And a lot of it.
Inside the large fridge, I glanced at the shelves, where there were open bins of produce. Greens I could play with. Root vegetables I could sauté. The several options of fresh fish would easily pair, and with a kitchen like this, there was a plethora of sauces I could make.
I waited for the feeling to come over me.
The one that made my fingers tingle.
That made my mouth water.
That spread a warmth through my chest, where the creativity took hold and poured straight out of my hands.
But I felt nothing.
Not a goddamn sensation.
Not even a fucking interest to eat a single thing on any of the shelves.
My fingers stayed fisted.
My feet locked and planted.
And when I glanced over my shoulder at the gas range, hoping that would stir something, my stomach churned.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
What happened to me?
How the hell am I going to get me back?
“Couldn’t find anything you like?” the chef asked as I approached him.
“Not the case at all, my friend.” I knocked my fist on the top of his arm and kept walking. “I just got called into an unexpected meeting, unfortunately, and I don’t have time to eat. I appreciate your hospitality.”
“For you, Walker, anything and anytime.”
My hand shook as I held my phone, staring at the screen, every fucking ounce of my being wanting to send the call to voicemail.
But Rachel, my GM, was good to me.
And she knew how to handle me—unlike most of the staff at Charred LA.
“What’s up?” I asked as I held the phone to my ear, gripping the bottle of whiskey in my other hand, taking a swig while I waited for her to respond.
“I hate to do this …”
Fuck me, I knew where this was headed.
But I wouldn’t erupt on her.
I repeated that in my head as I said, “Except you have to …”
“I’m only asking because I know you’re on a staycation, which means you’re not far from the restaurant.”
I moved my stare to the door, where there was far too much glassware broken on the floor. “Word travels so goddamn fast.” I sighed. “When do you need me?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Why? What’s happening there?”
