Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)(16)

I said, “I’m flattered you’d think of me, but the answer is no.”

Without missing a beat he replied, “Your fee would be twenty thousand dollars.”

I almost dropped the spoon in my hand. I slow blinked more times than was probably necessary. “Tw . . . twenty . . .”

“Thousand dollars,” he finished, carefully watching my face.

Though he was standing right in front of me, I wasn’t even seeing him anymore. I was seeing my mother getting the chemotherapy she desperately needed. I was seeing her at the best hospital in the state, getting the highest level of care, being tended to by the best doctors.

I was picturing her surviving, when only this morning I’d been convinced she already had one foot in the grave.

When I didn’t say anything, Jackson condescendingly added, “I’m sure you can find a use for that kind of money. Right?”

Think of Mama. Think of Mama and not how much you’d enjoy driving a stake through his cold, black heart.

I closed my eyes, drew in a slow breath, and grimly nodded.

As if he’d just won a bet with himself, the Beast said, “Right. The event’s in two weeks. I’m having three hundred guests. I need a full menu with wine pairings by this time tomorrow.”

My eyes flew open. “Three hundred people? Two weeks? Are you kidding me? That’s impossible!”

The smirk I was beginning to hate appeared again. “No, it’s twenty thousand dollars.”

“Wait a minute—”

“I’ll pay you up front.”

Fresh out of arguments, I stood staring up at him with my mouth open like I was trying to catch fireflies.

His gaze dropped to my lips. The smirk disappeared. A muscle flexed in his jaw. With a sudden gruffness, like I’d done something to make him mad, he snapped, “I’ll send a car for you at ten o’clock tomorrow morning so you can familiarize yourself with the kitchen.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned around and walked out the door.





SEVEN

BIANCA

At promptly ten o’clock the next morning, a sleek black sedan pulled up in front of my restaurant and glided to a stop at the curb.

I had no idea what kind of car it was, but I knew it was fancy-schmancy. Only really expensive, snobby-rich-people show-off cars had those stupid silver ornaments sticking out of the front of the hood like a middle finger to everyone who looked at them as they drove down the street.

Standing next to me at the window, Eeny said, “Your chariot awaits, boo.” Then she burst into hysterical cackles.

I sighed. At Mama’s insistence, I’d told no one about her illness. Her pride wouldn’t allow her to publicly admit she was sick. Or maybe it was vanity. Either way, I’d been sworn to silence. She hadn’t even told the Colonel. So no one at the restaurant knew the real reason I accepted a job from the Beast, but they were all getting a kick out of it. Hoyt had told me yesterday that one of the line cooks had started a pool to see how long it took before I quit.

But I couldn’t quit, no matter how bad it got. Mama’s life depended on that money.

I said, “Please don’t forget to process the shellfish and get it on ice. And the Nieman Ranch delivery should be here no later than noon.”

Eeny snorted. “Expectin’ Carl to be on time with the meat is like expectin’ to see a gorilla ridin’ a tricycle down the sidewalk. That boy is slower than a Sunday afternoon.”

And dumber than a box of rocks, I thought. He could throw himself on the ground and miss. He’d been delivering meat to me every day for months and still called at least once a week to get directions.

“Well off you go, Cinderella,” said Eeny, bumping me with her shoulder. “Don’t want your chariot to turn into a pumpkin!”

“I’m glad this is so amusing to you, Eeny,” I said, giving her a stinky side-eye look.

Grinning, she patted me on the arm. “It’s good for you to get out with a man every once in a while. Keeps the juices flowin’, if you know what I mean.”

My stink eye grew stinkier. “This isn’t a date, Eeny.”

“Oh, I know,” she said airily. “But judgin’ by the way Jackson Boudreaux looks at you like you turn his brain to scrambled eggs, it ain’t all business, either. At least for him. Lawd!” she cried suddenly, pointing out the window. “Who’s that tall drink o’ water?”

Emerging from the driver’s side of the sleek black sedan was an equally sleek black man. Dressed in a smart suit, his salt-and-pepper hair short and tidy, he stood looking at the front door, smoothing his tie. He was tall, elegant, and quite good-looking. I judged him to be somewhere north of sixty-five in age.