Chapter Three
I woke up the next morning later than I’d wanted. It was a little before eight in the morning when I finally dragged my butt out of bed, but since I didn’t finally nod off until after three, I felt justified sleeping in.
I growled at my clock. Was this really considered sleeping in? Five hours of sleep was overdoing it? God, I was a masochist. And the crazy thing was that I knew I was asking for more. If I ever landed an executive chef position, whether it was Sarita or something completely different, I could forget about sleeping altogether.
Wyatt, for example, didn’t leave until after I did, and he would already be at Lilou this morning accepting deliveries and taking care of the business side of his job. It wouldn’t be like that forever of course. Occasionally, Wyatt and I accepted deliveries for Killian to let him catch up on sleep. But it wasn’t like Killian took vacations. Wyatt was the same. He would never be able to entrust Lilou to someone else.
And if I managed to finally secure the job I wanted? I would follow suit.
What had Dillon said about Ezra? This was the first vacation he had ever taken.
This was a special kind of club for people that would rather work than live.
Yes, this was my dream job and I loved it with every ounce of my being, from my very bones to the metaphysical pieces of me that didn’t even have a name. This was what I was born to do, this was my gift to the world, what I would give away and give away until there was nothing left of me. But I also hated it sometimes and the payment it required from me.
My soul had been given purpose and my life had been gifted meaning, but the blessing of finding the thing I was meant to do required daily sacrifice. I was convinced I would live my life doing what I loved, but that what I loved would eventually kill me.
It was a morbid way to think about my job, but it was true. And it was true for all of us. Food was art for us. And we poured ourselves into it, into the creation, perfection, reputation, and also the branding and legacy. Working in the culinary field took everything from us and we welcomed it willingly.
Because we loved it. I loved it. I had never loved anything more than this… cooking… creating… working with food. Cooking defined me. It was my sum total. And all I wanted to do was grow. I wanted to get better and better and level up in big ways in my career, but those felt like natural progressions as my love for this thing got deeper, consumed more of me, as we moved together through this little life of mine.
I couldn’t continue as Wyatt’s sous chef forever. Not only because we had the most dysfunctional relationship in the history of culinary arts, but I wanted more than second in command. There was more to me than working for Wyatt. I was as good as him if not better. I needed my own kitchen. I would do anything for it.
On top of that reason, there was this thing inside me that would never be satisfied living in another man’s shadow. Maybe especially Wyatt’s. Call it pride or drive or a greedy fucking monster, but I could not spend my life working as hard as I did just to hand the credit to someone else.
I wanted the glory. I wanted the fame. I wanted the massive responsibility that could go up in flames in any given second. I wanted it.
And I was going to get it.
Sarita was the perfect dining experience for me. We were made for each other. She was Ezra’s most eclectic restaurant, specializing in tapas and craft cocktails. She had flamenco nights, live bands, and a chef’s table that featured a fifteen-course meal. Sarita had personality and a gypsy vibe that made my heart ache with solidarity.
I’d grown up in rural North Carolina, a little town called Hamilton. My parents and two younger sisters, Claire and Cameron, still resided there, living the small-town life and surviving on local gossip and small mindedness. I’d fled the town at the first opportunity.
I was the total cliché. The bad girl that never fit in. The rebel without a cause. The goth/hipster/emo chic that struggled to find her place in a society that didn’t even acknowledge her.
I was desperate to be anything but the high school cheerleader that married her quarterback boyfriend and never left town. I couldn’t stomach the idea of not doing anything with my life. I didn’t live expecting to get pregnant, hoping to breed future cheerleaders and quarterbacks, surviving on all the happenings around town— who was sleeping with who, and what little punk was selling drugs, and oh my God, did you know that so-and-so filed for bankruptcy?
I could not do it. I couldn’t even pretend to approve of that pathway for anyone else.
My rebellion made me a huge disappointment to my parents, who wanted nothing more than a prom queen daughter and future prom royalty grandchildren.
In protest, I’d spent middle school smoking under the bleachers and high school ditching class and avoiding team sports. And I’d almost made it out unscathed.
