Page 18 of The Nanny and the Hothead
“His calling?” Charlotte questioned.
“Yes, dear. You see, you’re nice ninety-nine percent of the time, and that will benefit the child. My client, however, could use a bit of your not-so-nice one percent.”
Madelyn Malone was a walking book of presumptions, riddles, and veiled assertions.
“Again, Madelyn, I don’t understand,” she replied, searching the woman’s expression.
The nanny match maven smoothed her scarf. “Luckily, I do understand. I understand completely. That’s my gift. And that’s why I believe that you’re a match for this placement.”
Charlotte held the key as she stared at the starry sky, searching for answers.
“What are you waiting for, Charlotte? You’ve got the key,” Madelyn said with a curious lilt to her rich vibrato voice. “It’s up to you to figure out if it opens the right door.”
Three
Mitch
Mitch Elliott scowledas he swiped a tasting spoon from the counter. He stared hard at his sous chef’s version of tonight’s special—a dish he usually only prepared for one person.
Truffle risotto.
He slid the spoon into the creamy concoction and scooped up a bite.
But he wasn’t happy—far from it.
He could already tell something was off before the risotto even hit his tongue. Like a toddler not wanting to eat his vegetables, Mitch forced the spoon into his mouth. The problem presented itself like a four-alarm fire.
There was too much parmesan cheese!
Such an egregious overuse that the whole dish was thrown off. Jesus! He might as well run down to the corner market, snap up a canister of the cheap dried-out shit, and serve that on a platter. It would be better than the catastrophe his sous chef threw together.
Was he the only person in this restaurant who cared about quality?
He swallowed the crap risotto, then scrutinized the young sous chef cowering before him. Could he go easy on the kid and tell him to dial it back on the parm?
Yeah.
Would the old version of himself have done that?
Absolutely! He probably would have patted the guy on the back, too.
But he wasn’t that guy anymore—and hadn’t been for quite some time.
Seven years, to be exact.
Oh, and by the way, the old Mitch Elliott was a real sucker. A true chump! He’d been played in the very worst of ways. At the thought of the old version of himself, heat rose to his cheeks, and his pulse quickened.
There was no Mr. Nice Chef at the Crystal Cricket. His restaurant. He was the owner and executive chef. He didn’t have to be nice. His pedigree spoke for itself. His résumé was littered with culinary awards and prestigious honors. Despite his fiery temper, line cooks clamored to work for him. Sous chefs happily took his shit, lowered their heads, and got to work executing his menu. The front of the house was booked for weeks on end. The waitstaff endured his outbursts because, thanks to his rep and the positive buzz about the Crystal Cricket, they made decent tips.
Was he easy to work for?
Hell no!
Did he fire whole shifts of waitstaff for making minor errors?
Yeah, that happened.
It was no picnic working for him, but it didn’t have to be. Being employed by Mitch Elliott was a privilege, and they all knew it.
