Baby For My Grumpy Chef, page 9
I’ve never been taken care of like this. Never treated so…gently. But I get to lay in blissful, fucked out comfort as Sebastian threads his fingers through my hair.
Of course he’s a chef. His hands are too precise, too steady, a little moan escaping me as he works shampoo into my hair. One hand braces on the back of my head for him to rinse it, tilting my head back just enough to get all of the lather out.
Slowly, attentively, he runs a sponge down my arms, my chest, my legs. By the end, I’m practically asleep in his arms, barely awake enough to process that I’m being carried back to the bedroom. From the window, I can see the city lights twinkling, the early night sky showing the faintest hint of gray from the sunset.
“Take it easy, Amelia.” Sebastian murmurs, gently laying me in bed. “Wake me up if you need anything.” He slides under the blankets beside me, tucking the thick comforter over my shoulders.
And, as if I’ve been doing it for years, I nestle right into the crook of his arm and fall asleep.
12
SEBASTIAN
Three days have passed since Amelia and I spent that lazy day together, and the drone of work is becoming unbearable again.
Yeah, yeah, I get it. This is my dream business, and I should be happy that I managed to pull it off. I am happy, when I get a chance to stop and think about it. But on a Friday night, with a huge rush of irritable and picky customers, trying to train a new chef…
“Hey, boss.”
Fuck.
David’s voice distracts me from the sizzling tuna steak I’m working on, pouring spoonfuls of garlic butter over the top as it cooks. He has that tone on him, that sympathetic voice that suggests whatever he’s about to tell me is going to ruin my goddamn night. “What?” I don’t look at him as I speak, sliding the tuna off onto a plate. The first couple of these smelled delicious - after making thirty of the same order in the past two hours, this one just smells like fish.
“Greg is trying to take over the other grill station while Tina’s on break.”
My eyes don’t move from the tuna steak. I squeeze a wedge of lemon juice over it and grab a bottle of sauce to add in droplets, my hands moving with a mechanical sort of ease. The nice thing is that, after years and years of cooking, I can prepare just about anything without having to think about it.
Which helps when my thoughts are overwhelmingly irritated. I put Greg in charge of salads, he seems to be the type who likes big flames and flashy methods of cooking, even when they make the food worse overall.
“I’m covering grill right now. I put him on pantry.” I reply brusquely, knowing it doesn’t solve anything.
“Yeah. I told him that, but he won’t listen to me.”
I untie my apron and throw it onto the counter, muttering curses under my breath. David takes the hint and grabs the plate for it to go get finished off. Not his job, but he’ll probably take my spot when he gets back, and hopefully, not have to be in the kitchen when I rip this guy a new asshole.
“Hey!” I bark. Our new chef, a guy named Greg with ten times as much confidence as his experience and skill combined. “What the hell are you doing? I put you on pantry and that’s where I expect your worthless ass to be.”
Greg turns around, his eyes widening a little, but doesn’t back down. “I can do grill, chef, I just-”
“Shut the hell up.” I cut him off, glancing past him at the steak he’s working on. He’s forgotten about it to have this conversation, but I can already see the telltale black marks on the edge that suggest he’s burned it. I shoulder past him and grab the pan to take over. “Get your ass on pantry where you can’t fuck anything else up, or get out of my kitchen. Understand?”
Greg is silent, his jaw tight and his face white with anger. I turn away from him, unimpressed.
And you know what? That’s my bad.
I don’t see him do it, but I hear him move. It gives me just enough time to look and watch his fist connect with my skull, knuckles hitting just above my eyebrow.
I’ll give the kid this. He has a good right swing.
For a moment, my vision blurs, head spinning as my brain rattles like a loose fork in the garbage disposal.
It doesn’t last long, certainly not long enough to keep me from snapping my own fist out, catching him in the jaw. Greg crumples, nearly knocking the back of his head on my stovetop.
I look over to see Tina, who’s standing in the doorway, her startled eyes wide and fixed on Greg. She carefully steps over him, nudging him with her foot and getting a barely-conscious groan in response. “He alright?”
