“Ezra, goddamnit. Let me get my feet beneath me before you start handing out jobs like this.”
He shook his head. “I wish I could.”
The kitchen door swung open and our friends burst out into the dining room. “Congratulations!” they shouted in unison.
I resisted the urge to cry.
Molly and Vera walked out, both hands laden with balloons. Kaya held a ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne. Wyatt walked beside her holding a stark white chef’s hat in his hand, marked with Bianca’s lily emblem. Killian followed behind all of them, pushing a cart with a monstrosity of a cake on it.
I blinked at the frosted eyesore.Congratulations Chef Dillon.
“Is that from Costco?”
The lot of them burst into laughter. Explanations of time constraints and nobody knew who exactly was in charge of it and what kind of cake did I like anyway were shouted back and forth.
It was hard not to smile when my friends filled this space and laughter rang through the air. It was hard not to take in the elegant décor and open design and the Bianca’s eyes, the mural that Molly had painted so perfectly on the long wall, and not want to make this place mine. It was even harder to remember Bianca’s sullied reputation and the difficulties she’d been through over the last several years and not want to bring her back to life.
I wanted this place.
I wanted her more than I wanted my next breath.
But what Ezra failed to see was that I just wasn’t good enough for her.
I was a newbie. Green at best. Hopelessly ignorant in my worst moments. I was still navigating waters of not even knowing what I didn’t know.
Sure, I’d worked in kitchens since I started culinary school. I worked as themaître d’before that. My brother was a restaurant business genius. And my best friends were all chefs.
Just like most things in my picture-perfect life, I had the pedigree for this job. I just didn’t have the experience. Or the ability. Or the fucking know-how. And how dare Ezra dangle this in front of me when he knew I’d have to turn it down.
“She doesn’t want it.” Ezra’s sullen voice cut through the joy in the room and turned the atmosphere to ice.
God, he could be a true bastard when he wanted to be.
Killian was the first to speak. His disbelieving “What?” echoed through the room.
“She doesn’t want Bianca. There’s no reason to celebrate.”
Every gaze in the room swiveled to me. They looked at me like I was crazy. And maybe I was for turning down this once in a lifetime opportunity, as Ezra had so articulately put it.
But I would have been crazier to take it.
Their reaction churned in my stomach and my chest burned with the desperation to please these people I loved so much. They knew me asfine. Everything isfine. Everything is always fine.
Their expressions reflected utter disbelief. It would make sense for me to take this job, to take my place among them.
Each of them owning or running their own kitchen. Each of them career-oriented and relentlessly driven. These were the best of the fine dining best in Durham. These were the influencers that shaped culinary culture in our part of the world.
And why wouldn’t I want to join them in their quest to give the masses the best dining experience on the planet? Why wasn’t I part of the Durham, North Carolina Food Revolution?
Why didn’t I want to carve my name in the chopping block of who’s who in the holy, almighty food-dom?
But it wasn’t fair to compare me to them. Or even put my name in the same category.
They were experts at their craft.
And I was still learning from them.
How could I ever become one of them?
