“You faint often?”
Another shake of the head.
“First time,” she whispers.
“Been a while since I was someone’s first.” I smirk at her, trying to bring that fire back into her eyes. I don’t like how cool and pallid her face is right now. Barely talked to the woman for fifteen minutes in all, and I can already tell she’s fiery as hell. This isn’t her natural state.
When she looks stable enough, I grab the cup of water she’d placed down while standing and watching me and offer it to her. Something inside me calms when she takes a slow sip.
“You got someone I can call to come get you? Partner, family?”
Her eyes flutter shut for a second, opening slower than I’d like, but when they do, they look better. More of a clear, chocolate brown now and less muddled.
“I’m fine,” she says, and there goes my smirk again.
My eyes rove her, all that luscious body has to offer beneath the overalls and tank top. “I can see that,” I tell her, and damn if her cheeks don’t pinken just a bit. “So it was just the heat then?” I ask her, leaving her for just a minute to whip up a drink that’s kept me alive in hot kitchens since prison. I keep talking while I go. “They say the heat in the south is a motherfucker, but I don’t think anyone warned me about the humidity. It’s like breathing through a straw.”
Apple cider vinegar, some honey, a little bit of salt, and some ice water all go into the deli cup. Lucky for me, the kitchen is fully stocked already, at least in the dry goods section.
The walk-ins don’t have much fresh food yet, but plenty of boxes that won’t perish for months. Chicken tenders, fries, mostly premade stuff that tested my gag reflex when I was digging around for what I could make.
When that bomb of an email hit my phone, I had to think quick on my feet. That’s a skill that’s not new to me either.It was a necessity in the life I grew up in, where every wrong decision could cost you your life. Reacting slow in lockup wasn’t an option either. Hell, even working in restaurants, in this cushy life I have now, you still gotta think on your feet and act fast.
Apparently I was meant for a life under pressure. Forged in fire, that’s me.
So I came up with a plan to prove to the owner they wanna hire me, even if they didn’t show and give me a chance. Poked around in their walk-ins and dry goods and did my thing. It’s not my best dish but working with what I could find here, I’m not mad about how it turned out.
It’s better than fucking chicken fingers, that’s for sure. Anystronzocan drop a deep fryer and start a timer. But Aurora said they wanted a chef, and this white wine and shallot chicken dish will show them I’m the man for the job. I just wish they could taste it.
If only what I’m making for the gardener tasted as good. I stir the concoction together with a straw and hand it to her, offering it with a nod of my chin.
“What’s this?” she asks.
“Drink it and find out.”
To my surprise, she does. She nearly splutters at the taste of the first sip, but her eyes widen and she takes another anyway.
“It’s an acquired taste,” I tell her. “But cooking over an open flame in summer in New York is brutal. This kept me hydrated through a lot of rough days.”
I hold myself back from making the obvious “if you can’t stand the heat…” joke because I don’t want her to get out of my kitchen. Something about her watching me, egging me on, it fueled me. Made me want to prove myself to her, and draw her closer, all at once.
Not sure why I care so much what this random woman thinks of me. Maybe because I like a challenge, and the girl’s a spitfire.I’d love the challenge of breaking her, like a wild bronco. Taking her from rearing to purring under my touch.
Gotta take a half a step back from her so she doesn’t notice the way that thought got me a little too excited.
She takes a breath after a few long gulps. “It’s gross, but somehow I also like it?” Her deep, throaty voice is a turn-on all on its own.
“You probably need the electrolytes,” I tell her, resisting the urge to put a hand to her face again now that she’s conscious. There’s no need for me to run my fingers through her hair, and I clench my fist to stop them from reaching out and exploring her the way they’re dying to.
“If you’re good, I’m gonna keep plating my dish,” I tell her. “Think I can still salvage it.”
She makes a murmur that sounds like agreement, but her eyes are pretty sharp now, so I don’t feel guilty turning my back on her to grab the final pan and pour the sauce over the chicken and haricot verts on the plate.
Damn, Amante. Not bad. The sauce didn’t even break in all that excitement.
Grabbing a handful of the fresh herbs I’d chopped while cooking (parsley—Italian, obviously), I sprinkle some on top for garnish and smile at the creation.
That smile promptly slips and falls from my face, landing on the floor harder than the gardener did when I realize that the owner isn’t here to see or try my food. To see what I can do. To give me a chance at the closest thing I’ve had to my dream job, here in this new life that I desperately need.
