyed reminding him he had less personality than a stop sign. Ordinarily speaking, I would put a hole through someone’s face if they bothered me and move on with my life, but Kieran was a different breed. His family had power and influence. I had known if I’d messed up his face, my father would have been out of a job, and then there’d be no dinner on the Casablancas table. So I’d sucked it up. Braved twelve years of digs and bullshit.
Now my family no longer depended on his, and it was game on. Two decades’ worth of anger seared through my guts, lava bubbling in my veins. “Thought you said a VIP wanted to see me.” I eyeballed the maître d’ next to me, arching a brow.
“I—I—sir, he is a famous soccer player,” Katie stuttered nervously. “For…Ashburn DC?”
“FC.” Kieran patted the corners of his mouth with a napkin, a bored smirk mortared on his face. “I have the season off because of an injury.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“Normally they want players to stick around, attend home games while in physical therapy, but my contract bypassed all that red tape. I’m…well, kind of a big deal.” Kieran gave us a smile with so much cheese, I got fucking heartburn.
I kept my eyes on his date just to piss him off. “How can I help you?”
“Ohmigod, hi!” His date flashed me a megawatt beam, fanning herself with a menu. “Gosh, you’re so tall. I’ve seen you on TV but never realized you were this handsome up close!”
She had a soft Alabama drawl, and I was extremely close to laughing. Kieran was such a fucking cliché, going for the Southern-belle type.
“Thank you.” I bowed my head in faux humility. “How can I be of service?”
“No, really.” She squeezed her breasts together, leaning toward me. Subtle as a tank, this one. “We came here because I told Kieran—didn’t I tell you, Kiki?—I have to taste everything you make after seeing you on The Great Chef Down. And when you tossed pepperoni on that contestant and told him he was a prick pizza—priceless!” She clapped excitedly, laughing.
Was she going to get to the point sometime soon? Because I had a service in crisis and a leftover boner from pinning Cal to her floor this afternoon. My dick still twitched every time I thought about those blue hair tips.
“Annie wanted to let you know the food is delicious.” Kieran yawned into his fist, as though admitting I made good food pained him. I hoped it did.
“Already know that.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
Kieran glanced at his Rolex, taking a bite of his entrée. “You’re welcome for the validation, buddy.”
I wasn’t his buddy. But I was about to become his undoing if he didn’t evacuate himself from my premises. Averting my gaze his way, I said, “Get the fuck out.”
“Excuse me?” He tilted one brow, calm and collected. He had ridiculous, shiny, light-brown hair and wore a black turtleneck, the international prick uniform. I didn’t buy the whole tamed-down version he was selling me.
“I said: Get. The. Fuck. Out.”
“We’re paying customers,” Kieran pointed out unflappably.
“No amount of money is worth you contaminating my restaurant. The lady is welcome to stay.” I clasped my hands behind my back, ignoring Rhyland, who shot daggers at me with his eyes. “Dateless.”
“She’s my cousin.”
“Personally, I’m not a fan of incest, but that explains your IQ.”
“Oh my goodness.” Blondie shielded her face with a manicured hand, ducking her head sideways. “Kiki, you never told me he hates your guts. We should leave.”
“I see at least your cousin’s parents aren’t related. Good idea. I’ll show you to the door.” I stepped back to give them space to stand up, knowing we were drawing the attention of other diners and still not giving much of a shit. I Loathed this man with a capital L. If I could serve him a piece of extra-cold revenge for everything he had put me through, I didn’t mind the Page Six headline. Nothing kissing a few babies and signing a nice check to an animal shelter couldn’t fix.
Kieran stood up unhurriedly, showing no sign of embarrassment, and his cousin followed suit. “Hadn’t realized I cut you so deep I carved you into an asshole.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I brushed off invisible lint from his designer turtleneck. “You’re no more than an anecdote. It just so happens I don’t feed bullies—they’re already full of shit. Now kindly fuck off.”
I ignored Rhyland’s stunned face, along with the dozen phones directed at me, agape mouths, and hushed whispers.
“Did you just throw out a customer?” Rhyland jerked his thumb over his shoulder. Diners were shifting uncomfortably in their seats. I wasn’t worried. Chefs were known to be douche rockets. Gordon Ramsay’s entire career was built upon the ruins of other people’s hopes and dreams. “One of the most popular soccer players on earth at that?”
“He’s no Messi.” I glanced at Kieran’s plate, noting it was completely empty.
“No, but you are.” Rhy scrubbed his face, probably itching for a joint. “Messy as fuck, not to mention reckless.”