I nod, spinning the pan so that the handle faces her. “He’ll be fine, but this steak is fucking burnt. It needs to be trashed, take care of it and give the customer a free dessert or some shit for the wait. I’m going out back.”
Nobody argues as I head to the back door and shove it open with my shoulder, metal bar slamming loudly on the side.
I’m trying to gather myself when David emerges, his hands in his pockets. “Nice one.” He comments, tilting his head at me. I follow his eyes and touch a hand to my forehead, where a thin trickle of blood has dried along the side of my temple.
“Fuckin’ greenhorn.” I mutter, breathing in deep.
“I wasn’t expecting him to make the first move.” David replies, grinning lightly. “Almost makes me hate him less. You firing him?”
“No.” I sigh, leaning back against the stone wall. David leans with me, waiting quietly for my response. “We’re too understaffed. And at least he has a spine.”
At just that moment, one of the runners pokes her head out of the door, looking nervous. She’s young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, and I’ve spoken about six words to her since David hired her, those words being, ‘Take this to table 12.’ She glances around until she spots me, then blurts out, “Greg wants to know if he can go back on pantry?”
I stare at her. Behind me, David snorts, trying and failing to hide his laughter. With a groan, I rub a hand over my forehead and replying, “Sure. Tell him I’ll knock his ass out if he tries anything like that again.”
“Yes, sir!” She chirps, disappearing back inside.
“Tough love.” David sighs, sounding wistful. “I wish my dad had been nice enough to punch me in the face.”
“Maybe you’d be less annoying.” I bump him with my shoulder before I walk back in. To my disgruntlement, David’s eyes light up, a smile splitting his face as he follows me like a lost dog.
“Hang on, hang on, was that a joke, boss? And a friendly gesture, all for my little old self?”
“No.” I grunt. “You are annoying.”
“I feel so loved.”
Now that Tina’s back in, I spend the rest of my night jumping between stations, taking any extra tasks, fixing any mistakes that my team can’t handle, so on and so on. The rush doesn’t let up until far past our usual dinnertime. It’s chaotic enough that, by the time the restaurant doors close and the dishwasher is finishing up, I barely register that I can leave. I’m too busy feeling like a piece of pounded meat.
And then I remember the text I got this morning.
“Fuck!” I yank my phone out of my pocket, opening my messages to see Amelia’s text still sitting there, along with my reply.
Do you want to have dinner tonight? I thought I could cook you something, if you aren’t too unimpressed by my regular peasant meals.
And attached, inexplicably, is a picture of Goat in a small suit.
I sent back, Sure. I get off work at 8. Goat needs a tie.
Great! I’ll be there at 9. Don’t worry about ingredients, I’ll bring everything I need. Can’t wait to see you! :)
I check my watch. It’s 8:45, I smell like I’ve been bathing in a chum bucket, and Amelia is probably halfway to my place by now. “David!” I bellow, my voice echoing through the empty restaurant.
His head pokes out of the office, where he’s been double-checking the inventory order for next week. “What’s up?”
“I need to head out. You got it from here?”
David’s response is a thumbs up before he retreats back into the office. I need to give him a raise, I think to myself as I grab my jacket. He deserves it, with all the shit I throw on him. Maybe a bonus for the days he’s covered for me the past few weeks.
As I pop out the backdoor and walk to the street, I call Amelia and get a voicemail instead. “Hi!” The automatic message says, one she clearly recorded years ago. The quality is horrible, but her voice is the same, cheery and gentle. “You’ve reached Amelia Moore. I’m not available right now, but-”
With a frustrated growl, I hang up, pocketing the phone again. I just need to call off tonight. It’s not going to work out, not after the kind of day I’ve had. Amelia is the last person I want receiving the brunt of my own pent-up annoyance, and if she sees the cut on my forehead, I’m sure she’ll be more worried than she needs to be.
Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I answer almost immediately, holding it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Sebastian!” Amelia is panting, and from the chattering around her, she’s out in public somewhere. “I’m running late, I’m so sorry! The grocery store is so busy-”
“Don’t worry about it. I wanted to tell you, I need to reschedule.” I know I don’t sound good, I can hear the weariness in my own voice, and I’m sure she hears it too.
“What?” Amelia’s voice falls, and I can almost see the disappointed look she’s wearing. “What happened?”
“It’s…fuck.” I groan, pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s just been a bad day. You don’t want to see me right now.”
“That’s not true.” Amelia murmurs, her voice softening through the phone.
I swallow. There’s not much else I can say, is there? But the tension in my chest is like a rope drawn tight, and I don’t know if I can handle much more back and forth without saying something I might regret. It’s turning into one of those days where I’d like to go for a three-hour run with music blasting, just to avoid having to talk to someone else. “Look, Amelia, I’m telling you not to come. I’m sorry. I’ll- I’ll just pay you back for the ingredients, alright?”
“...alright. Maybe we can do it another time, then. Um...see you, Sebastian.” Her voice is small and, if the pit in my stomach is correct, hurt.
I hurt her feelings.
But she hangs up before I can say another word, and I almost throw my phone to the ground as I pile into the elevator, leaning heavily against one side. “Goddamn it.” I murmur, running a hand through my hair.
I’ve never cared too much about other people’s feelings. It’s not that I’m an asshole who goes looking to cause damage, I consider myself pretty well-meaning, in general.
But somehow, I manage to get in conflicts wherever I go. I seem to have a skill for saying the exact wrong thing at the perfectly wrong time, and I’m sure that it’ll end things with this girl sooner or later, no matter how wonderful she is.
I guess I’ll just enjoy it while it lasts.
13
AMELIA
“Idon’t know, Goat. Do you think I should?” I pick up the fat cat rubbing against my ankles and pull him into my lap. He doesn’t even try to answer my question, just purring as I hold his arms up in the air.
When I got home with all of those groceries, it felt like a waste just to stuff them in the fridge. So I went ahead and cooked the food, a thick meat and potato stew and homemade bread from my mother’s old recipe. Like I told Sebastian, it isn’t gourmet, but it’s one of my favorite comfort meals.
And right now, it sounds like he could use a little comfort.
His voice was so rough over the phone, like he’d been shouting for hours, and I could practically see him struggling to find the right words to say to me.
I don’t know what kind of day he’s had. It could be that doing anything except giving him space just makes things worse. The idea of irritating him worries me, not because I can’t take a little backlash, after all, medicine is nothing but dealing with people who are having terrible days but because I don’t want to add more stress to Sebastian when he’s already worn out.
But, I reason to myself, it shouldn’t be too intrusive just to go drop a meal off. I’ll just ring the doorbell and leave! He won’t even have to talk to me.
It doesn’t help that I saw all the frozen food he keeps when I stayed over the other day. Big time chef, maybe, but he doesn’t use any of those cooking skills for himself.
I don’t know how exactly I get there, but I reason myself through the next thirty minutes of filling my glass tupperwares with hefty portions of stew and wrapping up big slices of bread in foil. I pack it into my travel cooler and set off, a fresh tube of mace hanging from my keychain. Those self-defense lessons are still fresh, and I’d still like to try pepper spray before I go to hand-to-hand combat.
His apartment building is dark in front, but I’m able to slip in the front door, nodding at the doorman as I go. He’s a kind looking older guy, who crinkles his eyes in a smile every time I say hello.
My hands fiddle nervously on the handle of my bag as I ride the elevator up, imagining every possible way this could go wrong. He could be too tired to come out and get it, he could have other people over, I could be totally stupid for doing this.
The elevator arrives, punctuating my stop with a soft chime.
I step off and walk up to his door, somehow expecting him to pop out at any second and demand to know what I’m doing here. But he doesn’t, and I quickly set the food down in front of his door, ring the bell, and hurry towards the elevator.
