Page 5 of Until August
He shrugged, brushing it off, which had always been his way. “You were under a lot of stress,” he said. “It was understandable.”
I shook my head. “It’s no excuse. You were a damn good sous chef, and I should have built you up instead of always trying to find fault.”
He studied my face, his brows knitted. “I don’t know what your memories are of that time, but we were excited to be a part of Eight by August. The things you were doing with food… you took everything to the next level. And you can’t achieve that level of perfection with a team of slackers. Yeah, you were hard on us, but every single one of us would have followed you into the fire. You deserved that Michelin star.”
A reminder of how far I’d fallen and how much I’d lost. Every-fucking-thing.
I’d achieved my dream, just like I’d set out to do, but at what cost?
I carried the pots and pans to the sink and washed them, my back to him.
“You should open your own place,” he said. “It’s hard to go back to working for other people when you’re used to running your own show.”
As if it was that easy. I’d need money which I didn’t have. And no bank would give me a loan now.
“Your past doesn’t define you, August,” Kristen said.
I’d only met her a week ago, but she obviously knew my story. And as much as I would love to agree with her, I couldn’t. My pastdiddefine me, and it had from the moment I’d entered this world kicking and screaming.
But I kept my mouth shut and checked on my slow-roasted pork belly. I’d marinated it in lemongrass, kaffir lime, soy, and garlic, and it was starting to caramelize. Cooking has always been my passion. My reason for being. I credited it for saving my life more than once and keeping me off the streets when I was a punk teenager.
It was good to be back, doing what I loved, even if this wasn’t my kitchen and this wasn’t a real job.
Kristen handed me a piece of mango. Ripe and juicy. “You probably missed the little things most, right?”
The little things. The big things. All of it.
* * *
A few hours later, we got slammed, and I didn’t have time to think about anything except feeding the customers.
The kitchen was cramped and hot as hell, but I hadn’t had this much fun in years.
By two thirty, we ran out of most items on the menu, and the place was nearly empty, except for two people at the counter, finishing their pho.
A willowy brunette walked through the front door as I wiped down the counter, and I paused what I was doing to watch her cross the room.
She was beautiful. A knockout with long waves of chestnut brown hair, lush lips, and big tits I shouldn’t even be noticing. My eyes raked over her white button-down, which showed a hint of cleavage, and down her mile-long legs, clad in denim, frayed at the edges.
I vaguely recalled having met her before but couldn’t remember where or when it would have been.
She sat at the counter, and my gaze dipped to her left hand. She was rubbing her thumb over the platinum band on her ring finger.
When her big brown eyes met mine, I saw something in them that I recognized. Sadness. Anger. Defeat. But it was fleeting and vanished in an instant.
Her brows furrowed, her eyes darting around the space behind me. “Where’s Kristen? And David?” She craned her neck and twisted in her seat, scanning the tiny restaurant before turning to face me.
I jerked my thumb over my shoulder. “They’re in the back.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes at me. “They would never leave someone else in charge. Where are they? I need proof of life.”
Proof of life?Funny girl. “Why? Do you think I’ve murdered them and stuffed them in the freezer?”
“It’s possible.” Her gaze raked over me. “You’re a big guy.” She shrugged. “For all I know, you could be a serial killer.”
“A serial killer who kills the owners then takes over running their restaurant?” I scoffed.
She rolled her eyes. “It’s just weird. I’ve been coming here since they opened, and the Nguyens never let me into their kitchen.” She sounded offended as if I’d stolen something that should have rightfully been hers.
