This rich douche reeled me in and now he’s got his Olivier Ramsey story to regale his similarly asshole friends with on the golf course.
I gave him precisely what he wanted and now I feel like people are here more for me than the food I make. That sucks. Sure, you could say that I’ve encouraged all this with my appearances on TV and cultivating my notoriety in interviews. But come on...
I’m still a chef first and foremost.
Or at least that’s how I see myself, even if the likes of this finance yuppie doesn’t see it like that.
“You do you, man,” I mutter, shooting the idiot one final glare.
I turn and stalk back inside the kitchen. My insides are furious, more so than when the customer came up with his bullshitcomplaint in the first place. I’m forty-three, I shouldn’t be reacting like this. Not at my place of work, and not when I’m doing what I love to do. Something has to change…
“You okay, chef?” Antonio asks.
“I don’t know, man,” I reply. “Cover for me. I’ll be back in ten. I need some air.”
With that, Antonio nods. He’s my number two here and I could trust him with my life. Antonio has talent. Likeserioustalent. I know it’s only a matter of time before he flies the nest and opens his own joint. But for now at least, he’s my go-to guy when I need a moment to take stock and refresh—and that moment is now…
I lean up against the wall at the side of the restaurant. The evening air is cool and I can tell that it’s going to frost over tonight. Not that I’m complaining. I love the winter air. It reminds me of growing up in Canada, the snowball fights, the tobogganing, and wrapping up in the warmest coats, hats, and gloves known to man.
Damn, it all seems a long time ago now.
There was something so incredibly fun about being young and carefree. I certainly didn’t have a fucking clue what a spreadsheet was, or how I would need to pay some asshole thousands of dollars just to work out how much tax I should be paying or whether I needed to hire or fire new staff.
But don’t get me wrong. Being a grown ass man isn’t all bad.
I get to make my own rules, live how I want to live, and if I’m very lucky I get to put a naughty boy over my lap and give him a damn good spanking too…
Except there’s one catch. My hours working at the restaurant are far from suitable when it comes to meeting the kind of guy who’d want to be my boy. While a city of eligible young men are out dating, partying, and having a fun time sucking, fucking, and being spanked… I’m working my ass off preparing food all night.
And the super-late finishes at the restaurant typically mean that I’m rarely up and around before eleven. And then I’m straight back to work prepping the next day’s menu or meeting with suppliers.
I’m success rich but time poor.
I’m not asking for sympathy. I love what I do. But the other side of me—my Daddy side—craves something else, desires a boy, demands a Little to care for, discipline, and fall in love with.
The chances of me being able to meet someone who ticks my boxes are slim. But the chances of being able to make that relationship work are even slimmer. I’ve often wondered too whether there is actually anyone out there who I’d even consider changing my lifestyle for.
After all, I’m Olivier Ramsey—food is what I do.
I just sometimes wish I could have that Little something else in my life that I crave too.
Pah.
I’m getting all downbeat now. I need to change my energy and head back inside. As talented and trustworthy as Antonio is, this place runs best when I’m front and center.
It’s time to forget that douchebag finance bro and give the rest of my paying customers the very best Olivier Ramsey experience going…
But just as I’m about to turn and head back inside through the side door, I look across the road and see a big group of guys heading toward the front door.
“Who the hell is…he?” I mutter, my eyes drawn to just about the beefiest beefcake I’ve ever had the pleasure of laying my eyes on.
He’s tall.
He’s broad.
His face is all kinds of handsome—but actually kinda cute and sweet too.
Oh, and thatthinghe appears to be packing inside those light blue jeans?Damn. Daddy might be a chef, but suddenly I’m the one who’s hungry.
