I pull into Belladonna’s parking lot at five forty-five and park in Trey’s spot. Since everything that has been planned for me is within a three-block radius, having a prime parking spot is ideal. I push open the door and head into Belladonna, locking the car behind me. Bypassing the hostess, I sidle up to the bar and order a whiskey and ginger with a lime twist.

“Can I see some ID ma’am?” the bartender requests.

A fit of coughing erupts from my throat.

“Are you okay ma’am?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I wheeze out, as I pull my ID out of the clutch I’d placed on the bar.

I pull out my cell phone at the same time and shoot off a text to Adam.

Calla: I have to hand it to you, you’ve trained the bartenders well. I just got carded.

Adam: Thank you. Wait, what? What do you mean you just got carded? And how the hell do you know I trained the bartenders well?

Calla: Think about it.

Adam: Why are you in Belladonna?

Calla: Returned Trey's Roadster. Plus, I figured it was safer to park here and have one of y’all drive me home.

“Well, shit! Girl, you look amazing. I told you that dress would look gorgeous on you.” Nessa leans against the bar.

The bartender places a coaster and my drink in front of me then glances at Nessa.

“Nessa, you need anything?” She shakes her head, and his attention focuses back on me. “Ma’am. Uh, Calla. You have a beautiful name, and I know I shouldn’t say this in front of my boss, but I’d love to get your number.”

Nessa bursts out laughing.

“Tom.” She snaps to get his attention. His brows furrow, and he frowns, but he makes eye contact with her. “I’m not the boss you need to worry about. She is.” Nessa points to me and winks at him.

His face pales and he sputters. “Miss Calla, I’m so sorry, I--”

I wave him off. “Tom, is it? Thank you for the offer, really. And if I wasn’t your boss, I’d give you my number,” I smile at him.

“Fuck me. I carded you.” He lowers his head, his cheeks flushing.

Nessa and I both chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Adam wonders, putting his arm around his wife and kissing her temple. He does the guy chin-lift thing that they all do.

“Tom realizing how well he’s doing his job,” I respond, taking a sip of my drink.

“Great. Keep up the good work, Tom. Calla, grab that whiskey and ginger, and let's go back to the office for the twenty minutes you have remaining. I think I heard Trey tell you to be over at Canaille by six thirty. Right?” Adam asks, squeezing Nessa’s hand before stepping back and letting me and Nessa go ahead of him.

“Yep.” I slide off the stool, pick up my drink and clutch from the bar, and head to the kitchen.

I weave my way around the restaurant, passing Nick at the pizza oven, to the kitchen entrance. I rarely come out of the kitchen during the work day except to come and go from the restaurant. Therefore, I never really see the dining room full like it is now. In the spiked heels Nessa had me buy this morning, I am moving slowly as I pass through the swinging door into my sanctum. Or what used to be my sanctum.

The kitchen is in full swing, with servers and chefs alike bustling around the space. This, too, is an aspect that I never get to see. Mark, one of the sauté chefs, stands behind the shoulder-sized wall that separates the wood-burning pizza oven and salad stations. He passes something hot between the windows to Nick. Wes has the wood-burning grill raised, with two others running it with him. My mouth waters as the aromas from the grill and smoker hit me full force.

I’ve never stopped to pay attention to the smells while in the kitchen, unless something is burning. Tonight, my senses are in overdrive. Standing off to the side, and not in the thick of things, makes me a spectator for the first time in I don’t know how long. It isn’t a comfortable experience though, and I never want to feel like this in my own kitchen again.

I need to get my shit together. Starting tonight, Torrance’s ghost is gone. Screw that asshole!

Long, drawn-out whistles echo against the tile walls and the chrome surfaces. A few of the servers say, “Hi,” as we pass, while others just nod. A few do double-takes, and one or two ask who I am, and why I am in the kitchen.

“Are you kidding? That’s Calla, you idiot!” someone remarks.

“No, it's not,” the original server retorts.

A throat clears.

“Get back to work before Calla decides not to take the night off,” Wes tells everyone.

I down my drink, setting the glass off to the side where I know someone will grab it so that it gets washed. With careful steps, I move further into the kitchen where I can see a few of the plates waiting to be expedited. The aromas filling my kitchen have my stomach growling, despite my earlier snack.

