Page 68 of Perfect Pairing
Well, I tried. But then Damian muttered “what the fuck” after cutting into his steak, and my good mood popped like a balloon.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, though, to be honest, I didn’t particularly care.
“My steak is undercooked,” he grumbled. When he lifted his head to signal our waitress, his cheeks had gone ruddy, a vein appearing in his forehead.
I leaned forward to get a better look, finding the meat…perfectly cooked to medium rare.
“You asked for medium rare,” I said calmly. “That’s exactly what that is.”
“I didn’t ask for it to still be practically bleeding,” he hissed at me. “What’d the chef do, cut it off a live cow?”
“I can assure you, he didn’t.”
Damian made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat, raisinghis arm over his head and waving at the waitress. I couldn’t begrudge the girl the fear in her eyes as she approached.
“Can I get something for you?” she asked politely, sparing me a glance. I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile in return.
Damian gestured to his plate. “This is undercooked. Take it back and have the chef prepare it correctly this time.”
It took everything in me not to come to Ezra’s defense—hell, not to defend my family’s establishment. I bit my tongue hard enough that the coppery tang of blood coated my mouth.
As the waitress apologized to Damian and retreated to the kitchen with his plate, I couldn’t help but think I was sitting there waiting for a train, unable to stop, about to barrel into a car parked on the tracks.
“Chef, we have aproblem,” a waitress—whose name I couldn’t remember for the life of me—said as she came back into the kitchen, carrying a plate with a beautiful ribeye she’d just brought out to one of her tables.
“And what’s that?” I asked, barely sparing her a glance as I worked on plating a mushroom and Swiss topped with a healthy helping of fragrant grilled onions.
My mouth watered, and with a low curse, I realized we’d been so busy, I hadn’t eaten in hours. My stomach let out a grumble of protest, and I mentally told it to shut the fuck up.
I didn’t have time to be hungry.
“The customer said this steak was undercooked.”
I froze in place, right in the middle of sprinkling bread and butter pickles on the side to help balance the heavier flavors and textures of the burger.
I straightened and stalked over to her, grabbing the plate and whirling to the prep counter. I grabbed a fork and prodded at the ribeye. The customer had already cut a slice off, and I was greeted by the sight of the perfectly pink inside.
“Can you pull up that order?” I asked the waitress. “Tell me exactly how he wanted it prepared.”
“No need,” she said. “I distinctly remember him ordering it medium rare. His date even confirmed it.”
“Then what the fuck is the problem?” I shouted, whipping the towel from my shoulder and throwing it on the floor. I felt bad when the girl flinched, and I mumbled an apology. “What table?”
“Seventeen.”
With a curt nod, I headed out onto the floor to track down the fucker who got exactly what he’d asked for and still found something to complain about.
I was thirty-three years old and had been cooking since I was old enough to see over the counter. There was nothing fucking wrong with that steak. The customer had asked for medium rare, and that was exactly what I’d given him. I’d never under or overcooked a steak in my life, and today was no different.
When I pushed out of the kitchen and approached the mouth of the dining room at the end of the short hall, my eyes swept the space, mentally counting until I landed on table seventeen.
The man was on the taller side, probably around my height, wearing a black Polo shirt at least two sizes too small for him, clearly purchased purposely to make his biceps and pecs look larger than they were. I couldn’t see his lower half, but if I was a betting man, I’d put money on the fact he had on some form of khaki pants and loafers.
But the woman—my heart stopped dead in my chest despite the fact that I could only see the back of her head and the gentle slope of one, olive-skinned shoulder.
I’d recognize her anywhere, my body in tune with hers even when I didn’t want to be.
If Brie wasn’t mad at me before, she was about to be after I handed her date his ass.
