Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A mes had to admit, grudgingly, that Nathan Greene had done better than he’d expected. All the guys loved his food, he’d never once bitched about how tired and sore he was, and his meals were still pretty creative even though it was grocery delivery day.

The guys were getting more vegetable matter than they’d likely eaten since they were kids, the weird-assed pastry things had gone over like they were amazing, and everything had spices and herbs and shit.

It was maddening.

Then again, he’d never eaten so well himself, and he knew it, though he would never admit it.

He hadn’t known that canned food and rice could make something spicy and creamy and amazing. He didn’t know he liked foreign food that didn’t sound like anything he understood.

He did know there was something about Nathan Greene that made his eyes cross and made him grumpy as hell.

He sighed, heading to the kitchen to collect his bag lunch for the day. “You all set for delivery?” he asked.

The man was relaxed, a bandana on his red head. “Oui. I’m set up. Should be a fun couple of days. I hope they found arugula and chard…”

“What the hell is chard?” Okay, he knew, but only because he watched Top Chef reruns.

“It’s a leafy green. I’m going to make wali ya mboga. I’ve been reading about it, and it’s gluten free.”

“Is that anything that’s real?” He thought it sounded like a movie.

“Which part? Gluten free, chard, or wali ya mboga?” Smartass.

“Just tell me what it is?” Ames cut a hand through the air.

“Rice and vegetables and chicken with spice, basically. It’s East African, and I’ve been reading a lot about it while I’ve been here.” Like that was normal. Who did that?

“Hmm. Is there going to be an alternate?”

“What? No. You all like chicken and rice. I will make it less spicy and give you the option to add more. I know there are some sensitive palates.”

“Yeah. And bellies.” Some of the guys had cast iron stomachs, but Hal, for example, had required surgery to remove part of his gut when a bull had gored him when he was in his twenties.

Nathan just chuckled, shook his head. “Yes. I was being delicate. Everyone deserves a seat at the table.”

“Thanks.” He sighed. “I’m on the herd today, but I’ll be in for the night. Can we set up a meet to see what the menu reads like once you get supplies? You have free rein. I want to know what’s what.”

“Sure. Seven suppers, seven breakfasts, seven bag lunches, and three desserts. I’ll make a menu once I see the produce.” Nathan tilted his head. “You’ve been eating. Do you not enjoy the food?”

He had, sure, but he would kill for a steak or enchiladas, chili dogs, burgers. Something simple and familiar.

“I do enjoy it. But I want something American or Mexican. Those are my go-tos. Is that possible?” See him be reasonable.

“Oh, I wanted to make a mole poblano, but the food costs weren’t great, so I settled on chiles en Nogada.” Nathan hummed. “Poblanos stuffed with picadillo and covered in a walnut cream sauce, sprinkled with pomegranate seeds.”

“Hmm. I mean, that sounds yummy, but I was wondering about green chile enchiladas. I’m New Mexican.”

“If they send the ingredients, I’ll see if I can fit them in.” Nathan seemed a touch constipated. It was probably all that chard shit.

“Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.” Ames relented some. “I dig your food, but it’s a learning curve. And I crave a hamburger sometimes.”

Nathan nodded, then handed him a bag lunch.

“Another one of them weird things?”

“No. Today you have turkey and muenster wraps with tomato, pine nuts, olive salad, and hummus.”

“That’s the bean mayo stuff.”

“Yep.” Nathan nodded, seeming more cheerful.

So he dared to tease. “No cookie?”

“No. Hand pie. Apricot and basil.”

“I’ll take it.” He winked. “Thanks. I know it’s annoying.”

“It so is.” Nathan deadpanned it, but his lips twitched.

Hopefully that was laughter Nathan was holding back.

“Is there more of that steel-cut oatmeal, Mr. Greene? It’s the best stuff I’ve ever tasted.” Cash, one of the younger hands, brought over his empty bowl.

“Of course. You want the blueberry-ginger compote or the rosehip one?”

This guy was corrupting his hands.

“Blueberry please.” Cash beamed, then winked at him. “Mr. Greene is the best cook we’ve ever had.”

“Yep.” That was probably a true and fair statement. The guy got under his skin.

“I should hope so. I spent enough time at the CIA learning how to.” The bowl of oats was like a piece of art, fruit arranged around one inside edge, nuts sprinkled atop, little bits of candied ginger glistening.

It was crazy-making.

“Okay, well, I’ll see you tonight then.” Ames turned on his heel and left before he snapped at anyone.

Everyone was chowing down, little bags of lunches close by. The night shift was acting like they were starving.

So Ames went to saddle his horse. At least they weren’t eating Nathan’s food.

Last thing they needed was gourmet sweet feed.

“Hey, Boss. How goes it?”

“Hey, Ned. I’m about to head out. You on with me today?”

“I am! It looks like it’s going to be a gorgeous day. I do love this time of year.”

“Me too, buddy.” He grabbed his saddle and moved to gear up his gelding. He wished he knew why that chef guy got to him so bad.

The man wasn’t a bitch. He wasn’t whiny. He wasn’t an asshole.

