I heard John murmur something in the background and she snapped at him, telling him to shut up.
“What did John say?” I asked.
She growled. “He said it’s a legal gray area but that’s NOT a helpful comment right now.”
I grinned. “Thanks, John! Hey, enjoy your anniversary and call me later. I gotta be at my new job in five minutes.”
Julie sighed. “A fry cook at a bar? Millie, this is beneath you.”
I was halfway up the stairs to my new studio apartment. “Jul, I gotta see this through. Just for a bit. Can you send me some more clothes at least? My chef stuff? Makeup? I’m bare out here.”
Silence.
“Fine. But I’m coming to visit you next weekend and talk you out of this. This is fucked.”
I smiled. “Love you.”
“Love you too, you psycho stalker.” She hung up.
After throwing on jeans and a silk blouse, I cursed myself for not packing tennis shoes or my white pastry coat.
Maybe this is what I needed. A fresh start. I probably should have left New York City when Colin died. That place held nothing but memories for me.
I was just feeling good about my decision when I went down to the bar and searched behind the counter for Ashton. Peeking through the food order window, I spied him. Shirtless … cursing at the fryer, again.
For some reason, the thought of seeing him again, bare chested, scared the fuck out of me. Whether it was the scar, or his tight, corded muscles, I didn’t know. He stood and spun to find me peering at him like the stalker I so clearly was.
“The fucking fryer’s broken again!” He glared at me like it was my fault. “So it wasn’t the oil!”
I was barely listening to him. All of my attention was on his sweaty glistening chest and the long ten-inch scar there.
Grief slammed into me, hitting me right in the gut, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from crying.
“Are you gonna stand there and stare or are you gonna help?”
I shook myself from my stupor and walked to the back of the kitchen.
Geeze! It was hot and muggy back here.
“Isn’t there a fan?” I pulled at my shirt, which was already stuck to my body. Why didn’t I pack cotton?
He pointed to the ceiling and I looked up to see an old fan with a bunch of wires sticking out. “That’s broken too.”
“Seems like the owner should make some repairs.” I placed one hand on my hip.
His lips twitched, like he wanted to smile, but instead he handed me a crusted old pan. “Can’t afford it. You’re gonna have to figure it out with this. I got a special … event tonight. It’s important that there’s decent food.”
“You want me to cook decent food in this place? It isn’t even up to code!” There was probably a rat hiding in wait to get scraps. I saw a large freezer but no refrigerator, which meant nothing was fresh and everything was frozen. One glance at the giant ketchup tub and I could see it was out of date.
Julie was right. This waswayfucking beneath me.
The only saving grace was the beautiful, brand new BlueStar eight-burner range with a griddle and double oven. It was a Cadillac in a scrap lot, painted in a gorgeous cherry red.
He noticed me eyeing the bright red range.
“I’m sure you can do something withthat.”
Then he turned tail and left me in the swamp-ass, rat-infested kitchen.
