Baby For My Grumpy Chef, page 3
I swallow, heart pounding as I finally make it to the counter. “Good morning!” I awkwardly greet the barista, hoping she didn’t see that embarrassing exchange. “Can I get a-”
“Peppermint tea with coconut milk?” The barista, a blonde haired girl in her teenage years, laughs at me and slides a sealed cup with a hanging tea string forward. “We saw you coming. I have yours, too, double shot ristretto.” She adds, glancing at the man behind me and setting down a second, smaller cup.
He grunts his acknowledgement, arms still crossed. My spine prickles at the sound of his voice, and I fumble with my card as I pull it out of my wallet. “H-Here-”
“No need. They’re on the house.” The barista smiles at me, and I stare at her, dumfounded.
“...really? Why?”
“You both leave great tips, and you come in here practically every day. A gift from us to you, you know?” She pushes both drinks forward, and I jolt when a muscled arm reaches past me to take one.
“Thanks.” The stranger grunts. I catch a glimpse of the name scribbled on his cup as he pulls his hand back - S is the only letter I can make out. He tosses a bill on the counter and walks out without another word, and the barista and I both stare at the hundred bucks he just left her.
She raises both eyebrows, picking it up and popping it into the tip jar. “See what I mean? Have a good night, miss.”
“You too.” I manage, forcing a smile before I turn and walk out.
Weird. Weird, but I’m not going to question it. I guess that, whoever that guy is, he has the spare income to tip more than five times what both of our coffees would have cost, if not more! I usually leave ten dollar tips if I can, since I know just how hard it is to work food service, but a hundred for a single coffee? That’s out of my range.
I sip at my peppermint tea as I walk home, wondering why I can’t get this guy out of my head. I’ve never seen his eyes, I realize with a frown. It’s my own fault, I’m not brave enough to look at his face for very long.
My introverted nature wasn’t always a problem.
As a kid, I was always daydreaming, stuck in the clouds. I wanted to be an astronaut, a musician, a veterinarian, a dancer. Never did I imagine that I’d be a nurse, getting bodily fluids smeared on me daily and learning just how many curse words patients in pain really know.
The accident happened when I was twenty. My parents had invited me out to a movie, but I’d chosen to stay home that night, told them that I was too busy finishing my latest book, and that I’d go to the next movie they saw.
They never made it to the theater.
It was a driver who suffered a heart attack, apparently. Not that I ever got to confront him about what he stole from me, since he died on impact along with my mom and dad.
In the ten years since then, I’ve had even more of a hard time connecting with other people. I took my shyness and sank into it, and now? I’m thirty, with no real friends, no past boyfriends, not even a casual acquaintance to invite over for dinner.
The most meaningful romantic history I have is that dreamy, sexy hookup - and I don’t even remember what the guy looked like!
Oh, well. I let out a heaving sigh as I reach my apartment building, scaling two flights of stairs.
“Goat, I’m home!” I don’t really need to announce myself, stepping into the apartment I’ve been staying in, but I like the routine.
My greeting is a series of chirps and plaintive meows as a fat, fluffy white and gray cat comes running up to me. I chuckle as I see him, smiling and crouching down to give him a gentle scratch behind the ears. Like he does every time I get home from work, he practically throws himself on the ground, meowing again.
“I know, I know.” I sigh, standing up again. “Dinner time.”
I crack open a can of wet food for him and mix it with a scoop of dry food. Both of them are prescription from his vet, who apparently thinks that a little healthy chub on a cat needs to be fixed with a diet dinner. I’m a nurse, not a vet tech, so all I can really do is listen to her.
While Goat is eating his dinner, I pull up my phone. “Scallops.” I mutter.
One of the main reasons I was so excited to move to LA is the fine dining, specifically, a restaurant that opened just a few years back. It’s called The Indigo Eatery, and though eating there would cost an arm and a leg, I’ve been tempted to dip into my savings just to go eat there.