For a few seconds, there’s silence. Will I get away with it?
But then, just as I reach the elevator doors, I hear the telltale click of his front door opening. I press the button, resisting the childish urge to squeeze myself against the wall and hope he doesn’t see me. Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll just ignore me.
“...Amelia?”
Or maybe not.
I slowly turn my head to look at him, and offer a nervous smile. “Don’t worry! I’m not coming in, but…I thought maybe you’d like some dinner?”
Sebastian looks tired. He’s freshly showered, from the damp locks of dirty-blond hair falling messily around his face, and the shadows under his eyes somehow make them look more gray than blue. One forearm is braced against the doorjamb, his black t-shirt lifting up enough to show a stripe of skin just above his hips.
He opens his mouth to say something. Unfortunately, that’s when I register the pinkish-purple color around his right eye, and the small, uncovered gash above his eyebrow. “If-” He begins.
“What happened to you?!” I can’t help it. I rush over to him, reaching up to cup his face.
Sebastian rears back for a moment, brows furrowing with surprise, but as my fingers brush over his stubbled cheek, that intense scowl softens. For a moment, as his eyes close with a sigh, I could almost think that he leaned into my hand, his jaw fitting perfectly against the curve of my palm.
And then he straightens up, clearly trying to hide the injuries. “It’s nothing, Peppermint. I’m fine.” He leans down, reaching past me to pick up the food. “Thanks for dinner.”
“...wait.” I press my lips tight together, unsure. I’m used to ordering patients around, it’s the only place in life where I’ve learned to have a firm hand but it’s different with him, different when this man could crush my heart in an instant. “Can I…Can I come in?”
Sebastian’s frown returns, but he doesn’t say no just yet. Instead, he eyes me like in the way a dog would eye a treat from a stranger, as though he wants to agree, but isn’t sure.
So I make the choice for him. I slip under that upraised arm and into his apartment, ignoring his startled protests. “Wh- I didn’t say yes, yet.” He growls.
“You were going to.” I say, finding that there’s more confidence in my voice than I actually feel. “And if you weren’t going to, then you wanted to. Come sit down and I’ll look at your eye.”
“You don’t need to. I already cleaned it.” He mutters, stepping inside and closing the door. Cricket flies over the floor like a haunted dust mop, making her raspy little bark until she sniffs at my pants and recognizes me. Then she turns into a friendly mop, wiggling side to side and running in excited circles. I would pet her, but I need to wash my hands and take a look at Sebastian’s eye first.
“Cleaning it isn’t enough and you know it.” I reply, leveling my best glare at him.
I don’t know if it necessarily intimidates him into listening, but it seems to convince him. Sebastian sighs, setting the food down, and goes to get a first-aid kit from one of the kitchen cabinets. “It’ll heal up just fine.” He complains, but there’s almost no resistance in his slumping shoulders as he sits on one of the kitchen barstools.
“Or it’ll get infected. Even if it doesn’t, we can at least keep the scar smaller.” I tell him, washing my hands in the kitchen sink.
Sebastian snorts. “Like I’m not already covered in them. One more scar isn’t going to make a difference.”
I turn to him, drying my hands, and frown. “Is that so?”
He watches me with those wary eyes, he’s still expecting something to go wrong, I realize. Is he really just quiet? Or has he learned that speaking his mind just brings him trouble?
When, I begin to wonder, was the last time somebody treated this man gently?
“You don’t have to be the big, scary tough guy, you know.” I inform him, softening my voice as I walk over and open up the first-aid kit.
“Is that who I am?” Sebastian asks, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest. His head is up to my collarbones when he’s sitting, and I put a hand on his chin, tilting his head up for me to see. He does so without complaint, oh, that’s right. Ex-SEAL. He probably learned not to argue with medics well before he encountered me.
“It’s who I think you’re trying to be. Am I wrong?” I know he said he washed it, but just in case, I start by wetting down a cotton swab and dabbing disinfectant over that cut.
