Page 1 of My Indecent Valentine

Chapter 1

Sofia

Ileft my home in Winter Bliss and came to Chicago three years ago, following a golden-horned demon. Samite. I was at my lowest when he showed up one winter's day right before Christmas. I was lost in a frozen winter of solitude, crushed by disappointment, and with little more than his hungry tongue and his sassy mouth, he stoked a raging fire inside me that burned it all away. Now, he’s my business partner and, more recently, my husband. We co-own this place.

Welcome to Ollas Encendidas, the first and only entirely open-flame restaurant in all of Chicagoland. I hope you have a reservation because we’re fully booked tonight.

“Flare up!” I call out just as the rotisseur chef on my right makes a clumsy move and sloshes her basting pan. Hot grease hits the fire, and tongues of flame leap three feet into the air. My pulse spikes, and my breath catches at the intoxicating mix of danger and beauty. I have to tear my eyes away. I know better than to let myself get drawn in. It’s easy to get lost in a moment. I love the flames.

“¿Donde está el plato vegetariano?” I yell at my legumier. I need that damn vegetarian plate. It’s holding up this ticket.

“Ahí te va,” he assures me on a hasty breath. It’s coming, but everyone’s in the weeds.

“¡Apúrate!” I shout back. “I needed it three minutes ago!”

Ollas Encendidas is not like other restaurants. The kitchen isn’t housed in the back, hidden away with its culinary magic concealed and underappreciated. Here, it’s on display, elevated on a circular stage at the center of the dining area with hungry, cosmopolitan guests seated in the round. Cooking is magic. It’s art. It’s a wonder worthy of an audience, especially when done like this.

Everything on our menu is cooked on a traditional hearth over logs, coals, and open flame. The circular hearth, made of cast iron, steel, and brick, is divided into cooking stations, and above it is the halo. That’s what we call the gigantic custom hood hanging overhead. It’s a gleaming metal ring, twenty feet in diameter, that draws the smoke from the hearth. Samite designed it. It’s a work of art, elegant in its simplicity, yet a statement piece that transforms the space. It was his idea to light it like this so that the guests see the swirling of the white smoke as it’s sucked up by the fans hidden inside the halo. It’s just a trick of the light, but it adds to the magic.

On a good night, this place is everything I imagined it would be. A dream come true. Unfortunately, the jury is still out on what kind of night this will be. I can feel the chaos simmering below the surface, ready to erupt. I can only tighten my grip so much.

I glance around the crowded room. Waiters are sprinting and bumping into each other. There are too many tables. I keep saying that, but Samite insists we need them. The bar is slammed. Cocktail shakers flash through the air like bullets, and still, our team of elbow-to-elbow bartenders can’t keep up.

We’re at capacity again tonight, and despite the two-month waitlist, walk-ins have formed a line out the door. They’re hoping no-shows will free a table for them. It’s unlikely, but they order drinks and wait anyway, adding to the backlog at the bar and the general chaos.

“Las tapas para la mesa veintitrés.” My saucier hands me a beautifully arranged plate. Not a spec of food or drop of sauce out of place. Perfect. She is an artist.

“Appetizer up! Table twenty-three!” I shout, and the dish is whisked from the pass by a server I didn’t see coming but knew would be there because I’ve trained them well.

The kitchen glows brightly, but the rest of the dining room is dimly lit, adding to the theatrical effect. And our guests have picked up on the vibe. They come dressed to the nines like they’re headed to the opera. Full-length gowns, bow ties, sequined jackets, and gilded horn adornments glitter like starlight across the room. We don’t cater exclusively to demons, but they are the bulk of our clientele. It’s the flame as much as the food that draws them here, an attraction I understand even though I’m human.

“Compliments to the chef from table sixty-six,” a waiter shouts as he hurries by. I glance toward the far corner of the restaurant, expecting to see a group. Table sixty-six is our largest booth. It seats twelve, but tonight, it’s occupied by a lone demon, a hulking figure swirling a cocktail. I catch the glint of multiple gold rings and bracelets.

