I leaned against the door, the hardness of the wood holding me up. “Our situation at the hotel and my presence here are complete coincidences. One is not because of the other.”
“You want me to believe that this”—he traced the air between us—“is a coincidence? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”
I pushed myself off the door and walked toward his desk, holding the top of the chair instead of sitting in it. “Yesterday was my first shift. Today’s my second. I had been hired a week ago, and that was before anything happened between us. Go look in my file—I’m sure you have one on every employee.” I took a breath, my entire body vibrating from the emotions that were coming on so thick.
“On the flip side of that, Hooked doesn’t give out personal information. Your account name is Whiskey35. You never told me your real name when we met, and I never asked for it. You never once spoke specifically about your business or your industry.”
My eyes stayed locked with his. “I didn’t know you were Walker Weston at the hotel. I also didn’t know that when I came in yesterday. I didn’t even know ‘Walker’”—I air-quoted—“was the executive chef here. I just assumed the owner worked elsewhere or in some office somewhere. Until I saw you screaming at that poor chef, I had no idea that Walker, the owner, was the same person as Whiskey35, the man I’d slept with.”
He didn’t even take a breath when he said, “You said I looked familiar at the hotel …”
I squeezed the cushion of the chair, my nails going into the fabric. “And you told me that this was LA and everyone looked like someone. When I pushed the topic a little more, you told me you were sure I’d seen a hundred dudes who looked like you. Or even one of your siblings since you had a few of those.”
“You’re telling me out of the two nights we spent together, you never figured it out?” His stare narrowed.
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“My face is on the goddamn cover of cookbooks.” He pointed at his cheek. “It’s on the packaging of my line of cookware.”
“I don’t own a cookbook, Walker. As for cookware, I don’t own any of that either.” I could feel my skin start to redden. “The one frying pan I have access to doesn’t come from your line, I assure you.”
He held the back of his neck, his head facing down as he looked at me through his lashes. “You really didn’t know who Walker Weston was?”
“Oh, I knew you and your family owned Charred, along with Toro, Horned, and Musik. I try to keep up with restaurant news as much as possible. Besides, you’re one of the most famous chefs in the world; most people in the industry know your name, I’d assume. I’ve also seen random pictures of you, but could I have told you what color eyes you had? Or that you were this tall? And built? Or that you had a beard? Definitely not. What I could have told you—and did—was that you looked familiar.” I shrugged. “How though, I didn’t know. You’re certainly not the face of the cooking videos I watch online or the cooking mentoring accounts I follow. Those are the faces I see every day in your industry, not yours.”
His head nodded, but it didn’t seem like he was agreeing; it seemed like he was processing. “This is all a coincidence …”
“Yes. I swear on my life—and that’s something I don’t swear on.”
He slowly licked his lips. “Why are you here? Why Charred?”
So, he got it, and that part of the conversation was dropped. A relief, for sure. But I wasn’t surprised at all that he hadn’t apologized for his incorrect assumption or for yelling at me.
In the little time I’d spent with him, I knew that much about him.
I ran my hand over the top of my head, feeling like the hairs had started to lift from my bun. “I needed a second job. I applied to at least twenty high-end restaurants around LA. I got three offers. I chose Charred because of its reputation. I wanted to know what a five-star restaurant felt like since I’d never had the opportunity to eat at one.”
He stood like a statue against the wall, anger in his eyes, like it lived there permanently. Regardless of what I said, it didn’t lighten at all.
Had I missed that during our time at the hotel? Or had it been absent from his eyes?
“What’s your full-time job?”
I shook my head. “Why does that matter?”
“Alivia, what is your full-time job?” His voice was deeper this time, but he didn’t raise it.
“I work as a waitress at an assisted living facility.”
His gaze traveled down my body, but it wasn’t like he was mentally undressing me. It was like he was confirming what he already knew. “You’re dressed as a food runner and water girl. Why aren’t you serving here?”
“Your manager wouldn’t hire me as a server. She said Ididn’t have enough experience for your clientele. She wanted me to build up to that role.”
He pushed off the wall, came over to his desk, and sat down. It was then that I realized how different he looked in chef’s whites. How the professional version of Walker—or Whiskey—was equally as handsome as the personal one.
“Why do you want five-star restaurant experience?” He waited, and I said nothing. “Why are you watching cooking videos? That’s your thing when you get tired of true crime docs? Or was that a lie?”
“Nothing I’ve ever told you was a lie.”
