Master Chef by Danielle Berggren

Author:Danielle Berggren [Berggren, Danielle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-12-08T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Veronica

The night went well.

In fact, it was excellent.

We had compliments flooding into the kitchen. We had come up with a petite menu—everything was in miniature tonight, in part because we were able to stretch our limited stock to accommodate the change. The price of wine was cut down for the evening as well, since that was one area that we were still well-stocked and the customers seemed happier when the wine was flowing.

Demands on Ethan’s attention were high until, in a stroke of generosity or sadism, he decided to tell the patrons that it was my idea and my recipes they were savoring, not his. I was happy to be among them, but I was worried I would say or do something wrong. I thought carefully before answering each of their questions, and kept my answers concise and bland.

I glared daggers at Ethan through the circular windows into the kitchen, but he only gave me a shit-eating grin and the thumbs up. Bastard. He’ll pay for this later.

We were nearing the end of Le Poisson d’Azur’s open hours when I turned and saw the last person I could have expected standing just inside the kitchen’s door.

“Jason?” I said, a plate of Foie Gras mousse and shaved Coq Au Vin over lemongrass perched in each hand. “What are you doing here?”

I saw Ethan turn from where he was overlooking the pastry station, but beyond that I didn’t pay much attention. Jason—perfectly coiffed, the blond-haired, blue-eyed poster boy for women everywhere to swoon over Jason was standing there, staring at me.

“Veronica,” he said. I shuddered, not from the lust I had felt years ago, but from revulsion. I heard that voice enough on the radio. I hated that voice. “It’s good to see you.”

I moved toward him, setting the plates down on the heating area beside the door where the servers would grab them once they came back through. “What are you doing here, Jason? I’m working.”

“I know,” he said, taking a step toward me, hand raised as though he was going to touch me. I stepped back and his hand dropped, a hurt look on his face. “Jesus, Delly, I’m not going to bite.”

Delly. I hated that nickname. Who made a nickname out of someone’s last name? I crossed my arms over my stomach and stood, feet apart, and glared at him. “Look, Jason, this is a place of business. You’re not even supposed to be back here. What do you want?”

“I just want to talk to you,” he said. “I don’t have your phone number anymore and there was some kind of fire at your apartment. Shit, are you okay? You weren’t in it when it went up, were you?”

Ethan came into view. His six-foot-four towered over Jason’s smaller five-foot-ten. I looked between the two of them and, seeing Ethan, I wondered what the hell I had ever desired in Jason. He looked washed-out compared to the wide, muscled, angry god-like figure that Chef Craymore cut, even if Ethan did have that ridiculous red bandana tied around his neck.

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