But there was something about him that set Ames’s fucking teeth on edge. Maybe he reminded Ames of someone deep down in his subconscious, though for the life of him he couldn’t think who.

Thank God he only had to deal with the man for another week. Then he’d be doing fancy shit for the Chiaras and their guests, and Ames be eating normal food again.

“Hey, you,” he told Buck, settling the blanket into place on his back. “Let’s have a good night tonight, huh?”

Buck whinnied, head tossing good and hard. Someone was ready to get to work.

Nathan was on the last day of his camping adventure.

All in all, it hadn’t been bad. In fact, there had been certain things that had been fun as hell.

For instance, Mr. I Only Want Normal Foods?

Got a bowl of cereal—no fruit, thank you—for breakfast, a ham and cheese sandwich and a plastic-wrapped oatmeal cookie for lunch, and a hamburger on a bun and six tater tots for supper.

Every fucking day.

He wasn’t a short order cook—not now, not ever. He would—and did—make eggs to order, and he cooked beef and lamb to the temperature requested, but he didn’t dumb down his food.

If the boss called him on it, he could prove that Ames was getting the same amount of calories as everyone else.

He was only getting a quarter of the care.

To his credit, the man never said a word. After the first morning where Nathan stared Ames down at the incipient raised eyebrows when everyone else got frittata and fruit salad, and he got Chex, Ames wore no expression at all when he came to collect his meals.

The food wasn’t bad, but it was exactly what had been asked for—normal, American food. With the least effort he had to put in, since he was already cooking four meals for each shift, essentially.

He wished he could say it wasn’t that he was being an asshole because he knew he probably was. In fact, he most likely owed the guy an apology. Not that Nathan was going to give him one. Not right now. Not after everything that had happened.

Not by the cowboy. Ames wasn’t who he was so goddamn angry at.

It just…it hadn’t been all that long since he’d had the restaurant.

Since he’d been up for a James Beard Award.

Since he had been someone. And now he was what?

A fucking camp cook making Chex mix and hamburgers. Ham and cheese sandwiches. Cookies.

It hurt his soul in a deep way that made him worry he wasn’t fixable. He knew no one really understood how or why, especially no one who wasn’t in the business, but this was his passion.

Food was his life. He spent hours, days even, searching for the perfect recipe, the perfect ingredient, the perfect set of flavors he wanted to see people eat.

Feeding people was what he did.

Jesus, he’d been so proud of that damn restaurant. Magnolia Ink. It had been what they’d named it, decided while they were soaking in the bathtub, Dan’s hand on his cock, bubbles up to his neck.

“It’s going to be beautiful, angel,” Dan had promised, and it had been.

Beautiful.

Decorated in deep purples. Not too many tables, a few sets of leather banquettes along the walls with one chef’s table near the kitchen. It had been a place for the elite to go and have a cozy, intimate dinner. Something to linger over.

They did one seating a night, and his menu changed daily, depending on what was freshest, what was best, and what had turned him on.

And somehow now he was scared of being turned on? Of the thought of his soul waking from its sleep.

And that was it. He was fucking terrified of this whole thing.

Worse than that, he was ashamed.

He’d trusted his ex with more than his life. He’d offered Dan access to his business, to his career. He’d paid with his heart, with his soul, and…shit.

He’d sacrificed it all to keep Dan out of jail. The worst part of all though? It hadn’t been worth it.

Nathan had lost everything, full stop. That son of a bitch had simply found another sucker. Promised him his love and a new restaurant and started over in Houston.

God, he was tired.

Maybe that was why Nathan’d come here. Because no one knew who he was, no one cared. No one had any idea that he was—had been—special. Talented. He had been a mentor, someone to look up to, someone to care for. Hell, even a protégé another chef might brag about. Now he was nothing but a cook.

Now instead of his million-dollar condo in Austin, he was sleeping in the tiny house attached to a commercial kitchen. No bathtub. No bubbles. Just a stand-up shower and the toilet. The kitchenette squatted under a loft bed.

He didn’t have to pay for it, at least.

Nathan sighed. He was trying to focus on what they were going to have their last night here at camp. They were almost out of fresh vegetables, but there was enough.

Salad maybe? Navratan Korma? Vegetable soup and cornbread?

Come on. Nathan. You gotta figure this out. All you have to do is decide what to make for supper. You’ve already got everything ready for biscuits and gravy before you leave out in the morning. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

Pasta. That would be fun. He enjoyed making fresh pasta. He could make up one hell of a sauce. That was what he needed.

And tomorrow they’d eat biscuits and gravy, and they would load and go. He might even let Ames have some. Especially if he used up all the milk for the biscuits and gravy.

He laughed. Yeah, it was mean. He admitted it, but they did give him a little bit of a happy. It made him feel the tiniest bit in control. And it wasn’t like he was starving the man. He wouldn’t do that.

Mostly.

Besides that, it was almost over. All he had to do was finish. Get through today.

Twelve breakfasts. Twelve sack lunches. Twelve Suppers. Three desserts.

That was it.

The food costs. Run the nutritional info data. Feed the cowboys. Go home.

And save every penny. And dream of better days.