It was junior year and I was at my wit’s end with my parents and my shining star sisters that were happy to drink the Hamilton Kool-Aid. I met someone who got me in a way that nobody ever had. He listened to me and thought it was cool I liked to read instead of cheer. He liked the boho way I dressed and that I dyed my hair every color of the rainbow. He even liked that I wanted to leave Hamilton, that I saw my life bigger and better, and more purposeful than what that town had to offer. Because he wanted to leave too. Or, at least that’s what he’d told me when we talked about the future.
That’s how I ended up dating the star quarterback. Nolan and I had been friends since childhood, but in junior high, he’d gone his way and I had gone mine. Until eleventh grade, when Fate had partnered us for pig dissection. What had started as a familiar friendship quickly turned into something so serious I was still recovering from it.
And the worst part? Worse than falling in love with someone who lied to me, led me on, promised to marry me and did all that he could to trap me in that stupid town? I ended up accepting everything I didn’t want or like—high school politics with popular best friends and small-town dreams.
I was willing to give up everything for him. My parents saw Nolan’s power over me and jumped on the opportunity to trap me.
They bribed me with a sweet car to encourage me to go to school consistently. Homework was easy for me, so the good grades followed. They turned a blind eye to the partying because that’s what all the kids in town did. My parents carefully encouraged when Nolan started talking about the future and what life could be like for us once we’d graduated. They dropped helpful suggestions about where we could live and how quickly we could marry.
Nolan wasn’t the life I wanted, but I was in too deep to remember that. I loved him more than I had ever loved anything. And with our parents’ support, I slowly forgot my dream of leaving Hamilton and making something of myself. I forgot about doing bigger and better things than playing house.
He loved me too after all. And he didn’t want to leave Hamilton anymore. He liked it there. Plus, if we were going to get married so young, we should stick by our parents’ because they could help us if we ever needed it. And what about kids? Didn’t I want to raise them in a town I trusted and make sure they had the same idyllic childhood I did?
His argument tasted sweet and safe and it was embarrassing how easily I gave in.
Of course, I would stay. Of course, I would marry him. Of course, my plans could evolve now that I had him.
Everything changed the spring of my senior year. I had signed up for a semester of fluff, so I could skate through to graduation. One of the classes was a cooking class. My teacher, Mrs. Wilton, wasn’t the most inspiring mentor ever, but she didn’t need to be. All she needed to do was give me sharp knives and the opportunity to find myself in food.
And I did find myself. In the best way.
I ignored all my local college acceptance letters where Nolan had also been accepted and secretly applied to culinary schools. When I get the letter from the culinary arts program at The Art Institute at Raleigh-Durham, I cried tears of real joy for the first time in my life.
Not only was it one of the best programs in North Carolina, it took me far away from Hamilton and the life I’d been willing to settle for.
I kept the news a secret until after graduation, but even when I told Nolan and my family the change of plans, I made it seem like the AI was only a detour from the original plan. Not a total deviation in the trajectory of my future.
At the time, it was what I believed too. I hadn’t planned to leave Nolan. I hadn’t planned to abandon the plans we made for our future. And yet when it came down to it, I couldn’t make myself go through with community college. I couldn’t stomach the idea of living there a second longer, even if we were saving up for a place of our own.
Culinary school had been less of a carefully crafted alternative and more of a panicked, wild-eyed desperate last-ditch effort to save my soul. It sounded dramatic now, but that town had crushed my spirit. I couldn’t breathe there. I couldn’t be me. And I knew that if I stayed, I would never be happy either.
My parents were pissed of course. They couldn’t understand what I would do with a culinary degree in Hamilton. To this day, they were still waiting for me to regain my senses and come home. Every time I called them, they tried to lure me in with local drama and reminders that Nolan still hadn’t found anyone to settle down with.
I gently reminded them that I had landed my dream job and I was still able to pay rent on time, but I’d call them the following Sunday and we could do the song and dance all over again. We hadn’t ended a conversation pleasantly in years.
