Chapter 6

Kat

THE SIX-YEAR-OLD IN me wanted to go hide behind my mother’s skirt, or crawl under the covers and never come out. I didn’t have the excess energy needed to fight off a bully and put him in his place.

But then again, I hated the thought of squirming every time Kobe looked my way. I hated the thought of looking over my shoulder every time I left my dorm room. And damn if I was going to neglect my classes for fear of running into that childhood friend who’d turned into a fiend.

The scene between Layla and Axel played over and over in my head. I wouldn’t believe it had I not seen it with my own eyes. Damn, where did that girl get the guts to stand up to Axel like that?

You have guts, Kat, a little voice in my head whispered, though with a lack of conviction.

No, really. Kobe is nothing. He is less than nothing. He’s a daddy’s boy who is shaking in his expensive Berlutti shoes... that daddy bought.

Look who’s talking. What had I obtained without the help of my parents? I looked down at my Prada dress, my Prada satin sliders and my Hermès bag. I had paid nearly all of the two thousand dollars for the dress, more than three hundred dollars on the shoes and... well the Hermès bag was a gift. But still, over all I’d paid a good portion of my wardrobe from working at my parents’ restaurants over the years, helping my father out.

That meant something... didn’t it?

I tried to lay low, to let whatever had gotten into Kobe blow over. I did my best to avoid him, but I knew it was pointless. One of these days I would run into him. Then what?

Feeling cute in my pink Prada, I hurried to my Restaurant Business class. I entered the class and looked at the heavy-set woman standing at the front. I knew her... or at least I knew of her. I’d seen her face before... somewhere... where...?

Then it hit me; the stiff upper lip, the black hair streaked with pewter gray pulled into a tight bun and the big black eyes that lacked any warmth.

It was no other than Marsha Manley... Mr. Errol King’s tough, no-nonsense right-hand person.

“Settle down, class,” Ms. Manley barked with a loud clap of her hands. “Settle down. We don’t have all day.”

I’d heard she’d been a drill sergeant prior to entering the culinary world and she’d brought that talent with her. She didn’t disappoint. Her bark had the class settled down in no time.

“Well, well, well,” she said with another heavy-handed clap. “Look at all you bright-eyed cooks .” She crossed her large arms over her chest and looked at us with a touch of disdain. “Don’t you all look so professional and eager to learn.”

She stomped one foot forward then proceeded to march up and down the aisles, glaring down at every student.

When she reached a pretty blond with gorgeous curls, she tugged on a lock. The curl quickly sprung back to place. “Nice hair.”

“Thank you,” the girl said, all smiles. She flipped her curls back, pleased with the praise.

“Smells nice, too.”

“Thank you.”

“How long does it take to get ready?”

“Almost an hour.”

“An hour. Interesting.” She was silent for a moment. “You will see that this semester is going to be quite busy, quite demanding.”

The pretty girl smiled up at her with confusion in her eyes.

“Oh, and by the way, I hate nice hair,” Ms. Manley said flatly. “Did you think you were going out on a date?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Did you hope to impress me with these luscious locks?”

“Um, no, ma’am.”

“Good. I would hate for you to waste an hour on your hair every day only to have me criticize it. Do we understand one another.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” Ms. Manley looked at the class. “All of you with long hair; in this class, you wear your hair up and back. Got it?”

Clasping and unclasping her hands, the girl nodded.

“You are not attending a ball; you are not shopping at the mall. Not only is your hair of little importance, but in this field, it is a hindrance. Do you think I wear my hair this way because it makes me look pretty?”

“Hell no,” the guy behind me muttered under his breath.

“No,” Ms. Manley said with all the femininity of a raging bull. “It is because I know that one single, solitary hair in your soup, in your pasta, in your mashed potatoes is going to ruin your entire meal. Right?”

“Right,” the class murmured in unison.

Her heavy steps slowly made their way up my aisle. She was five desks down, but her gaze was squarely on me. She didn’t like me. That was clear, though I didn’t understand why.

But my hair was in a sleek ponytail. I was okay... right?

“And here we have another pretty,” she said as she stopped beside me. “Nice ponytail.”

“Thank you?” I said, unsure where she was going to go.

“Nice, long... long, long, sleek black hair.”

I stared silently at her, willing myself to breathe normally.

She reached out to firmly grasp my long ponytail and then I knew... I knew where she was going. With a gentle yet firm grip, she ran her hand down the length of my ponytail and came away with three long strands of hair.

“Look at that,” she said as she held the strands up for the class to see. “Imagine slurping up your spaghetti only to find this tangled up in it.”

Okay, I get it, I wanted to say.

She set the strands of black hair in a pile on my desk and looked at me with a touch of satisfaction. “And isn’t that a lovely dress.”

“Thank you,” I said, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

“Yves St. Laurent?”

I shook my head.

“Ralph Lauren?”

“Prada,” I said to save her from endlessly guessing.

