“Are you asking if she’s here now? No. Or are you asking if she’s going to come back? No to that too. It wouldn’t be fair to get involved when I don’t have a single fucking hour in my day to dedicate to anyone.”
“You have an hour, Walker. Let’s not be dramatic.”
My feet left the table and slammed onto the carpet. “How about you come live my life for a week and see if that statement holds up?” My chest was ready to split open and purge. “The four of you focus solely on The Weston Group. Me? I have forty-seven fucking hats, and I’m wearing them all at the same goddamn time.”
“I hear you.”
My fingers clenched into a fist. “No, Eden, you don’t fucking hear me. None of you do. And you know what? I’m tired of having this conversation because it doesn’t matter how loud I yell, you still don’t listen.”
“I have an idea … let’s talk about something that doesn’t make you want to throw your whiskey at a wall, okay?”
The noise that came out of me sounded like a growl.
“Like the opening of Horned San Antonio,” she continued. “I want to tell you all about it.”
“You mean the opening that’s already started rumors about my whereabouts?” I put her on speakerphone and pulled up one of the notifications that had come through. Since the article about opening night had been posted twelve hours ago, that gave the rumor mill plenty of time to speculate. All the gossipers needed was a tear in the seam. A tiny fucking slit, andthe allegations would spiral. “I know you’ve seen some of the theories of why I wasn’t there.”
“What are you referring to?”
“Come on, Eden. I have no doubt that you have Google alerts set up for each of us. So, you’re well aware of every goddamn word that’s said. Knowing you, you’ve probably already emailed our publicist so she can hose things off before they ignite.” I set the phone on my lap and wiped my lips.
“Ah. I see we’re talking about the frying pan incident and how, allegedly, our sous chef is pressing charges and you’re in hiding so you won’t be arrested for assault.” She paused. “Yes, I took care of that. But please tell me you’ve reached out to our sous chef, Walker. The man’s hand is really hurt.”
“Of course I have. I’m not a fucking animal.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Are you trying to goad me into an argument?” My lips were now curled. “Because you’re doing a hell of a job at it.”
“Before I call you a dickhead again and hang up, let me just state that the opening went exceptionally well. The food was outstanding. The staff, for the most part, handled the massive influx. Patrons seemed extremely pleased when they left. And reviews are already pouring in, most of them five stars. You would have been really, really proud.”
When I swallowed my spit, it felt like acid going down my throat. “I’d clap if my fingers weren’t in a fist.”
“Our family knows what you put into that restaurant. We know the opening wouldn’t have happened without you. We know that you’re the reason we’re getting those five-star reviews.”
I ran my hand through the back of my hair, and on the next pass, I pulled the strands. “I don’t need the recognition.”
“I don’t care. I want you to have it. You earned it. You deserve it. I only wish you had been there to see the smilingfaces of our customers and hear the compliments that were rolling in. But you definitely needed the break more than you needed to be at the opening.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered if I had seen them or heard them.”
“Oh, Walker,” she said softly. “You’ve forgotten all the good, haven’t you? And there’s been so much good. The accomplishments you’ve had. The titles you’ve earned with your cookbooks. The royalty you’ve cooked for. The money you’ve made. The records you’ve broken with your cookware. There isn’t a single chef in the world who’s built what you have.”
I drained the rest of my glass, reaching for the bottle on the table to pour myself more. “It’s not forgotten, Eden. It’s just not at the forefront of my mind.”
“What’s there instead?”
I stared at the amber liquor as I swirled it in the tumbler. This time, when I sipped, I felt one hell of a burn. “How much I fucking hate my job.”
“Walker Weston, what are you doing in here?” the executive chef asked as I entered the kitchen of the hotel’s restaurant—one that the Westons surprisingly didn’t own.
He was a man I’d known for many years, one we’d even tried to recruit to take over a location of Charred. The bastard had turned us down, and I could admit that the hotel was lucky to have him.
“I’m staying at the hotel, and I got a little hungry.” I shook his hand as he stood behind the line. The plates for the patrons were positioned in front of him. Before they were put on a tray and taken into the dining room, he added the finishing touches and gave his seal of approval. “Instead of ordering room service,I thought I’d come in and whip something up. Unless you mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind.” He released my hand and clasped my shoulder. “It’s an honor to have you in my kitchen.” He pointed at the walk-in fridge and freezer. “Help yourself to anything that’s in there. There’s even a gas range around the corner. I use it when I’m testing new recipes. It’s yours for the evening.”
I gave him a nod and went into the cooler. I hadn’t eaten all day. Shit, I didn’t think I’d eaten in two days. The only thing that was in my stomach was whiskey.
