CHAPTER
1
Cruz abhorred sentimentality.
He’d rather eat a dozen oysters—his allergen nemesis—than show the slightest emotion. For this reason, he hadn’t announced his departure from Tiles, Melbourne’s trendiest fusion restaurant, to anyone. Instead, on his final night as head chef, he waited until the patrons had left before hanging up his hat and apron for the last time and taking a seat at the chrome bar that ran the length of the restaurant.
‘What’ll you have, boss?’ Chezza asked, wiping down the bar. She’d worked here as long as he had—five years—and patrons loved her speed, her talent for mixing cocktails and her discretion, which is why he knew she wouldn’t tell anyone that he’d sat at the bar at the end of a shift for the first time ever, with the intention to down his body weight in bourbon.
He wanted to tell her not to call him boss, that after tonight she’d never see him again, but that would defeat the purpose of him slinking out of here.
‘Double bourbon, please.’ He held up three fingers. ‘Tripled.’
Her eyebrows rose, making the silver spikes threaded through them glint in the muted light. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Just dandy.’
True to form, Chezza didn’t interrogate him. Instead, she lined up three glasses, sloshed a double shot of bourbon in each and topped them up with cola rather than serving his requested neat. He didn’t make a fuss. What would be the point?
‘Here you go.’ She placed the glasses on the bar in front of him and turned away, but he caught her surreptitiously watching him in the mirrored splashback.
He raised the first glass in a silent cheers and downed the bourbon in four gulps. It burned just the way he liked it, eradicating the tightness in his throat at the thought of leaving this place. He’d known this gig couldn’t last. The axe of familial responsibility had been skimming the back of his neck for a while now, and last week, it had fallen.
Tomorrow, he headed home, swapping his knives and chopping boards for … the last thing he wanted.
But he owed his mum and he’d learned from an early age to pay his dues.
He downed the next bourbon, enjoying the slight fuzziness in his head, the blurring of his regrets.
‘I’m heading off, boss. Anything you need before I go?’ Chezza eyed the last drink sitting on the bar and if she disapproved, to her credit, she didn’t show it.
‘No, all good.’ He wanted to thank her for being a brilliant mixologist, for being the best he’d worked with over the last decade, but then she’d know something was up and he didn’t want to get into it. The staff would find out about his departure soon enough.
‘Take it easy. Those things will kill you.’
‘Says the person making her living by slinging them.’
She chuckled and saluted before slipping out the side door that led to the alley, leaving Cruz to lock up as usual. He didn’t mind. He liked this time of night, after twelve, when patrons had left with their bellies full and he could plan tomorrow’s menu.
Not tonight.
Tonight, he needed to obliterate the thought of what might come.
He downed the third bourbon faster than the first two and, this time, when he placed the glass on the bar, his hand trembled. Good. The alcohol would help silence the doubts that wouldn’t let up.
Had he done the right thing, walking away from his grand passion?
Would he live up to expectations in his new role?
What happened if he screwed up?
The front door creaked open, and his head snapped up too quickly, making the room spin a little. ‘We’re closed,’ he muttered, unable to see who’d entered until they stepped around the frosted-glass water feature, and then he blinked several times in case the alcohol had conjured up a sexy mirage.
Petite blondes weren’t usually his type, but this one had curves encased in vivid emerald silk, big blue eyes accentuated with makeup, crimson slicked lips and a smile that could make his grumpy heart lighten the hell up.
‘Sorry, I know it’s late, but if I don’t have one of Tiles’s signature club sandwiches before I leave town tomorrow, I won’t be able to sleep, and then I’ll make a mess of an exciting job opportunity, and that can’t happen, so I need the triple decker with bacon, smoked chicken, aioli and—’
‘In case you didn’t hear me the first time, the kitchen is closed.’
