Page 13 of The Billionaire & the Virgin Chef
Emily
Imakeit to the condo where my best friend, Dahlia is pet sitting. My mind is blown. The main floor of the penthouse apartment is filled with her favorite flowers. They’re gorgeous, and they’re everywhere, filling the space with sweet scents that I’m sure will go great with what I’m about to make. In my view, only violets would make the gesture more special. I adoreviolets.
I adore these flowerstoo.
But Dahlia doesn’t. And she isn’t too impressed with me mentioning that it’s a sweet gesture from Jackson, herdate.
She’s also not keen to tell me why a room full of the flowers she’s named after isn’t a good thing, so I fill her in on how the night went while I prepare a few appetizers for her to sample. In this business, using a new recipe is destined for failure without the taste test, preferably by non-chefs and a decent selection of taste buds sampling the finalproduct.
I’ve gone all out with five new recipes for Mrs. Worthington’s event. I don’t just want that gig. I need it. It’ll be the most money I’ve ever been paid, so screwing it up is not an option. This is one time where mundane dishes that everyone else serves won’t cutit.
On top of that, I have a new job. Blair offered me a part-time job at his very upscale restaurant calledGauche. To say that I’m excited about the opportunity to work for him regularly is an understatement. I spent all night wishing our apartment had room for me to do cartwheels while Rosa and I shared a bottle of white wine to celebrate. A new job, possibly a real gig that pays thousands, well, it all feels like my life has transformed into my second most wished forfantasy.
Only one person is missing, but if I spend even a moment thinking about her, my entire mood will change. It’s the reason I take the day off every year on her birthday. I become way too emotionally raw to function. It’s one of the reasons I’ve never been in a serious relationship. Connecting with someone romantically will likely require me to open up about this part of my past, and how can I be open about it with someone else when I can’t face itmyself?
While Rose was doing a psychology course in her undergraduate program, she told me that my mind is coping with the trauma of losing Joy by suppressing the memories of her. Maybe Rose is right. But I’ve found that the only way to make it through the day is to keep that part of my life neatly packed away, closed off from everything else. If I don’t, this accomplishment of being so close to graduating from culinary school, the part-time job, the possible gig, they’d all feel as empty as that small part of my soul that I try not to focuson.
Shoving the depressing thoughts away like I usually do, I turn on the stove. I find the two saucepans I brought with me in a separate bag on the counter. Pulling them out, I start the caramel glaze in one and warm up the second pan for the garlic sesame dip that’ll go with my jumbo shrimp appetizer. Each of the hors-d’oeuvres I’m planning has to be prepared at a different temperature, from hot to room temperature to straight from the fridge. It sounds like more work, but actually, a plan to serve this range of items will make it easier for me on the night of the event. I won’t be slaving over a slew of saucepans all atonce.
As things are well in hand, I do my best to push Dahlia some more. I’m so curious to know how her night went, to hear her take on the event from a guest’s point of view. But she’s still not talking much, and when she does, it’s to rave about my career news or to dote on her fur babies. All I know is her evening crashed and burned at some point, and she blames it all on herdate.
She also doesn’t have much of an appetite. Not a good state for my tastetester.
While I’m working on the sauces, there’s some ruckus with the dogs and Dahlia goes out onto the balcony to figure out what’s going on. From Dahlia’s accounts, they’ve been sneaking over to the neighbor’s side to make all manner of trouble for her. The next thing I know, she’s more frantic than before. I realize why when there’s a knock on the door shortlyafter.
I’m met by the tall, sandy-haired guy with glasses who had his eyes on me all night last night. He’s with a friend who introduces himself as theneighbor.
Damn, they’re bothgorgeous.
I start to envy Dahlia all over again for lucking out on this gig. An exquisite condo to live in, even if it’s temporary. No subway transit all the way from Brooklyn to the Upper West Side. And hot, handsome men dressed in expensive business suits showing up at her doorunannounced.
Luckybitch.
After showing them in, I announce them to my bestie and return to the stove. The cute nerdy one follows me to the kitchen while his friend tries to have a conversation withDahlia.
Considering that I’m here for her taste buds and she’s not in the eating mood, I figure, hell, why not go with the flow. Maybe the sexy geek ishungry.
“Hi, there,” I greet him. “Didn’t I see you at the gala lastnight?”
“Yeah.” He comes closer to the stove and leans against the counter nearby. He clutches the high-end smartphone in his hand as though it never leaves that position. But who am I to judge? I sleep with my chef’s knives under my bed, and it’s not for safety reasons. “What’scooking?”
“Nothing much,” Ianswer.
“I bet your food’s anything butthat.”
“Just some samples I brought over for Dahlia to try out. Want to try some? I can use a fresh set of taste buds while she’s busy with yourfriend.”
“Hell yes,” he answers. “Matter of fact, I’d be more than happy to volunteer if you’re ever looking for someone to taste…your food that is,” he adds with awink.
Gosh, he’s a flirttoo.
I point at the finished dishes. “Try any of those five at the end. I’m still working on the sauces for these two hot menuitems.”
“What’s that one with the pears wrapped inbacon?”
“Bacon wrapped caramelized pears. Wait. Here.” A sudden dose of courage causes me to lift the spatula from that saucepan to his mouth. I must really like this guy. Being this forward is so unlike me. And I still don’t even know his name. “Taste it withthis.”
My stomach does a flip as he steadies my hand with his at my wrist, lowering his head until his lips are level with thespoon.
