Page 4 of Hot Hearts
“I don’t feel like I should have to say this, but I will so there’s no misunderstanding. You’re fired.”
“I figured. I’ll send you a final bill?—”
“The hell you will.”
I’m not good with people. It’s what I told the showrunners who pitched me a cooking show competition, wanting me to participate. I said no because it’s fan-voted and I know myself well enough to recognize my flaws. I’m a great chef with terrible people skills. If I ran the front of house, we would have only a handful of customers who stubbornly returned despite my temper and bad service. But that night Slater and I fit perfectly. We belong together even if she thinks we don’t.
The problem is that I don’t know shit about romance, shit about wooing someone. I’ve got the social skills of a toddler isolated from human contact. I’m the king of my domain, and I hate being told I’m wrong and that I can’t have things. I’ve got a million and ten flaws, and Slater running away from me was probably some inner preservation instinct, but it doesn’t matter.
I have to have her.
Slater Braxton isthefood critic. According to the stats sheet that was provided to me by the showrunners ofPlated, the cooking variety streaming show they were pitching, she has over a million followers. A recommendation by Slater boosts bookings by over one hundred percent. She could catapult an unknown and struggling business into fame. Conversely, a bad experience would basically mean you need to shut your doors. She primarily seeks out small establishments, eschewing chains and fine dining, which is why I’ve never seen her at The Plate. Mine is a Michelin restaurant, not because I set out to be, but I like to take ingredients and make them extraordinary. TheMichelin people came to me, and once you have a star, it sets you on a certain course with a certain clientele.
Slater would call my food pretentious and not worth the wait to get in, the prices, or the fanfare around the whole concept of molecular gastronomy. She’d be right, too, but the prices mean that even the dishwashers at The Plate can afford to support a family, and the wait means job security for everyone. I don’t regret that. The fanfare? I could live without it.
But I get that everything The Plate, and by extension me, is something that Slater dislikes. Unfortunately, she needs to get over that because now that I’ve had a taste, I’m not letting her go.
Chapter Three
SLATER
This is the last thing I need right now. Why is he even here? I’m starting to get a bit freaked out. I blocked my ex and my best friend on social media, my phone, and everything and anything else I could think of. I wanted a clean break from it all and the drama that surrounded it.
I even changed the entry code to my building. Not because I ever gave it to Felipe, but I had given it to my friend. Based on the extent of her betrayal, it seems Felipe can get her to do anything, so her giving him my building code wouldn't shock me. That somehow hasn’t stopped him, though, from now being outside my door.
“Slater, baby, I know you’re in there.”
Baby? When the hell did that man ever call me baby? I check the time on my phone. If I don’t leave soon, I’ll be late. Normally I wouldn’t give a shit if I was late to see Brooks, but things have now majorly changed, and I don’t want him to think I’m going to be petty about all of this. Not when we’re about to be stuck in each other’s lives forever—unless he decides he wants no part of it.
It stings thinking that it should make me happy, but this isn’t about me anymore. My hand comes to my stomach. How cliché am I? To get pregnant the first time I had sex?
“Slater!” Felipe is now shouting and banging on the door, making me jump away from it.
Oh, there you are, Felipe, that mask you enjoy wearing slipping so easily.
He is quiet for a long moment. I'm sure he's fixing his mask. I'm proved right when he speaks again. "I need to talk to you. I miss you. Please, baby, hear me out." I can’t even begin to tell you how sick of men I am.
Now I want to vomit. I take a deep breath. I already threw up twice this morning and a few times last night. Morning sickness, my ass. It kicks in whenever it likes. I never imagined it could be this bad. The direction of the wind could change and I’m ready to hurl because of it.
I check the time again. Shit. He's not going to leave. I'm an adult. I can totally face my ex; the thing is, I don't want to. It's pointless and stupid, and the man will try to talk me in circles. I already have to deal with Brooks today.
Fuck it. I take a deep breath and ready myself for whatever it is this jerkface wants. There’s no avoiding him. I flick the locks and jerk the door open. Felipe stands up straighter. He’s in his normal suit that always ranges from grays to blues, but his tie is normally a loud color and annoying, with its matching stupid handkerchief thingy in his pocket.
Which you’re not allowed to use even if your nose is bleeding. A thing that happens to me when I become stressed, something my doctor told me I need to be very careful about.
High blood pressure runs in my family. Mine is typically well controlled, but it’s hereditary. There is only so much I can do, but I was made aware that it will be closely monitored with my pregnancy.
“Babe.” He pastes a smile on his face. “I’ve missed you.” I roll my eyes so hard I think I might have sprained them.
“What do you want, Felipe?” There’s no time for his bullcrap. I make a big show of checking the time on my phone. Felipe's eyes roam up and down me.
“Are you headed somewhere?”
“Yes.” Felipe lets the silence grow, thinking I’m going to get uncomfortable and fill in more information. I am not.
“A date?” The audacity of this idiot to think he is owed some sort of explanation by me. I shouldn’t be shocked; it’s par for the course when it comes to him and the way he treated me throughout our relationship.
“That’s not really any of your business.”
