Page 9 of Your Sweetness

“A man like me should be served by a ten. This one’s a four, maybe.” I heard as I walked away. Dickwad did not just say that.

I swung back to the table. “We’re out of desserts.” I leaned in. “If you want to eat whipped cream off Felicia’s tits, you’ll have to do it elsewhere. Your waiter will be out with your check. You take care now.” I kept my face stern like I’d done standing next to Pam two years ago.

“Are you telling me you won’t serve me?”

People started looking. I felt their eyes, but all I saw was a red mist.

“Do you know who I am?” Dickwad’s voice was low and menacing. “Get. Your. Fat. Ass. Back in the kitchen and have the skinny one bring me what I want, or I’ll have you fired.” Too much kryptonite in that sentence. Images of high school bullies taunting me and boys slapping my butt in the hall between classes swirled in my mind, and my fight faltered, but I held his stare.

“You gonname toomy ass? Go ahead and try it. You won’t be the first to fail. And most of those girls were a lot smarter than you.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Cole.” Lucas looked up at me. “We’ll take the check and add a fifty percent tip.” At least he had the decency to look embarrassed. Too little, too late.

Chef Reef to save the day, except he didn’t. He lowered his voice. “I’m the owner. Is there a problem?”

“I ordered an almond cake, and I’d like your chef to serve me.”

Reef turned to me with his eyebrows raised like I should just run at his command. “Sam?”

“Not her, that one.” He pointed at Felicia.

Reef raised his hand, and Felicia appeared beside him, doing a good impression of a lapdog and practically panting.

I wanted out of there with every fiber of my being.

I shook with rage back in the kitchen as Reef defended them, saying that it was Felicia’s job to promote the desserts, and I should have called her over, avoiding the whole thing. I explained that she could do all the desserts now. On my way to the door for the last time, I told Lucas to shove his big tip. No amount of those fucker’s millions made that okay.

When The Elliot’s offer came, I moved to Perry Harbor and started going by Jo, putting the past behind me like I’d done before.

I needed the farm meals gig. I told myself I was cooking for Donna, Bob, and their crews, not Lucas fucking Bakker.

6

JO

“Hey,do you need a hand with that?” Lucas closed the door on a shiny, black Mercedes as I began unloading for the farm meal two weeks later. He wore faded blue jeans and a gray flannel shirt under his tan Carhartt jacket. His hair was a little mussed again. Why was that so sexy? I really didn’t like him.

“No. I prefer to carry everything. I’m fine.”

“I can carry a bag or something. That looks heavy,” he said.

“Fine, grab the bags of groceries in the back seat. I’ll get the rest of this.”

I was grumpy. Stay-away-from-me grumpy. Lucas called a few days ago, asking to hire me as a personal chef. He said he was in town temporarily to help with the farm and needed a few prepped meals a week. I said no. More like hell no.

I’d kept in touch with my co-worker, now friend, Annie from my catering days in the Valley, and she wasn’t so sure I should reject the offer. Her advice was gospel most days, but she was too pragmatic this time. Yes, I needed the money, but food is love, and I wasn’t wasting love on some bro-y dickhead, no matter how good he looked.

Then, a call from Reef yesterday kept the bad mood alive. I hated talking to him, and soon I’d have to face him and his stick-thin pastry chef.

The cookbook we co-wrote last summer was releasing in a couple of months and was already being hyped on Seattle news shows. It had been a dream at first. A cookbook! But I’d had to fight to keep my name on the cover and my bio on the back. By the end, I’d scrutinized the copy to make sure he didn’t take credit for my work, my recipes.

He set the date for the book launch party at the restaurant and wanted me to know I didn’t have to attend. Well, he could suck it. I was going. He’d have to share all the attention that night. Something I knew he would hate.

My mood didn’t improve with another cold shower before work today. My hot water heater seemed to be a heater only in the academic sense, like my oven. It had to be replaced, and my landlord was dragging his feet. Another day in the shit storm.

“Umm, is this your car?” Lucas eyed Sheila.

“Yes. Is that a problem?” I dared him to say anything unkind, the rich, entitled jerk. He’d assumed I would jump at the chance to be his chef and was genuinely surprised when I turned him down.

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