Page 69 of Ours to Lose
“I read a fascinating review recently of a new caterer in town. Arden Catering, I believe it was? I can’t decide on my favorite part.” He took his phone from his pocket and cleared his throat. “‘One guest described the meal as “something her grandmother would like,” which isn’t what you expect of an engagement party for a couple in their twenties.’” He flashed his screen my way. “It’s between that or the line about your entitled insistence to work your events alone.” His gaze swept behind the table I stood at by myself. “I see he wasn’t wrong on either count.”
I clenched my teeth and said nothing. Better he assumed I was the only restaurant here to choose to serve hundreds of attendees solo than know how hard a time I was having finding qualified help. He’d probably send me the worst chefs he could find to waste my time. At this point, I’d probably already interviewed them.
“What, no defense for your flailing empire?” He eyed my tasting plates again. “’Cause I don’t think it’s working to have your food speak for itself.”
Even knowing it was his goal, the words burned like the edge of a hot pan. I was saved the need to respond by two couples who approached the table.
“Welcome!” I said too eagerly. “Would you like to try our fried ‘oyster’ dish?”
I described the components and avoided looking at Christian. If I ignored him as if he were a bee, maybe he’d go away.
A moment later, another pair of ladies stepped behind the couples, and he did just that. I went through the rest of the event trying to forget he was ever there, offering my food to tasters with all the confidence I wished I felt.
At five o’clock, I responded to Evan’s text about grabbing dinner and packed up my table.
By five forty-five, I was one of the last restaurants still loading my van, this side of the parking lot more or less empty. With all my stuff locked safely away, I grabbed the last of my trash and headed inside to pee for the first time all afternoon.
When I returned, Christian was leaning against the driver’s door of my van.
I could always leave the van and walk home, I thought. It was what? Five, six miles? Sure, it would take a few hours, but I had more energy for that than dealing with him again. If I’d brought a jacket and wouldn’t have frozen my ass off as soon as the sun went down, I might have seriously considered it.
I crossed my arms as I approached. “What do you want, Christian?”
He looked as smug as ever. “You never answered me before. What’s your response to the article? Or are you giving up already?”
I forced back a sigh. I was too exhausted to decide if I should to scream in his face or lie on the pavement and stay there.
I’d packed and unpacked the van twice today. My back was tight from hunching over the table trying to plate perfect food for three hundred people. Having no one with me meant I never got to leave the table for a bathroom break, to try the other restaurants’ dishes, or to network for Jillian (or in Christian’s case, harass former coworkers). I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. At this point, all I wanted was to crawl under a pile of blankets and stay there until I became one.
To make matters worse, my nostrils burned with a sudden burst of emotion, and I didn’t know if it was anger or a sign that Christian was right.
Not that I was ready to give up. But that for the first time in my career, a part of me wondered if I should.
I hated that, of all people, he was the voice of those doubts in my head.
“Why do you care?” I asked. “You’re the head chef of a James Beard Award-winning restaurant, remember? What does it matter to you what I do?”
It was one thing when we’d both been at Pépère, two sous chefs battling for the top spot. But I’d left. And at no point had my goal been to drag the battle along with me.
His boastful expression slid away. “Don’t act like I don’t know how much better than me you think you are. How you and Jase snickered behind my back and acted like I didn’t deserve to be there. You two tried to push me out every chance you could.”
Now, I rolled my eyes. Because yes, we did talk about him. About our multiple attempts to address his shitty behavior with him directly that went completely ignored.
There’d been one especially gross comment Jase had tried to fire him for, but the restaurant owner took Christian’s side. Jase made sure I was never left alone with him after that.
“I earned my spot as executive chef,” he said, a finger to his chest. “Despite what Jillian fucking Matice seemed to think when she handpicked the rest of you for her little project. And I’m going to make sure she and Jase and everyone in this city know it’smyfood they should care about. Not yours.”
“Fine.” It was all I had for him. That and the best of luck. I’d name him Philly’s top chef right now if he’d let me get to my van so I could go home. We’d both know I was lying, but only one of us would care.
Before I could tell him as much, the door to the building swung open, and Evan stepped outside. My shoulders loosened at the same time Evan’s tensed.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he aimed at Christian. They’d only met twice, but Evan had heard me vent about the other chef enough to know all he needed to about the current situation.
Going by Christian’s face, the revulsion was mutual. “Just reminding Aubrey where she stands.” He shot me a parting glare. “Good luck in the catering competition. You were always going to need it.”
He strode for the building, ignoring Evan, who flashed him both middle fingers. When the door clicked shut, Evan turned to assess if I was okay.
Aside from the headache pounding my skull and incessant throb of my uterus, I was peachy.