“Oh, Prada. Of course. How lovely.”

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“How much does a Prada dress go for these days?”

Seriously? Do I have to answer that? If a student had bought a twenty-dollar dress at a thrift store, would you be harassing her?

“I take it you don’t shop at the mall like we mere mortals,” she went on.

I clasped the hem of my Prada dress with a nervous hand.

“Did you think you were going to a fashion show, my dear?”

“No,” I said. But the dress was simple with no frills. Why was she picking on me?

She punched her heavy fist on the corner of my desk, startling me as well as the students around me. Eyeing me with a menacing glare, she set her pudgy hands on the edge of my desk and leaned in.

“The food business is not for the faint at heart. This is not a sit pretty and smile kind of business. Running a restaurant is hard, demanding work.” She straightened up and leaned back slightly to look under my desk. “How many difficult hours can you spend running around on those expensive heels, dear?”

I had half a mind to let her know that I was quite comfortable in heels, that I’d often spent a few hours helping out at one of my family’s restaurants in heels. But I knew it was futile.

“I’ll wear something more appropriate tomorrow,” I muttered.

“Well, I should hope so. I’m not in the habit of barking out recommendations twice.” She looked all around the class. “Got that, everyone!? We are a hands-on class. That means you will be cooking. You will be working at your kitchen stations. So dress appropriately for safety, sanitary, and professional reasons.”

As everyone muttered their understanding, she walked back to the front of the class.

“Some of you might think that running a restaurant is as easy as pie. Some of you might be attracted to the glamour of an expensive and exclusive restaurant. Some of you might imagine yourselves hobnobbing with the elite who might grace your fine tables.”

She snickered and looked at the girls in the class... more specifically, the pretty and delicate looking girls, including myself.

“I’ve seen men cry at the end of an eighteen-hour day... exhausted,” she went on. “I’m sure you can all imagine the degree with which some women have had to be scooped up with a tiny spoon following such a demanding day. Cry, you say? They balled! They crumbled. They fell into a fetal position and hugged themselves... only to have to get up the next day and do it all over again.”

We stared at her, a little stunned by her vision of what life as a restauranteur was.

“Running a restaurant is far from glamorous. It’s tough. This is not the place to be if you are traumatized by a broken nail. This is not the place to be if you can’t stand the thought of getting your hands dirty. No... pretty girls! In my world pretty hair, pretty nails and pretty make up are out! In my world hairnets replace gem-encrusted barrettes. In my world clipped nails and a clean face are the order of the day.”

A few of the girls glanced at their perfect manicures and sighed.

“Your pretty smiles and pretty fashion sense might get you the attention you desire... but if you think it is going to help you here... you are wrong. Dead wrong. In fact, you may as well pack up your Pradas and Armanis and go home.”

Again she glared at me with those menacing eyes.

“Well, now that we’ve covered that, let’s move on.” She went behind her desk and turned to face us. “I would like to introduce to you my teacher’s assistant for this year... Mr. Kobe King.”

He’d been sitting discreetly behind a partition and as he rose and made himself present, his haughty and arrogant glare landed directly on me.

He looked good, something I was sure every girl in the class noticed. Wearing a tan suit with white shirt, he looked every bit the serious student... and teacher’s assistant.

He’d been listening. Of course he had. He’d been silently applauding every criticism Ms. Manley had thrown my way.

“Hello, everyone,” he said with feigned cheer.

“Hello,” the class shot back.

“As Ms. Manley so eloquently said, this is not a class for those hoping to just coast by.”

“No, it is not,” she said.

With his hands clasped behind his back, he stood in front of Ms. Manley’s desk, feet apart, and looked down on us lowly students. “I happen to know that one of you comes from a very prestigious family... a family known for its highly successful restaurants.”

Although he didn’t move, his direct and unwavering gaze fell on me, as well as that of every other student.

He wouldn’t, I thought. He wouldn’t tell everyone who I was.

“Miss Katrina Lee, of the Lee Family Restaurant empire.”

He did. Damn, Kobe, why?

Students around me grunted.

“Must be nice to attend this prestigious school with that family name behind you,” Kobe said with a pleased grin.

He wanted to see me squirm, but I refused to give him that satisfaction.

I worked hard to be here, Kobe, and you know it.

“Don’t be surprised if your peers resent your attempt to just coast on your family name.”

The students around me now grumbled loudly.

“Tsk, tsk,” Kobe said with a shake of his head. “This is not the place for the coddled, spoiled, and pampered. I think that fact will be made abundantly clear soon enough.”

He looked at the students in the class. “I urge you all to keep your eyes and ears open. Don’t let that one get by because of her daddy’s name. Make her work for it the way you will have to.”

Everyone glared at me, their lips tight with disappointment as they shook their heads at me. I wanted to get up and leave the classroom, but gritted my teeth and sank a bit lower in my chair waiting until the class was over before I stormed out.