“Damn, woman! Didn’t you eat a snack or lunch today?” Trey’s voice comes from behind me. “I shouldn’t hear you rumbling all the way over here.”

“Ass. Yes, I had a grilled cheese not too long ago.”

“How the hell do you eat that junk and still keep an amazing figure? Remember, I know what you put in your stomach.” Trey comes up behind me and picks me up in a big hug. “You look gorgeous. I’m glad you stopped in. I think I would’ve had a heart attack if I saw you out in public with that dress on for the first time.”

“Yeah, right. You guys wanted me in a flipping dress and all dolled up, so don’t give me that.” I kiss his cheek, and he sets me back on my feet. Trey heads back to his station. “So, Darlin’, did you park over here so we could walk you back and take you home after the club?”

Wes doesn’t say anything, and from what I can tell, he hasn’t even looked at me. After everything I’ve been through, I won’t let his disinterest get me down. Or cause me to doubt myself. I’d done that for too long after “the incident” with Torrance.

“Yep. I thought it would be safer, and you guys won’t kill me.” I give a tight-lipped smile. “I guess I should head out. It looks like y’all have everything under control.”

“Don’t we always?” Wes mutters loud enough that I hear.

Taking a deep breath, I respond, “I guess you have been.” My words are sullen. “Thank you. I’ll be picking up my slack. Don’t worry.”

I turn and walk out as fast as I can in these damn heels.

It takes me about eleven minutes to get to Canaille. When I arrive, I am pleasantly surprised to find a line still outside. I stride past the line, pull open the glass-and-black walnut door with its extra-large brass handle, and walk inside. Home by Marc Broussard is just ending as I make my way down the ramp to the hostess stand. A few minutes later, Ca C’est Bon by L’Angelus begins. A group of people are gathered at the hostess stand, giving me some time to take in the interior. The walls are exposed brick, while the ceiling shows off the wooden beams. Yet, the décor is classy and upscale.

Uncle Chris will appreciate those touches.

The group moves off, and I step forward. I study the hostess for a few seconds, measuring her against the one I’d seen at Belladonna. This one looks like she might be slightly younger than the girl Nessa has working our door.

“How many in your party?” the hostess asks, not even looking up from her stand.

“One.”

That gets the girl’s attention, as her head snaps up to look at me.

“Ma’am, do you want a table, or would you like to eat at the bar? As you can see, we have a pretty long wait.” Her words are pleasant enough, but something tells me she isn’t actually being kind.

“I have a reservation. It’s most likely under Calla.” I shift my weight to my left foot and rock my right foot onto the heel. “I was told to be here at six thirty, but the reservation could be for seven.”

The owner better hope this girl’s not on the door when Uncle Chris comes in. He’ll ream them a new one, even if he likes the food.

She flips through a book that is open next to the table chart.

“Can you tell me your name again?”

“Calla,” I repeat.

The girl’s face turns beet red. She blinks up at me then glances back down at the book and swallows hard. I guess something is written next to my name, because this is not the reaction I was expecting. I’d wanted low-key tonight, but it’s becoming pretty obvious that isn’t going to happen here.

“Calla… The Calla…?” Everyone begins to stare my way as the young lady makes a big deal about me.

I really wasn’t trying to make a big to-do about who I am, and now I wish the girl would go back to not paying attention to me.

“Yes, that would be me. Can you let me know when my table is ready? I’ll be waiting outside.” I turn to walk away from the attention the hostess is now giving me.

This is exactly why I never come out of the kitchen. I don’t like people watching me. It's also the reason I didn’t create a completely open concept for my restaurant. No one can see very far into my kitchen.

“Actually, we have a table for you now,” the hostess says.

I glance at my watch and back at the woman in front of me. It isn’t even six-fifteen yet.

“Isn’t my reservation for seven?” I question.

“Yes, but I was told to seat you as soon as you arrived.”

“Excuse me?” I squeak.

“This way please.” The young lady smiles, turns, and leads the way to a table that is out of the way but close to the kitchen and bar.

It makes me feel like I am on display, and I fidget, rubbing my free hand up and down the opposite arm as if to warm it.

In some respects, I am on display. Goosebumps had formed once the girl started making a big deal about who I am.

“Thank you. Really, I don’t mind waiting at the bar until my reservation time, so you can seat another group,” I try again, half smiling, half wincing at the location of the table.

