Page 9 of Challenged By You
Elle blocks the bathroom door as they both race into the single bedroom. Soon, my twins begin flinging all of their stuffed animals as missiles to keep us from baking them into some delicious dessert. “I can’t,” I gasp to my best friend as she wads up toilet paper to toss in my direction for me to wipe the tears of laughter from my eyes.
“Just remember what I said last night,” she reminds me.
“I can barely remember my own name. What is it you expect me to remember?”
“The next month is putting you on the path to change your life.”
Surveying the mess in my dingy little apartment, I know I have something so precious so many people will never lay their hands on, no matter how much money they have.
I have love and loyalty. And no amount of money is worth giving that up.
So, maybe there’s not that much I’d want to change. I just want to be able to give them more because they deserve it.
And maybe I do too.
Chapter 4
Trina
“Trina, there’s a man in the front of the house to see you,” Baptiste, our head waiter, calls before disappearing through the swinging doors whistling.
I frown down at delicate tart crust I’m forming. “Whomever he is, he’ll have to wait. This crust will be ruined otherwise.”
Chef Kelly Sterling walks behind me and gives a rough laugh. “That’s dedication, Chef,” she drawls approvingly before moving on to the workstation next to mine. “A slightly finer chop on the asparagus, please,” she asks one of our appetizer sous chefs.
“Yes, Chef,” comes the cheerful reply.
The difference a few days makes is a remarkable one. When I raced with my usual exuberance into the back door of Seduction, the kitchen speakers were playing the Killers on full blast. With a grin, I traded my purse for a chef jacket before stepping into a kitchen filled with movement. And not the frantic kind from a few days before.
People were chopping or stirring in time to the sexy voice of Brandon Flowers. Almost skipping to my station, I pulled down my list of items to prepare and immediately got to work with a smile tugging at my lips.
Sterling passes by me again as she finishes her lap around the energized space. “Need any assistance, Chef?” she asks, just as I slide the tart crust into the oven.
Whereas before I’d never dream of asking Chef Spencer for a thing, I admit, “Baptiste said someone is here to see me. Would you mind pulling this out when the timer goes off?”
“Not in the slightest.” She waves me off with a smile. “That’s what we’re here for—to support one another.” Frowning thoughtfully, she picks up a tasting spoon and dips it into the champagne filling I prepared to pour into the crust once cooled. “That and the food. Chef Palazzo would kill me on the spot if I didn’t remind everyone of that occasionally.”
With a quick chuckle, I walk away. But as I pause at the exit door to the main dining room, I glance back and feel a glow of pride when Sterling reaches for another tasting spoon to dip into the filling. So, it’s not a surprise a smile is curving my lips when I find Baptiste at the main bar in deep discussion with a tall dark-haired man who’s leaning negligently against the antique wood.
His head lifts, eyes roaming over me from the top of my hair, caught in its ponytail net beneath the toque, down to my black leather Docs as if he already knows who I am. He nods to Baptiste before shifting back away from the bar, face somber.
Confused, because I assumed he just asked to speak to the pastry chef on duty, I feel the smile slip from my face. Am I supposed to recognize him? Panic assaults me. Maybe there’s something wrong with Annie and Chris—but then the rational voice kicks in. He wouldn’t be holding a lowball if he was a cop. I move forward enough to let the kitchen door swing shut behind me, but I don’t say anything.
Let the first move be his—whoever he is.
Releasing the grip he has on the tumbler, he murmurs to Baptiste before approaching me.
Still unable to get a read from the expression on his face, I don’t immediately take his hand when he holds it out and says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Chef Paxton.”
“I might be able to return the sentiment if I knew who you are.”
But the man in front of me doesn’t scream lawyer. I take my time sizing him up in return. I’ve been back in New York long enough to wager my triple-chocolate cake recipe the pants hugging his legs are custom-made. The edge on them is as sharp as one of my knives while still appearing fluid. He’s paired them with a black shirt and jacket that mold to his body. He screams owner or investor or…
“I apologize; I assumed Baptiste informed you who was waiting.” His jaw is so tight, it’s ticking. “My name is Jonas Rice. I work forCity Timesas their…”
“Food critic,” I say flatly.
The hand in between us drops. There’s something almost human about the move that annoys me. “Yes. I wanted to offer my personal apologies to you due to the editing mishap—”