I make a mental note to chew out whoever sat him there, but then our eyes meet, and he grins, flashing me a row of sharp teeth. The thought fades as his eyes come to life, flickering with the orange glow indicative of arousal or excitement. I feel an odd tug in my gut, and despite the fact that I’m already sweating, I flush warm under my collar.

I don’t recognize him, or at least I don’t think so. He’s not the sort I’d easily forget. I glance at him again. He’s still looking at me, eyes glowing impossibly bright. His horns are black with a wicked double curve that must make navigating doorways difficult. He’s dressed head to toe in white, and the effect is striking against his deep red skin, almost purple.

A pot lid slips, and reflexes kick in. I reach out to catch it, forgetting my mitt. “Puta Madre,” I hiss as I drop the lid back on the pot and slap the pain away. It’s a minor burn. I’ve had much worse, and I have the scars all along the left side of my body to prove it.

“¿Estás bien?” My sous chef asks if I’m hurt with a worried glance.

“Estoy bien.” I’m fine I tell her as I shake my head at my own stupid slip up. I shouldn’t have let myself get distracted. “¡Todos enfóquense en sus estaciones!” I shout, reminding my team of nine to focus on their stations, advice they don’t need. But apparently, I do.

I glance toward table sixty-six again. I can’t stop myself. His intensity draws my attention over and over. And because I keep looking, I can’t help but see all the other sets of eyes watching me. Across a sea of faces, I note every squint and every creased brow. They lean and whisper to each other, making their judgments and forming their various opinions.

Of course, they’re watching. They’ve paid good money to watch my chefs and me, I remind myself. This is what I wanted. My entire restaurant concept boils down to this: an open kitchen, dramatic flame, and the skills of talented chefs on full display. It was a dream for a long time before it was a reality, and naively, I couldn’t imagine a single person not enjoying it. What is there not to like?

There are ample reasons kitchens are traditionally housed behind discreetly swinging doors. No sophisticated diner wishes to bear witness to a wheezing, red-faced female chef seasoning their food with the copious sweat of her brow (even if she might, on a better day, be considered beautiful.) I have no notes on the cuisine, as I could not bring myself to eat it. And the ‘entertainment’, if it can be called that, was likewise stomach turning. A predominantly female kitchen full of vulgar, high-pitched screeching. My ears were ringing by the end of the night, and I couldn’t understand a word of what they said as it was all in Spanish. Whatever entertainment I was supposed to have gained from their exchange was entirely lost on me—

I know that damned critic’s review by heart. When Samite told me not to read it, I should have listened. It was paragraph after paragraph of confidence-corroding poison. A clammy chill breaks out across the back of my neck, and my hands start to shake. Fuck. Not now.

I need a minute, but I don’t have it. There’s no slowing down when diner service is in full swing, no time to step aside and get a grip. Static fills my ears, and through it, I hear my sous shouting, trying to get my attention. A plate is ready to go out. It hangs in my peripheral, but I’m frozen. She curses under her breath as she bumps past me and slides the plate across the pass, shouting out the table number. I haven’t inspected it. I inspect every single plate before it goes out. No exceptions. She knows that. She does it again. And again. I’m furious. My blood is boiling, and still, I can’t move.

My eyes dart back to table sixty-six. He doesn’t look away or make any attempt to hide the fact that he’s watching me. A hawk eyeing a paralyzed mouse. He could be another food critic, I think, and my heart races even though it’s unlikely. They’re rarely so obvious. They tend to hide in plain sight and judge from behind a paper screen of anonymity. But not everyone has to be a food critic to be critical. All opinions are formed under a harsh light and through a narrow lens. I want to hide, but I can’t. His gaze holds me the same way flame catches me sometimes. Entranced and unmoving, I watch as he lifts his cocktail, nods to me, and drinks.

A sickening metal groan screeches overhead, startling me and freeing me from my stupor. Next to me, my sous chef throws down her towel in furious defeat and lets fly a string of curses followed by, “¡Otra vez no!” Not again. “Fuck!” She kicks at the metal apron that lines her station.

I glance up. There are five fans inside the halo. Two just went out, and not for the first time. Without the fans, the smoke is free to go where it pleases, and if I don’t act fast, it won’t be long before the room is filled with a dense, savory cloud.

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