CHAPTER NINE
Jackson
stands still in the kitchen. Or maybe, that's not exactly right, because time sure as shit moves fast, too. That's the peculiarity about kitchen time that I've never been able to fully understand. Things stretch out, so that you know precisely when your food needs to be timed to, right down to the nanosecond, but it also compresses so that a full service can feel like it goes by in a flash.
I used to be confused by this. Because rather than exhausting me, a good night, with good service, only served to energize me. I used to leave work hyped up, ready to take on even more work. Because if I wasn't exhausted, then that meant I hadn't worked hard enough, right?
It was a long, and frankly difficult process to train myself not to seek out more work at the end of the day. But not before it cost me my engagement.
Now I was right back there in the trenches. Some chefs are too high and mighty for this shit. But me? I love the act of cooking. I love food, and I love the preparation of food, bringing it up to something higher.
I wanted everything perfect. But in reality, perfection isn't something you can attain, it's something you are always working towards. Because if you achieve it, that means you need to move the goal post. It was never actually perfect at all.
And when I had my head down, working through the menu, fine-tuning the execution, a whole day could go by, without me even knowing. I'd lost weeks this way before, forgetting to sleep, forgetting to eat even though I was surrounded by food.
Finn was the one who stepped in when this happened.
"Did you eat today?" was the first question out of his mouth when he came back in the door.
"I'm fine," I teased back. "But it seems like you have an appetite still."
His eyes flashed back to Bee's shop. "Cock-blocked by my best friend," he huffed. "You're like, the opposite of a wingman."
I shrugged innocently. "Hey, I just wanted to make sure your food didn't get cold."
He rumbled something profane that I chose to ignore, but he sat down with Kyle and our new sous-chef Javier at a makeshift table Kyle had built out of boxes. "This isn't the first time you're eating today, right?" he asked again.
I rolled my eyes as I carried out the plates. "We need to get you a puppy so you have somewhere to focus your maternal energies," I said as I put his plate down. "Or you need to get some chick knocked up, pronto."
His eyes flickered over to the bakery again. I smirked. "She shot you down pretty hard out there," I observed.
"You were watching?"
"I wondered where you'd gone, is all."
Kyle squirmed like an uncomfortable child caught in a fight between mommy and daddy. "Hey chef, this is really spectacular," he piped up in his reedy voice. "This should definitely go on the menu.
Finn lifted the fork to his mouth. "What is it?"
I sighed and pushed it back. "A variation on osso bucco," I sighed. "But it's shit." Anger flared like a match in my chest, igniting my bloodstream. "Everything I'm doing is shit!" I shouted, throwing down my napkin.
I don't know what I was thinking, heading back to the kitchen to be alone. There was no way in hell Finn would let me get away with an outburst like that without making me talk it out. When he said my name, I sighed and stared at the ceiling.
"It's like...writer's block," I exhaled. "But...with cooking."
He was silent, knowing I needed the silence to gather my thoughts.
"All my ideas are jammed up in my head," I said slowly. "Like now that I know I have complete creative freedom..."
"You do," Finn added.
I nodded. "I know. Which is what I always wanted. But..." My hands were moving now, trying to force the words out. "But instead of finally breaking free, I'm stuck. My food is stale..."
"Tasted good to me."
"It's stodgy," I corrected. "Fucking old-fashioned shit, and amateur too. I was cooking this shit in culinary school. I'm past this."
"Yeah," Finn said slowly. "You are."
I grimaced. "Don't sugar coat it, man."
"Thing about you is..."
"Oh, here it comes. Finn Walker, amateur psychiatrist."
"I know you." He blew out an exasperated sigh. "You need to have something to fight with." His lip curled up in a rueful grin. "Hell, that's why we work well together. Two bullheaded idiots. I give you a rule and then you get pissed off at me and break the rule."
I snorted.
"That was your genius," he pressed on. "Back when you were working for other chefs. Remember? You'd get pissed at them and end up creating incredible dishes out of sheer spite."
I snorted again, but he was right. "So what do I do?"
He lifted his chin. "Fight me."
"What the fuck?"
"Not really, asshole. No punches or anything. But, I'm willing to be the hardass here if that's what it takes to make you work better." His eyes flashed and his mouth spread in an evil grin. "I'm cutting your budget."