What exactly did Trey say when he made the reservation? Or maybe it was Wes that made the reservation. Speaking of Wes, what the fuck was his problem tonight? That man always has had me in knots. Ever since the day we met. But, I’ve always been Ben’s kid sister, so he keeps me in the “friend” zone.

“Calla, Cole will be taking care of you tonight.” The hostess places the menu on the table saying, “Enjoy your time with us.” She heads back toward the front, stopping next to a few people wearing suits.

I guess the hostess is letting the “important” people know I’ve arrived. I pull out my chair and take a seat, placing my clutch on the side of the table before picking up the menu and hiding behind it.

When I’d agreed to take the night off and go out, this was so not what I was wanting. I don’t even really mind that the guys wanted me to get dolled up, but I wanted low-key. So far, Canaille is anything but low-key. Even after the past two years of building Belladonna into what it is, I don’t see myself as a big deal. I am a chef. A cook doing something I love to do. Nothing more, and nothing less. Yet, that is not how everyone else sees me.

There are some that are waiting for me to fail, as that’s the nature of this business. You can only go so far before something happens and you crash. If they only knew. Others see me as a very determined, beautiful lady who can cook anything, and does it perfectly every time. I am known by many chefs, and they all agree I am damn good. Most of that is because of the awards I’ve won in a very short amount of time. I’d been on the fast track to fame. Until a year ago.

“You must be Calla?” Beside me stands a tall, good-looking man in black.

He has the look of a man who knows his way around a room, and a woman. My guess is he’s a bartender, which means he knows he is hot, and therefore, will be an ass. Adam has taught me this. He’s always told me that typically owners find bartenders that know their shit and have good looks, so that the people at the bar will buy more drinks. Now, I can’t resist testing that theory. This man has electric blue eyes that I can’t stop staring at, dark hair, a square jawline, and from what I can tell with his clothes on, a sculpted chest.

“Yes, I’m Calla,” I murmur.

“I’ll be your server. I’m Cole, the head bartender.”

Yep. There it is. The head bartender. Which means he knows how to make drinks well, and the girls throw themselves at him. Being hot, and knowing how to get a girl drunk, is a lethal combination that just isn’t right.

Despite how good-looking he is, I don’t feel the need to fawn all over him. In fact, while I still find him delicious to stare at, I know I could never keep him for long.

At least I’m finally thinking about jumping into something again.

“Hi Cole. I suppose you know why I’m getting this treatment?” I watch his face change as he thinks about it.

“Yes, ma’am. But, I think I’ll let Chef tell you that when he comes out. Would you like something from the bar?”

“Can I start out with a glass of your best Pinot?” I smile.

“Coming up.” Cole winks and strides off.

I watch him as he walks away, unable to help myself. He has a great muscular body. Added to that, his pants show off a baseball player’s shaped ass. Between the eyes and body, I can’t concentrate on the menu, or the ideas for Belladonna I wanted to work out while having a night off.

It takes Cole about ten minutes to get back to me. Not that I care. I am enjoying watching the staff in the front of the house. It is something I never get the chance to do, nor have I ever really wanted to. But I have to admit, people-watching from this vantage point is fun. For the most part, I like hiding in my kitchen and never coming out. In my kitchen I can manage who comes and goes. Sometimes I wonder if it is an anxiety I have that has me hating being around people, or if I’m just that much of an introvert. Finally, I stop watching the hustle and bustle and pick up the menu again.

When Cole brings my glass of wine over, he sits down.

“So, I’m guessing you took the night off?” He smiles a crooked smirk of a smile.

I place the menu on the table and give him my full attention.

He definitely thinks he’s hot shit. And now, as he is sitting with me, I am able to see him in more detail. He has short, medium-dark blonde hair that is slightly spiked, and a strong square jawline with a little scruff outlining the bone. His nose is slightly off center, and button-shaped. Then there are his eyes, again, which are the perfect shape and size for his face. I can admit he is hot shit, alright.

I take a long, deep look into those captivating eyes once more then look away. That’s what keeps the girls coming. He reminds me of my own bar manager, and why I put up with all his issues.

“I think you know the answer to that.” I raise my eyebrow, as I stare into his eyes.

“Good point. What brings you out of your kitchen tonight?”

“My friends, actually. They said I needed a night off and wouldn’t take no for an answer. In fact, they made this reservation for me, so I’m not sure what they said.”