Mostly, it was my mother. She blamed me for ruining her life, for letting go of Nolan, for screwing everything up like I was so prone to do. My dad was disappointed he couldn’t see me whenever he wanted, but he didn’t try to emotionally blackmail me to move home.
And then there was Nolan.
For as young as we were, our love was real. We stayed together for way longer than we should have. Seven years of my life had been spent holding onto something neither of us was brave enough to let go of. We fought all the time. He kept promising to follow me to Durham. And I kept believing him. It was only a matter of time before we self-destructed.
At first, he would visit me on weekends and we would look for apartments we both liked and Google jobs he would enjoy. As the years piled up, he stopped visiting as much and I stopped expecting anything from him. Eventually all the reasons we should be together stopped making sense. We wanted different things out of life. We’d grown into new people that didn’t have anything in common. We said we still loved each other, but if it was love it was selfish and entitled. Neither of us had been willing to compromise. Neither of us had really wanted to change—no matter how many empty promises we made.
Seven years. Seven years with a man that couldn’t follow through on anything. From when I was seventeen until I finally let go three years ago at twenty-four, he always had an excuse for why he couldn’t transfer schools or quit his job at the high school or move in with me. Seven years of phone calls full of awkward silences and disappointed weekends when he would cancel our plans. Seven years of making the arduous back and forth, trying to make a long-distance relationship work between two people totally unwilling to try.
He even proposed. Right after he’d graduated with his teaching degree and accepted his position at Hamilton High School, he showed up on my doorstep with a black square box and a tiny diamond. “I love you, Kaya.” He promised. “I want to do right by you.”
My poor, frustrated, neglected heart had soared. We were finally going to have the life we’d been dreaming about for so long. I was finally going to be able to give up Hamilton for good and settle into my Durham life. I was finally going to get to be full-time with the man I loved.
Only his plans had changed. He’d rearranged our future but didn’t tell me until after I’d said yes to marrying him. He’d decided he no longer wanted to move to Durham by then. He’d bought a little house on the outskirts of town and loved his new job.
I knew I could never move back. No matter how quaint he promised our life would be. There wasn’t anything in that town for me. And yet still, I hadn’t been willing to give him up. Stupidly, I thought that if he loved me enough, I could change his mind. Eventually, he would realize I was worth the move.
As our engagement dragged on and on without a wedding date to plan for or any real motivation by either of us to get married, I too-slowly realized we were over. I finally acknowledged we had been over for a very long time.
It killed me. I had poured years into that man. I had truly believed I would spend the rest of my life with him. And I knew he felt the same way about me. Admitting that everything had been for nothing did something irreversible to my heart, added layers of paranoia and skepticism that scarred me. His lack of motivation to be with me felt like rejection in the worst way. Why wasn’t I enough for him? Why didn’t he want to be with me more than he wanted to be comfortable in that godforsaken town?
By the end of our relationship, I felt brittle, hollowed out, and empty. I knew it wasn’t entirely Nolan’s fault. I hadn’t been willing to change. I hadn’t been open to moving. But that didn’t stop the insecurity from slipping inside like an evil ninja and setting up residence in my heart. I wasn’t the kind of girl men moved for. I wasn’t the woman that men wanted to spend their life with. I was safe and comfortable and throw away.
I broke up with him over Christmas when I was home and staying with my parents. It hadn’t been messy. He said he’d known it was coming for a while, but he didn’t want to be the one to hurt my feelings.
That New Year’s Eve, he went to a party with all our old high school friends and hooked up with Delaney Cooper, former head cheerleader and prom queen. I’d found out about it via social media and the walls around my heart had grown barbed wire and electric fence.
Of all people, her? Of all parties, that one?
I had still hoped he’d come after me, move to Durham, prove I was worth the fight. For years after, I clung to the hope that he would wake up from all of the hooking up and dating random girls and realize I was better… what we had was better than the meaningless, shallow life he lived now. But he never did. Or I wasn’t worth it after all. Face to face with his true colors, I had to acknowledge that he probably never loved me. He merely loved the idea of me.
