Chapter 10

Journey

“Listen up!”

Everyone in the dining room freezes. We’ve finished cleaning every nook and cranny in the godforsaken kitchen. Cash and Jason have completed their inspection. The bartenders are slinging free drinks for everyone, and Cash even phoned in a catered steak and lobster lunch from one of their other restaurants.

But now that we’re all relaxed, relieved, with full bellies, and ready to go to our homes to catch a nap before dinner service, Chef Jason is back, presumably to bark more orders at us.

In his hands is a personnel file, and he reads my name as if he doesn’t know me. As if I hadn’t introduced myself to everyone just this morning. “Journey Adams?”

“Yeah?”

He looks up from the file, his gaze severe. “What was that?”

“Yes, Chef.”

“You’re gonna help me organize.”

“Yes, Chef.”

“Other than that, I want everyone in this restaurant to know every ingredient on each menu item,” Jason announces. “I don’t care if you’re a busboy or you take out the trash. Everyone tastes everything. So be back here at 5 p.m. sharp before we open the doors so I can explain the dishes and do a tasting. Got it?”

“Yes, Chef!”

He snaps his fingers and nods at me. “Let’s go, Adams.”

All eyes are on me when I hesitate, wavering between indignation and obedience. But why should I be indignant? I’m his right hand. Well, I was supposed to be Richard’s right hand, but he’s not here.

Oh, what the hell am I bitching about? I signed up for the restaurant business, and everyone knows it can be high drama, highly volatile, and high turnover. But this is nuts. Can’t everyone else see how nuts this is? But as I look around the room, everyone seems to be in a good mood. Some of them appear to wonder why I’m giving a bit of an attitude.

He said it himself, he can’t have the appearance of preferential treatment.

I swallow my pride and follow him into the kitchen while everyone else goes home.

Deep inside the bowels of the kitchen, Jason starts handing me cutting boards. “Throw that one out, and that one, and that one…”

I follow him around like a puppy, tossing out old supplies, making way for new ones, putting specific knives over here and other ones over there, and rearranging utensils, pots, and pans for maximum efficiency.

After we’ve been at it for an hour, he stops and makes eye contact with me for the first time.

“I’m sorry.”

I squint at him. “For what?”

“For barking at you in front of everyone.”

“You think that’s what I’m mad about?”

“Aren’t you?”

“I might be blonde, but I understand what it means to appear above reproach, Chef.”

“Tell me what you’re mad about so I can properly apologize.”

Is he serious?

I wave both arms around in a gesture to indicate everything.

“All of this. All of everything. Literally so much of everything, Jason.” I emphasize his name just to be a brat.

He nods, starting to catch on. “The name thing.”

“Sure, let’s start there. Why did you give me a fake name?”

“I didn’t give you a fake name. Plenty of people call me Jay.”

I purse my lips. He barely contains a smile, which is all the more enraging.

But you withheld your last name.”

“So did you,” he says. “That was implied with the whole one-night stand thing. Strangers having one incredible night together.”

And that is the biggest lie of all, even bigger than leaving off his last name. I can’t stand the idea of us being a one-night stand. As infuriating as he is, I’ve caught feelings. OK, maybe it is just the beginning of a feeling.

Enough that I wince at his description of our time together. I cover it up pretty well, but he sees the wince.

Dammit.

I square my shoulders.

“But you knew that I would recognize your name. I might be a bit thickheaded sometimes but of course I would recognize your name.”

“You didn’t tell me your last name, either.”

“That’s because my name doesn’t ring a bell for anyone!”

Quietly, slowly, and with deadly precision, Jason flattens me with this: “Someday, it will. For everyone.”

The comment pierces me in a hidden place where my deepest wound resides.

No. Not now. Not crying now.

I can’t let him make me feel special. I can’t let myself feel that he believes in me, not after all this deception.

So why does it make me feel so damn good to hear that?

Is it because I’m only 22 and my prefrontal lobe isn’t finished developing. That must be it.

No, I don’t receive that, no matter how nice it feels.

“Are we done organizing?”

His eyes are full of something like regret. I can’t bear to look at him anymore. If he regrets last night, I need to go throw up.

“We are,” he says.

“Good, because I need to go back to my hotel.”

He nods. “Get some rest. You’ll need it. Be back here at four to learn the recipes.”

Before I leave, I shoot him a smile over my shoulder. “I read your menu. It’s pretty basic; I think I got it.”

And now I need to go to Plano and cry into my crappy motel pillow.