Cocky Chef(21)

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"Oh … oh yeah … " I say, still taken aback. "I remember, but I mean, I thought we were just talking. Fantasizing. Laying out what we would love to do, at some future point in time. I didn't think you-we-were actually going to go for it. Not right away, at least … "

"Spud," Tony says, using my Guillhaume-inspired pet name the way only an old friend could. "I might love L.A. but I'm not from L.A. When I say I'm going to do something, I do it. Now are you in or not?"

"Of course I'm in," I say. "It's still my dream. I'm just … anxious, you know? This is kinda quick. It's not that long since my last place failed. And I'm working now-"

"And fucking Cole Chambers now. Whatever. Anxious is fine. So long as you can still cook a mean beans, that's all we need. Now I'm arranging a meeting with these investors and you're gonna come too. I think they're the real deal and we need both of us there to show how serious we are. Are you with me?"

"Hell yes." I don't hesitate, feeling once again like a girl from Idaho in a city where nobody seems to stop for breath.

"Hell yes. That's exactly what I wanted to hear," Tony grins as we dig into our food.



I get to Knife at around two-hours before it'll open for the evening shift, but it's Tuesday, the one day each week the chefs sit down to eat together before work. It's a chance to talk shop and air any problems that might be brewing, though it's mostly a chance to share a meal with the people you're too busy working beside to spend any time with. This is only the second one I'm going to, but it already feels like I know the place better than my own.

At least I won't have to face Cole. I'm not quite sure how things are gonna go when we next bump into each other. I'm thinking I might go for a ‘what we did in the office that one time was cool, but we should get back to reality' kind of vibe, though I'm worried it'll turn into a ‘what the hell was that all about, and when are we doing it again?' sort of thing. Because the truth is that-even though it's complicated, and messy, and there are a dozen obvious reasons I shouldn't-I wouldn't mind a repeat performance.

I know Cole's a player, but maybe what I need, after all this time moping over my asshole ex and my failed restaurant, is to play around a little. Cole's definitely not going to get serious on me, and I'm too focused on work to get serious on him, so why not? Sure, there's a little voice in my head telling me it's a bad idea that could be dangerous-but I have to struggle to hear it over the loud tingles my body gets when I remember how good he was, the way he commanded me to come for him …  

I snap back to the urgency of the present moment, step through the propped-open exit door and hurry through the kitchen, checking my watch to see how late I am.

"Hey! Willow!" someone calls from the kitchen.

I stop to find Aaron, a line cook from Brooklyn who makes everything sound like he's delivering a line at an open mic night. His round, bearded face sitting upon his round body giving him the appearance of a snowman, and his ever-present smile almost as big as his heart.

"Hey," I say, moving over to him as he plates some seared scallops. "Is everyone here?"

"They're sitting down," Aaron says, nodding toward the tables. "But if you help me carry the plates through they probably won't notice you're late."

"Sure," I say, taking the scallops from him and picking up a couple of other dishes.

I move through to the front of the restaurant, where the staff are already laughing and chatting with the easy energy of relieved tension, languishing in their chairs like soldiers waiting for action, already working their way through two bottles of the least-ordered reds, preempting the busy shift ahead of them. Two tables have been shoved close together to fit the dozen plus members of the kitchen staff and waiters, and as soon as I draw close they start picking food from the plates before I've even set them down.

A couple of them affectionately call out my nickname, ‘Spud,' as I grab the bottle to fill a glass and take my seat.

The last time we did this, Cole wasn't here, and I'd figured that he wasn't interested in the kind of banal gossiping and trivial camaraderie that went on, so I freeze a little in surprise when he shows up at the door a few minutes in, flashing his diplomatic, assured smile. His hand is on Chloe's shoulder and she's grinning ear to ear. I flash her a little wave and she returns it happily before the raucousness of the other chefs takes over the moment.