But I can’t. Not because of the money, or the near impossible wait list to get a reservation, but because I have nobody to go with me. I just don’t think it would be the same without someone to talk to.
So, I settle for this.
A foodie blog I follow has regular updates on what they’re serving at The Indigo Eatery day by day, as the head chef is constantly creating new dishes. The menu rarely stays the same for more than a few days, one of the reasons it’s such a hassle to get in.
And, according to yesterday’s update from my food blog, the latest on the menu is scallops.
Don’t get me wrong - I’m not creating anything close to what’s being served there. I don’t even have half the ingredients. You can’t exactly find monkfish at your local grocery chain, or fresh-grated truffles, or an aged blue cheese made in some small town in Europe.
But they do have scallops.
The sizzle and hiss as I set them down in the pan gets a plaintive cry from Goat, who dislikes loud noises almost as much as I do. But this is the one time I can tolerate them, grinning as I look over at him. “You could go to the other room if you don’t like it, you know.”
Goat responds with a flick of his tail and, taking my advice, stalks away.
Once my sauce is finished, I’ve been getting better about keeping them from splitting, I take a big spoon and plop some onto a plate, smearing it to one side in a crescent the way I’ve seen in plating videos. It comes out cleaner than any of my previous attempts, and I can’t help a proud little bounce in my walk as I head over to the couch and pluck up the latest book I’ve been devouring.
It’s true, my life is a little lonely. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if I had gone a different direction. If I’d made more of an effort to come out of my shell, before my solitude snowballed and left me sitting in a cozy living room paid for by a massive hospital, eating a dinner I cooked for myself.
Hm. Now that I’m saying it, it doesn’t sound too bad.
I just wish I had someone to share it with.
4
SEBASTIAN
What the hell is this girl’s problem?
I don’t think she knows that I notice her little stares and squeaks. I mean, shit, when I just asked her to move this morning, she looked back at me like I’d told her to fork over her wallet.
It’s not my fault that she’s there at the same time every morning, six o’clock sharp; the same time that I’ve dragged myself out of bed, brushed my teeth, and staggered down the sidewalk in search of caffeine. I’d drink the coffee grounds if I could, but the texture is appalling.
But I’m sure a pretty little thing like her doesn’t know what to do with a guy like me. She could stop coming, sure, but no matter how intimidated she seems, she just keeps coming back.
When I first saw her, I thought she might have been the girl. The one I’ve been searching for since that night a couple months ago, when I nearly got myself banned from the only bar I can tolerate.
She certainly looks similar, dark, long hair, a little awkward in her stance, pale eyes.
But that woman…she was something else. Bold, sweet, talkative. Over the past months, I’ve found myself wishing a thousand times that I’d tried harder to get her number before her friend got her into the car.
This girl, though she’s beautiful, just doesn’t fit the bill. She’s shy as hell, and practically cheeps like a bird when she bumps into someone or stumbles over her words to the barista. I’ve tried over and over again to catch her name while waiting to order my own drinks, but the employees have my coffee ready most mornings, so I rarely get the chance.
Still, I think it’s a stupid hope. There’s no way it’s Amelia.
That being said…this girl still catches my attention, in a pretty annoying way. I can’t help but look at her when she walks in, and if I happen to be in line behind her, I find myself staring at the cactus-shaped pin stuck proudly on her backpack.
It took a week to figure out she was a nurse. The shoes were a hint, experienced nurses always wear expensive shoes, and the sleek black running shoes she has on fit the bill. What really gave her away, though, was when she heard someone choke on their coffee. Her head snapped to one side almost automatically, one hand tightening on her bag in preparation.
The guy had just had a swallow go down the wrong pipe, and she relaxed quickly, but I knew that look. I worked with plenty of medics in the army, and they have a distinct change in personality when they’re on the job. Her eyes had focused in on him with a surprising intensity, a hazel that looked almost crystalline against her olive skin.
