ONE
Walker
“Fuck this!” I flung the frying pan like it was a Frisbee across the kitchen of my family’s restaurant.
The mushrooms that I’d been sautéing splattered everywhere, even covering my chef’s whites. The stainless steel pan hit the counter across from me as though it were a bowling ball, taking out the rack of spices like they were pins, the hot metal continuing down the line until it was stopped by my sous chef.
My sous chef grabbed his dominant hand, bent over in pain, and shouted, “Ahhh,” filling the silence in the room.
I didn’t have an apology in me. I didn’t even know how to say those words. All I had was, “I’m fucking out of here.”
I stormed off past my sister, Eden, and brother Colson, who had arrived a few minutes ago to speak to me, and headed to my office in the back. I pushed the door open with so much force that the wood threatened to snap from its hinges. I flipped on the light and went over to my chair, my bag sitting on top of it, and I grabbed the strap and tossed it over my shoulder, kickingthe chair into my desk when I was done. As I turned around to leave, Eden and Colson were standing in the doorway, blocking it.
“Sit down.” Eden’s blue gaze was so sharp that I could feel it slice through my skin.
My top lip curled. “I know you’re not talking to me.”
“Sit. Down.” She even pointed at my chair.
The thought of putting my anger in a seated position made the blood inside me boil to the brim. I backed up until I hit the wall behind my desk, sandwiching the framed awards and photos, giving zero fucks if the weight of my body or the pressure from my bag caused them to fall or their glass to shatter.
“What the hell do you want?” I roared across the small space.
“I want you to relax for a second.” Colson’s stare was piercing when it was normally so calm. “I want you to take a deep fucking breath before you explode.”
“I’m beyond exploding.”
My younger brother came closer and put his hands on the edge of my desk. “I understand you’re crashing out?—”
“You understand nothing. You’re not in my shoes. Your feet aren’t even in the same fucking room as them, so don’t you dare say that to me.” I shoved my hands into my pockets before I did something with them—something I’d regret.
“And don’t even think about bringing up the conversation from earlier.” I didn’t need to define when earlier was—they knew what they’d said in the kitchen that set me off. “If you want to add more cooked dishes to Toro’s menu because you think our customers who don’t eat raw fish aren’t satisfied with the current offerings, then you fucking create the dishes. I’m done.” I banged my fist against the wall. “Done!”
The reason my siblings were here was to discuss the menu of our seafood and raw bar restaurant. A menu I’d curatedwhen we opened in LA, despite already having two other locations. A menu I’d spent months perfecting, one that wasn’t even broken in yet—the LA restaurant was still too goddamn new to have data on what our patrons loved, hated, or desired.
What I did know was that the wait list to get a reservation was almost two months long and diners were doing everything in their power to get through our door. Reviewers were saying Toro was the best thing that had ever hit Southern California, and Dear Foodie—one of the top food influencers in the country—had given us her highest rating.
So, Eden and Colson had had some fucking nerve to come into Charred tonight—the steak house where I worked as the executive chef—and ask if they could talk to me.
They thought they knew everything when it came to food. They thought they knew more than me.
Fuck that.
Fuck them.
And fuck their ideas.
“Just hear me out, Walker.” Colson’s voice was low and calm.
I wanted to pick up the stapler from my desk and throw it at his throat.
“We want to capture a larger audience than just sushi and seafood eaters. If there isn’t an adequate selection of cooked items, giving them a bit more than the handful that’s on the menu now, they’re not going to come?—”
“Didn’t you hear a goddamn thing I just said? I’m not talking about this.” With my head pressed against the drywall, my eyes closed, and my teeth clenched like I was at the dentist and he was taking an impression of my mouth. “There are seven cooked dishes on that menu. That’s more than a handful. Each one is different. How many more do they fucking want?”
“We need a chickenoption?—”
My eyes burst open. “Chicken? Are you fucking kidding me?” My fist, now in a different spot than before, nailed the wall. I waited to feel glass or metal or some sharp material stab my skin. Miraculously, I felt nothing but wall. “Take your fucking chicken, Colson, and shove it up your ass.”