“Resign.”
“Been there, done that,” he reminded me. “Can’t fucking wait to kiss this job goodbye.”
“You can keep the kissing part; I’ve no interest in your herpes. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I stomped my way back toward the kitchen.
A hand reached out to me from one of the tables. Slender, cold fingers laced around my wrist. I turned to look at the person. It was a brunette in her early thirties. Sharply dressed.
“Mr. Casablancas?” She flashed a seductive smile that did nothing for me, the lilt of a French accent ribboning around her words. “My name is Sophie Avent. I’m a reporter for Cook’s Illustrated.”
I never gave interviews. Unless it was a part of my contractual obligation for a TV show promo, in which case I had my people go over the questions in advance with a fine-tooth comb. My past was too tangled, too complicated for me to open my life up for the world’s entertainment.
“I was wondering if you would—”
“No,” I cut into her words.
“You didn’t hear my question yet,” she pointed out smartly.
“Unless it ends with ‘let me suck your cock’—in which case, the answer would be ‘no, but thank you’—the answer is still no.”
“Heyyyyyy there!” Rhyland slid between us, chuckling good-naturedly. Sophie Avent’s face looked like I’d just slapped her, and I didn’t blame her. There was no excuse for this level of asshole-ness. Normally I reined it in much better. Rhy bowed his head at Sophie, looking genuinely horrified. He was a damn good actor, and an even better liar. “So, first of all—apologies for his crassness; easing him into civilization has been a step-by-step process. Clearly, he escaped his cage.” Rhyland rearranged the utensils on her table, his heartthrob smile working extra hours. “Second, your dinner is on the house and will be accompanied by a lovely 1998 Chateau Lafite Rothschild and an exclusive ten-minute interview.”
That wine was close to seventeen hundred dollars. And my time was priceless. Nonetheless, Sophie’s expression remained unimpressed. “Did he just…?”
“I wish I could tell you he didn’t, but we have an audience, so let’s focus on how to remedy the situation and make you happy.”
She curved an eyebrow. “You can make me happy, I’m sure.” The suggestion had been clear.
“Consider it done, sweetheart. Now!” Rhy patted her shoulder, his American Psycho smile still intact. “Please allow me to direct all my wrath—excuse me, attention—toward my volatile, genius boss. Be right back to take your order. And number.” He winked.
He slapped a hand over my back and led me to the kitchen, his face turning from pleasant to murderous. “What the hell was that?” He punched a wall as soon as we closed the door and were out of sight. The whole building rattled. He pointed at the door. “Every single person in that restaurant was staring at you like you were crazy. Know why?”
I had a feeling I did but waited for him to confirm it.
Rhyland opened his arms wide. “Because you are crazy!”
“Kieran made my life hell in high school.” I perched against my station, picking up a Georgia peach and halving it with my knife. I tossed it into a pan, along with a spoonful of lemon juice and some sugared rum, tipped the pan down, and let it flame and caramelize. The fire danced in yellows and oranges between me and Rhy, who rested his fists on my counter.
“Yeah, I remember, I had a front-row seat to that horror show. You two had a four-year-long pissing contest, and everybody got rained on.” Rhyland pushed off my counter, pacing the small space between us as I lowered the flame. “But you’re no longer in high school, and he might no longer be a dick.”
“It’s a free country; I can serve whomever I want.” I tilted the pan here and there, letting the peach simmer in its own juices. “And I choose not to serve male genitalia.”
What I needed was a cigarette. Didn’t give a shit that it was probably giving me cancer. Didn’t have much to live for anyway.
“Fine. Kieran is a sore subject for you, so I’ll let it slide. That thing with the journalist, though?” He pointed at the door. “That’s sexual harassment.”
“I said I don’t want to fuck her.” I glowered at him, sliding the peach onto a plate.
“You said she wants to fuck you.”
“Where’s the lie?” I flicked my gaze over his shoulder to watch through the partition window as a server handed the Sophie chick our best wine. “If I had a drink for every journo who made a pass at me, I’d be Hemingway.”
Rhy tucked his iPad under his arm, shaking his head. “Women don’t like to be told they aren’t desirable. You’d know that if you ever bothered talking to one.”
“You’re making me sound like a misogynist. It’s not like I talk to men either. I’m an equal-adversity person.”
“Well, the good news is, now tonight can’t get any worse.” Rhyland stared out the door’s window.
“Chef?” Taylor came to a screech in front of me, holding on to my butcher block.
“Yeah?”
“The grill station is on fire.”