Also, her being a nurse explained the early coffee shop visits. As a chef, she and I must have schedules that barely overlap, with me waking up at the same time that she’s going to bed. The peppermint tea supports my theory.
God, don’t I have anything better to do than analyze a woman whose name I don’t even know?
One would think so, for a top chef in Los Angeles. Not that I’m just a head chef. The Indigo Eatery is my own restaurant, one that I put years of blood, sweat, and tears into.
Joining the military when I was seventeen was a no-brainer. My parents and I couldn’t afford college, and going into the workplace would have kept me stagnant for years. Maybe I could have done it - gotten a job in the back of some cheap restaurant, worked my way up, built my savings to get into culinary school.
But that wasn’t the path I chose, and it’s too late to think about changing it now. I was recruited into the SEAL program right off the bat, and while I might not have been the most social of the new recruits, I worked my ass off in training. When I turned twenty-five and my contract ended, I decided to go after that education I’d delayed for eight years. Culinary school was paid for by my service, and I had jobs lined up before I’d even graduated.
After that, it took years and years of saving and effort to see my plans through. I opened my restaurant three years ago, and since then, my life has changed entirely.
Well, almost entirely. There’s one thing that hasn’t changed.
“God- watch it, asshole!” I barely felt the shoulder that bumped into mine as I stood at the crosswalk, but the man who knocked into me makes a good show of tripping and dropping his drink with a splatter of foam and milky brown. “Can you not see where you’re fucking walking?”
I stare him down, silent.
What the problem is with pompous pricks like this, I’ll never know, but they seem to love picking little fights with me. I get it, sort of. I look rough, and when a man knows he can’t win a real fight, he likes to see how far he can push it to stoke his ego.
This guy decides to take it a little farther. “Did you hear me?!” He demands, raising a hand and aiming to shove at my chest.
I catch his hand partway, fingers closing around his forearm. Slowly, I press my thumb up between the tendons that rest on his inner wrist, a hint of pain to keep him from trying again. “You hit me.” I graciously point out. “I wasn’t walking.”
His face screws up with anger, but he pales a little when he tugs at his arm and realizes that my grip isn’t budging. “Just - shit, fucking let go of me!” He snaps.
I let him go. And whatever barbed comment he was going to say, he wisely decides to keep to himself.
The crosswalk blinks to the walk signal, and I stroll across it, holding my coffee cup in one hand and tucking the other into my pocket. I use the back entrance for the restaurant, already unlocked, and set to work.
“Hey, Sebastian!” Within two seconds of me stepping into the back kitchen, someone’s calling my name - just like usual. David, my sous chef and right hand man, comes trotting up. “Menu change tonight?”
I sigh, rubbing the back of my head with a hand, then turn and start walking. David walks with me, keeping pace at my side. “Sure. Let’s do that fig thing-”
“Got it.” Without another word, David runs off to the kitchens. I can hear him calling out instructions to the other staff, and I take the extra thirty seconds to hang my jacket up on a hook instead of dumping it in the office with my other shit.
My day goes about the same as always. Prep work takes up all of our morning, and then we have the lunch rush, though it’s nothing compared to the crowd we get at night. I take an hour or two in the sluggish afternoon to eat and sit down, then it’s dinnertime, and I’m pushing out specials as fast as they come in.
Every day, I remind myself to be grateful for the training I got as a SEAL. I’d have gotten used to standing all day and working over roaring hot stovetops, sure, but it would have been ten times harder than it is now. As it is, all I have is a slight ache in my lower back when I finally step out into the balmy night air, lighting a cigarette as I walk.
That girl’s probably just waking up, I muse. My eyes flit over to the hospital in the distance, dotted with lights. A siren wails in the distance, presumably heading toward it.
I don’t like the fact that I’m still thinking about her. Would probably creep her out if she knew, but I’m sure she forgets about me the second she steps foot out of that coffee shop.
As I reach the entrance of my building, I nod at the doorman and head inside, squinting at the brightly lit entrance, a crystal chandelier hanging beside the elevators. A sigh of relief escapes me when the elevator door opens, and I’m able to escape the lights.
