Page 3 of Love on the Rocks
Gaz Greystone. Or, as he would say, God’s gift to modern cuisine.
“Yeah?” I quipped.
“Well, princess, don’t act too excited to hear from me.” His voice oozed over the line. It used to make me weak in the knees, but not anymore. I was over that addiction. Or at least that’s what I told myself when he wasn’t in front of me. Whenever we got together in person it was a different story. We’d had an on-again, off-again thing for two years. And the bastard somehow always knew how to rope me back in.
“What do you want?”
“Is that any way to speak to your boss?”
“You’re not my boss. Your father is. You’re just the nepo baby pain in my ass.”
“Nepo baby?” He laughed. Okay, so that wasn’t entirely true. Gaz’s father owned one of the biggest international hotel and food companies in the world, but Gaz was enormously talented and had proved himself as one of the hottest, most innovative young chefs in Europe. “Wouldn’t that make you a nepo baby by association? After all, I did get you your job.”
I gritted my teeth. It was true. Everything I currently had was thanks to him. He’d recommended me to Chef Marcel, the head chef at the crown-jewel French brasserie in their restaurant empire. But I’d worked my ass off the past six months, and thechef asked me to update his signature recipe. He wasnotgoing to take credit for that.
“Oh, fuck off, Gaz. And don’t even think of suggesting ways I can repay you.”
“Calm down, babe. This isn’t a call for sexual favors. Though I am in town, so if you wanted to pop ’round to mine . . .”
For a nanosecond I let my mind wander to his lean, tatted body. It had been a while since I’d gotten any. I’d been too busy with work to meet anyone new. Maybe just this once . . .
“No,” I said with more conviction than I felt. If I let that start again, I was only going to hurt myself. “What do you want?”
“A meeting. Tomorrow in Shoreditch with the old man.” I pictured his father, with his slicked-back, steel-gray hair and shrewd eyes, and shivered. The man was hard as stone and cold as ice. Before I could say hell no, however, Gaz continued, “He has a proposal for you—it has to do with one of the new hotels we’re opening.”
My foot tapped on the floor, like it always did when I was nervous or excited about something. Was this really happening? I was finally getting a promotion. Maybe I had summoned the forces of the universe with my pep talk and my magical deconstructed lobster bisque.
Trying to sound less impressed than I was, I asked, “What time?”
Chapter 2
These used to be her people, Mia mused, as she studied the international jet set crowd gathered in the ballroom. Then her father had lost everything to a man who was pure evil—Angelos Mavromatis. Now her father, who had sunk into a hell of booze and drugs, was a pariah. And so was she.
Rumor had it that Mavromatis was here tonight, but she’d never seen him and prayed she never would. She might claw his eyes out.
- One Week with the Greek
CALLIE
The next morning, I arrived early at the Moxie Hotel in Shoreditch. I didn’t want to appear too eager, especially if I planned on negotiating a new salary; I had to go in there like I owned the place and this promotion. So I slipped around the corner to a trendy coffee shop to gather my nerves before my 10 a.m. meeting.
I’d spent most of the night on the Greystone website reading about the company’s resort plans for the upcoming year. There was one scheduled to open in Marbella, another in Cannes, a third in the Swiss Alps, and a fourth in a secret destination.
I wanted Cannes. It made perfect sense for them to send me there: I was trained in classic French cuisine, had cooked in one of the best kitchens in Paris, and spoke fluent French.Plus, Cannes was only an hour away from Olivia and Jake. I could already envision myself in the kitchen with a view of the Mediterranean. Butterflies of anticipation took flight in my stomach and my heel tapped under the table.
I pulled out the small mirror in my purse and stared at my reflection. Grace Kelly chignon, check. Cat eyes, check. And most importantly, red lipstick, check.
I wore a designer dress that hugged my curves—specifically to get at Gaz, who all through our relationship (or whatever you might call it), never failed to remind me how I was pretty, but I’d be an atomic bomb if I went easy on dessert.
Fuck him. I was tall and full-figured, and I was cool with that.
It had taken me years to be comfortable in my own skin. My mom was constantly on a diet of some sort and as a kid, I’d internalized so many of her hangups. It didn’t help that she constantly brought up my size when we went to the doctor for check-ups. My dad was a big guy though, and I took after him. What can I say?
Transitioning from plump preteen to tall and curvy teenager in the span of a couple years hadn’t made junior high school easy, that’s for sure. By the time I was in high school I’d tried every miserable fad diet on the planet—cabbage soup diet, anyone? the grape cleanse?—which allowed me to get down to an acceptable size to try modeling in New York for the summer after my senior year. It was mostly catalogue lingerie work and even as starving as I was, I was still too much.
Then, after a disastrous pickled beet and tuna diet (yes, it was as disgusting as it sounds), I passed out at a summer pool party. That was the end of dieting for me. I loved food and I eventually learned to love my body. And I finally understood that there was power in embracing who I was. And I had embraced every last delectable inch of me. Too bad if I was too much for Gaz Greystone.
With a last glance at my watch, I made my way to the Moxie, the boutique hotel in East London where Gaz had his latest restaurant. People waited months for a reservation, and the place was constantly full of influencers, hipster actors, musicians, and journalists. It annoyed me that we were meeting here, one of the last places we’d hooked up a few months ago, and not at the company’s headquarters in Mayfair.
