Page 17 of Tarek

“Shut the fuck up,” I grumble as I turn around, with a smile. A dark-haired beauty stands before me, her curves are wrapped in a strapless red dress. It leaves nothing to my imagination. I love that.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Sorry, I’m on the phone with my friend.” I point to my ear pods.

Dax chuckles. “I will see you on Saturday. Tell me what’s her name when I see you.”

“Saturday,” I reply, clicking my fingers to end the call.

“Sorry about that. What’s your name, Bella?” I take her outstretched hand and bring it to my lips.

“Chriselle. Are you still with Veronica Simmons?” She smiles, throwing her hair over her shoulder.

“No. Sadly, we broke up.” I let go of her hand, lowering mine to my side.

“Oh no,” she gasps, bringing her hand to her mouth in shock. Internally I roll my eyes.

“No, it’s okay because she made room for you Bella. I finish work at two am, you ok with that?” I know what she wants, and what she thinks she could have. Why should I beat around the bush?

Her eyes brightened as she clasps her hand together in front of her in excitement. “I can wait.”

The clock on the far back wall reads 9:05 p.m. That’s a long wait, but if she wants to, let her.

I lean down and kiss her cheek, then I begin to move.

Pushing through the metal doors, I am greeted by the steady rhythm chef Jimmy, giving instructions over a crew of chefs, sous chefs and waiters. Each is dedicated to a different part of tonight’s seven course meal.

Jimmy’s voice reaches over the kitchen. “We are walking the foie gras torchon to table nineteen.”

“Yes, Chef,” the kitchen says together. Waiters waltz by with huge silver trays over their shoulders.

“I need a truffle tarte tatin for table three and let’s walk a coq au vin for table five please.” Jimmy stands behind a mini podium, reading from the order then driving it down the ticket stabber.

“Good evening, Glasshouse,” I shout, stopping at the side of Executive Chef Marco.

In a chorus, everyone says, “Good evening chef.”

Marco instantly pushes a clipboard into my hand.

“What is this?” I flip the paper looking at the list of names.

“These are the new line chefs to be interviewed for Helios,” Marcos states. Marco hails from Seville, Spain. His glossy black wavy hair speaks of his Spanish ancestry. I met him in Barcelona while I was doing my internship at Chef Pierre’s restaurant La Marie. We both were cooks there.

We hit it off immediately. Where I was skilled at cooking and recipe creation, Marco was great at organizing and being a leader in the kitchen. Hence my making him the head chef in Glasshouse.

“The project manager and contractor had to cancel, they both have COVID,” Marco states as I begin to walk to the back where my office is.

Climbing up the stairs leading to my office which my staff calls the Look Out.

“Shit,” I mutter as I open the door, Marco trailing into the office behind me.

“Should we get a new crew?” he asks closing the door softly behind him.

I toss my keys onto my desk and start pacing. “No, I actually like this project manager. We can wait.”

Before I can finish my thought Marco’s cell phone rings, and he answers. Whatever is happening makes his eyebrows touch each other.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, switching on my laptop.

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