I never expected to be able to live in a place like this. The elevator slides up a glass wall, the city lights bright on the other side of it.
When I was a kid growing up dirt-poor, just visiting this penthouse would have been like a dream. Now, I can actually afford to live in it, although I know I would have chosen somewhere less extravagant if I could have. But this building is a ten minute walk from my restaurant on a crowded day, and that makes it worth the insane amount I paid to live in it.
“Cricket!” I bellow when I get into the apartment, and a tiny pair of scrabbling feet start racing towards me.
Cricket is a Pomeranian, I think. I found her three years ago, and while I’m not exactly a pet person, I couldn’t find anything else to do with her. She’s half-deaf, covered in ten pounds of fluffy fur that’s either gray or black, and makes a sound that I can only describe as a raspy sort of…bark.
Maybe calling it a bark is pushing it.
Regardless, she’s perfect for me. She rounds the corner of the bedroom hallway and slides over the smooth marble floors, hitting the opposite wall. Thankfully, that thick mess of fur keeps her from feeling any of the impact, and she’s racing to jump up against my legs a moment later. I lean down and pick her up, holding her in the crook of one arm as I take my shoes off. She’s squirming so much I can barely hold onto her.
“Have a good day, girl?” I ask her, unable to help a rough chuckle as she sticks her nose in my ear. We’re finally getting over the first greeting excitement, and I set her down on the floor, walking around to get dinner ready for both of us.
Dinner, which is a frozen pizza for me, and a bowl of different supplements and probiotics for her. “You’re spoiled, you know.” I inform Cricket, crouching and setting down her bowl. She eats like a starving raccoon, but somehow, manages to avoid getting any wet food crusted in the puff of fur on her chest. It never fails to impress me. “My dog when I was a kid ate hot dogs and chocolate donuts. If he can live to be twenty, so can you.”
Cricket doesn’t seem to care what my other dogs ate, since she still gets the hundred-dollar wet food. She gobbles up the last of her meal, and a soft chuckle escapes me.
I stand up and tug my pizza out of the oven, barely having the leftover energy to put it on a plate before I go and sit on the couch. After cooking for other people twelve hours of the day, I refuse to touch the expensive stove in my ridiculously oversized kitchen. I have the money to eat out for every meal if I decided to, but sometimes I prefer the simplicity of cheap, low quality frozen food.
Groaning as I head into the living room, I collapse onto the couch and click on the tv. Cricket jumps up, light as a feather, and settles into the crook between my hip and the next couch cushion. I feed her pieces of sausage and try to forget about the business of the day.
It’s tough. Once I go to bed that night, I have dreams of long, dark hair, and a pair of startled hazel eyes.
The next day, I wake up an hour early for my shift, as usual. Cricket gets her breakfast, and I force myself to do a morning routine of weight-lifting before I shower and get ready.
Strolling to the coffee shop, hands in my jacket pockets, I look up at the hospital, glowing in the opposite direction. This is my favorite time of day. This early, even downtown LA can calm down, giving me a few minutes to enjoy the breeze and the far-away sounds of the city.
But something is wrong. I get to the coffee shop and see that, though there’s a small line of other regulars, my nurse isn’t here.
“Your friend stay home today?” The barista asks, grinning at me as I hand her twenty bucks for my double-shot ristretto.
“Friend?” I repeat, looking at her with some confusion.
“The peppermint tea lady. She’s always here on the same days as you, you two aren’t friends?” The barista raises her eyebrows. She’s too young to be making that face at me, like she knows something I don’t.
“No. We’re not.”
“Huh. Could have fooled me.” I step to the other side of the bar, and the barista hums, following me over and letting her coworker take over the register. She sets up my shots and starts brewing them, the smell of dark, roast coffee flooding my nose. God, I’d bottle that smell and take it home if I could. “Here you go, big guy. Death in a tiny cup, just for you.”
