Page 5 of Go Cook Yourself

Expletives fly from my mouth as I pass the pub that hugs the cookery school’s land. Its For Sale sign barely registers. It’s been there the entire month I’ve worked at Clouds. It would make a fine Italian restaurant. The cookery school, essentially a barn with an extension, looms from behind the pub. The extension housing the reception and an office on the ground floor are all decorated impeccably, and I love how the mezzanine floor looks out over the cookery school. The whole place is beautiful, but it’s not my place. I want to run a bustling restaurant again and be able to add new dishes while acting as the king of the business.

I yank the steering wheel to the side, relishing the flying gravel. I’ve lost everything, but I focus on Cookie’s brown eyes begging me to get him back.

“What the hell?” My heart jumps into my throat as I slam on the brakes and stop inches from a crappy rust bucket of a car. Some idiot has parked in the restaurant’s space, which is clearly marked in massive black letters.

My face flames as I throw open the door. The crunching of the gravel acts like a soundtrack to my wrath. I must be at least twenty minutes late but still stride like the boss.

Wicksy, the kitchen assistant, calls my name. He probably wants to tell me about his new conquest of the week. As if I care. I need to bellow at the person in my space. Grumbling voices come from the barn that adjoins the building.

I sidestep a box of seasonal decorations that should be in the back room. They need storing until the wine tasting and wreath making at the end of November. We can’t risk being sued by a client.

I push my sleeves up, readying myself for an argument, but my phone vibrates with a message. I shouldn’t look. Clive’s done this each time I’ve stood outside his house to see my fluff ball.

I check it anyway. The video message breaks me. Cookie bounds after a ball. His tail wags, and his ears flap in the breeze. The words accompanying the message cut me deep: “Tick, tock, buddy. Cookie won’t recognise you soon.”

I aim the phone at the nearest wall, but a scream stops me. My kitchen should be revered. It would be if it were my restaurant kitchen. I roar around my mouth guard and shove open the double glass doors, storming into the kitchen ready to raise hell at whoever is screaming. I’m confronted by strangers running around the kitchen while blood drips from the hand of a curvy blonde stranger.

Kath, the school’s original kitchen assistant, storms past me, first aid kit in hand, shouting, “Ruby thought she’d show the class how to bake cookies while we waited for you, but she tried to catch a falling knife.”

“Who the hell is Ruby?” My yell is muffled, but Kath understands even with my nonsensical mouth guard–filled noise.

“She is,” she huffs. That’s when the blonde stares at me. Her perfect curves and big brown eyes transfix me even with carnage exploding around us. The blonde, aka Ruby, mouths, “Sorry” as Kath adds, “She’s our new cookery school manager.”

My mouth guard snaps in two.

Chapter Three

Garett

“What did she think she was doing?” My booming voice fills the reception area as Kath wraps a bandage around Ruby’s hand. The scent of blood is in the air. Not even the sugary globs of marshmallow that had somehow stuck to my hands before I gave up trying to clean the counters could mask it. “What the hell is wrong with her?”

“You can ask me directly. I’m right here,” Ruby snaps from her seat next to Kath.

I glance at her briefly and consider finding a spare mouth guard. Her blouse and jacket are so tight it’s a wonder they’re holding her boobs in. Her skirt grips her curvy ass like that’s its only calling in life.

“I thought it was a children’s party. That’s what it says in the diary.” She winces as Kath slowly bandages her. I can do a much better job, but I’m not going near our new useless manager.

“Didn’t you think the grey perms and the layers of nylon and polyester were a giveaway? Bloody hell, what a mess.” I fist my hands. “And you tried to catch a knife. Have you ever been in a kitchen before?”

“I was flustered. I know how to handle working in a kitchen.”

“Are you sure?” I growl. “You know making a mediocre cup of tea doesn’t count, right?”

“Garett, you need to cheer up. It was an accident. And those ladies will be back in five minutes after their early break. Homemade chocolate cookies will only keep them calm for so long,” Kath replies, her voice soft. “You’ve got a session to run.”

“And she has trashed my kitchen.” I point at Ruby as if I still don’t want to speak to her even though I just did. “There’s marshmallow goop sticking to the demonstration counters and strands of dried spaghetti all over the floor.”

I catch Wicksy staring at Ruby with big moon-like eyes. He usually reserves that stare for when we have a group of hot women in for a cookery class. I grind my teeth loudly.

“Why are you standing around, Wicksy? You need to tidy up. Get in the kitchen and sort it out before we lose these clients.”

“Yes, Chef,” Wicksy shouts before rushing out of the room.

“I’m going to have words with Amber about this.” I pause, my brow furrowing. “I’m guessing Amber is fine.”

When Kath nods, I add, “So why didn’t anyone tell me we were getting a new manager? You’d think I deserve to know, or am I just inconsequential to all of you?”

“It would help if you turned up on time or answered your phone,” Ruby grumbles.

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