“You let your friends kick you out of your own kitchen?” Cole questions, a thread of surprise in his voice.

“When they help me run Belladonna, yes. Two are my head chefs, and the other is the bar supervisor. I trust them fully.” I shift in my chair.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to be nosy. I’ve just never met a chef like you before. Especially one with your credentials.”

I bite my lip, frowning.

“Cole, I need some drinks poured,” someone says behind me.

“Look over the menu, and I’ll be back. Enjoy your drink, and let me know if I can get you anything else in the meantime.” He taps the table once with his hand before leaving.

Breathing out a much-needed deep breath, I reach for my menu again, this time deciding what I am going to try.

“Is this seat taken?” A male voice interrupts my musings.

I close my menu once more and place it back on the table. A six-foot tall bald Creole man stands next to a chair at my table. He is dressed in slacks and an open chef’s coat.

“It’s not.”

He slides into the chair.

“Have you ordered yet, Cher?” the man asks.

“I have not. I’m just waiting for Cole to come back and take my order.” I gesture behind me with my thumb, toward the bar.

As if saying his name could conjure him, Cole appears next to me.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Calla. I can take your order when you’re ready.” Cole stands a bit straighter than before, and his carefree attitude is nowhere to be seen.

“Cole, I’ll take Calla’s order,” the man commands, his creole accent thick.

“Emile, I didn’t expect you to come out until later. If you need anything, I’ll be at the bar.” Cole leaves again.

“Emile, why do I get the feeling you usually don’t sit with the customers, or take the food orders?”

“I heard you were a no-nonsense kind of girl,” Emile responds with a slight chuckle. “I’m Emile Castille. My wife, Cora, and I own Canaille.”

I hold out my hand, and Emile takes it, raises my hand to his lips, and kisses my knuckles. I furrow my brow.

“It’s very nice to meet you Calla,” Emile states, releasing my hand.

“It’s nice to meet you as well,” I reply.

“Your dinner will be out shortly. Cora and I whipped up something special for you. She and I will stop by a little later to check on you. I hope you enjoy what we’ve created.” He gives me a big smile.

“I’m sure I will,” I comment before taking a sip of my wine.

About fifteen minutes after Emile returns to his kitchen, servers arrive at the table carrying a few small Tapa plates. I don’t have a clue what any of the names of the appetizers are, but one does have shrimp in it. The spices have my mouth watering before I even take a bite.

The first bite explodes in my mouth with all the delicious flavors. It has me grabbing and opening my clutch for my phone to take pictures of everything they have brought out. I also type out some notes, as Emile and Cora’s food fires up new ideas for Belladonna.

I send a text message to Adam, Trey, and Wes.

Calla: Damn guys! Have you tried their food? It’s amazing! Thank you for making me come out tonight.

Trey: Darlin’, you’re more than welcome. Now tell me what you decided to order.

Calla: I didn’t order. Emile and Cora made me something special.

Wes: How did they know who you were?

Trey: I put the reservation under her name.

Calla: Everyone has been overly friendly. Except the hostess when I first walked in.

Trey: The person I made the reservation with did ask a lot of questions. Maybe that has something to do with the friendliness.

Calla: Maybe. My next course just got here so I’ll text later.

Adam: Take pictures. I want to see what has you saying the food is amazing.

Calla: Done.

I snap a picture of the new course and send the pictures to the group. With each course that follows, I do the same. With every picture sent, the guys send back questions about the food, the atmosphere, and the service. It gives me the impression that they are taking notes, as well. Or seeing how invested I am becoming. A few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have gotten so excited about food. Not until Ella showed up, and we had the mac and cheese cook-off in the kitchen, with Ella as our helper and judge.

I had so much fun cooking that afternoon.

Hell, in the last year, my appetite has changed so much that I don’t eat nearly as much as I should. The only reason I need a size ten in the dress I am in is for my breasts.

My eating habits are going to change. I love food, and I should only be running to keep from getting unhealthy, like I used to when I would eat whatever I wanted.

As I finish eating, Emile and Cora come by my table to chat for a few minutes. They still have a full house, so they can’t stay long. I invite them to stop by Belladonna sometime soon.

“Goodnight, Cole. Thanks for taking care of me.” I wink at him as I head out into the night.