I sputtered. "What the fuck?"
He raised his eyebrows. "Yup. I'm pulling the rug. No more unlimited funds to piss away back here getting nothing done."
"You're just pissed at me for cockblocking you."
"Yeah maybe. But I'm still doing it."
"You're fucking enjoying this, aren't you?"
"Maybe a little," he grinned. "But I'm dead serious too. I'm cutting your budget in half. Make do with what you've got."
"You're a fucking prick."
"Yup. Get mad about it. Show me this was a big fucking mistake. I'm sticking you in a box, now fight your way out of it." He lifted his chin in a challenge. "Sound good?"
"Fuck you," I sighed.
But he was dead fucking right. Pissed as hell, I stalked through my half-done kitchen, mentally running through the inventory lists. Without the ability to order more, I'd need to try new combinations, and new preparations to utilize everything we had in our stores.
Suddenly my mind was buzzing, excitement clearing my head. I stepped out the back door ready to have the fresh air blow away the rest of the cobwebs in my brain.
My heart was already pounding hard, even before I saw that Bee's back door was open. And out of it wafted an absolutely heavenly aroma, sugary-sweet and sinfully rich. Immediately I sniffed again, trying to identify all the components of that scent. "Butter," I said aloud. "Honey, brown sugar...vanilla of course. And..." I sniffed again. "What the heck else, Bee?"
I had to know.
I walked around the fence, and came up her stairs, careful to walk heavily to announce my presence.
Her door was standing open, letting in some of the fresh spring air into the blast furnace heat of her working ovens. I knocked loudly, but she had earbuds in her ear and didn't hear me.
"Hello?" I called, knocking louder.
But the sound of her slamming the oven door closed drowned out my greeting. She turned on her heels, just as I was stepping fully into the doorway.
She yelped, throwing up her hands and sending a tray of just baked cupcakes scattering over there at the floor.
"Oh shit!" I gasped. "Sorry!" The cupcakes bounced crazily, and I dropped my knees, trying to gather them up. "Oh shit!" I hissed.
"Careful! They're hot!" she cried, a little too late. I dropped the scalding hot cupcake and put my burning palm to my mouth.
Her eyes flashed, and she reached out, grabbing my wrist and yanking me towards the deep utility sink. "Here, you need to put cold water on it," she told me firmly, running a gentle stream of freezing cold water from the tap.
I winced as the freezing water ran over my reddened palm. She was still holding my wrist, her lips working intently as she grimaced. I made to pull away but she held me there. "Always hold it under longer than you think you need to," she said. "Otherwise you're going to regret it when you can't use your hand."
"Yes, I like my hand," I said, then grimaced at how stupid that sounded. Being this close to her was doing something distracting to my body. She looked up, darting a quick glance in my direction, and I saw soft brown eyes, much warmer than they'd looked in the cool light of the morning yesterday. "But I've had burns before."
"And they fucking hurt," she said, stubborn as anything. She let go of me, and I pulled my hand back, wincing as I flexed it.
"It'll feel a lot better in a minute," I said.
But her face was still full of concern. "Put some cream on it if you get a chance," she told me.
I laughed, knowing that that chance was pretty far off with the way things were going. Then I took another look at the cupcakes that littered the floor. "Can I help with this in any way?" I asked, feeling guilty. "Given that I just destroyed a bunch of your inventory?"
Bee smiled up at me. "Thanks, you don't need to do that."
"I feel like I owe you, considering I just scared you out of your mind. And after I scared you last night too. I don't want you thinking I'm a scary dude."
"Are you a scary dude?"
I laughed shortly. "According to a lot of the people who've worked in kitchen under me? Yeah," I told her. She caught my eyes with her warm brown ones and I felt my throat tighten as I said, "I'm fucking terrifying."
"I see that," she said with a wicked grin. "Well, you can help me mixed up another batch to make up for it."
I pressed my lips together. I'd always hated desserts. I was absolutely dreading hiring a pastry chef. But the place where her fingers had wrapped around my wrist was still warm, and her lips were pinker than made sense. "Okay," I told her, feeling like I'd been drugged. "I'll do that."