He’d broken my heart. And maybe I had broken his. Maybe him. He still texted every once in a while, when he’d been drinking too much and the girl he went home with didn’t do enough to help him forget how much he hated his life. But that wasn’t my fault.
I’d spent three years having this argument with myself and it always boiled down to that toxic town. He could leave. He had a degree in high school education and experience coaching the football team. Nothing was holding him there. He had family, but it wasn’t like he had to move to the moon.
Some nights, I would text him too. When I had been drinking too much. And when guilt and heartache and nostalgia for what we’d had all those years ago threatened to eat me alive. I would reach out to him and ask him to come visit me.
And he would counter that I should come home to him.
There were also the times I went home to visit my parents for holidays or birthdays or whatever…
The problem was that Nolan was as lethal as the town. He would lure me with his all-American smile and quarterback muscles and I would get lost in the bliss of being eighteen and invincible all over again.
The last time we’d hooked up had been eighteen months ago. I’d been in town for my parents thirtieth wedding anniversary and had had too many white wine spritzers at their country club garden party.
My parents had the love story Nolan and I had tried to have. High school sweethearts, married at twenty-one, kids at twenty-four, retirement on the horizon. And despite my hang-ups with them, they truly loved each other.
Calling Nolan that night had felt inevitable. I’d been drunk and lonely and he had been happy to pick me up. That night he’d been as familiar and lackluster as I remembered him to be. I woke up the next morning surrounded by Hamilton High football t-shirts and empty PBR cans and felt sick to my stomach.
No matter how much I’d tried to convince myself differently over the years, Nolan was the same as he’d been when I’d fallen in love with him. That small-town, rudderless life was enough for him. He didn’t want anything more than that. By the time I’d put Hamilton in my rearview mirror, I had decided to be happy for him. And why not? He wasn’t going to change.
And neither was I. The small town wasn’t for me. Not even if it meant the house and the husband and the two-point-five kids. Cooking was worth the sacrifice, worth the loss of everything else. It was worth the chaos and the long hours and the exhaustion. Even the critic reviews and the never-ending, suffocating pressure to get better and do better and become the fucking best.
And if I got Sarita… I couldn’t even think that far ahead. I had to figure out if there was someone in-house that Ezra would handpick.
My heart dropped to my toes at the very thought of it. Grabbing my phone, I quickly typed out a text to Dillon.
Want to meet for coffee before work?
The text dots started dancing immediately. I’m headed to Vera and Killian’s restaurant. I have to drop something off for E. Want to meet me there?
My plan was to grill Dillon for every last detail she’d learned from Ezra about Sarita, but Killian and Vera would be even better. Yes! Going now?
I’ll be there in ten.
See you soon.
I hauled ass to the shower and skipped shaving. I mean, I was wearing pants all day, there was no point. Scrunching my hair with enough product to encourage global warming to keep up the good work, I let my chin-length, bright pink hair air dry while I threw on minimal makeup. I was ready in record time.
There wasn’t a whole lot to my uniform other than a clean pair of pants, the right shoes and a tight cami under my chef’s coat, which I didn’t wear until I got in the kitchen. I grabbed a gray silk duster for the cool morning air and my messenger bag and headed out the door with a banana in my hand. It wasn’t necessarily the breakfast of champions, but it would do for today.
I’d grab coffee later. Ugh, the thought of not having a cup before I left nearly killed me. Coffee was essential to life. I wasn’t even very smart without it. Without my morning cup, I turned into this un-caffeinated, bumbling idiot that couldn’t remember words or social cues or anything beyond zombie-level hunger.
Undoubtedly, this was the perfect time to feel out my dream job with three other stellar chefs who probably didn’t even need coffee to have coherent conversations before noon.
I rolled my eyes at myself and hurried down the stairs of my apartment building. The sun was warm as I stepped out to the small parking lot attached to my midtown building. For a single person living in Durham, I made a decent enough living. But I was all middle of the road. Medium salary. Medium part of town. Medium apartment. Yes, I was on the nicer end of the spectrum, but it wasn’t enough.
What scared me the most about my ambitions was that I would never have enough, be enough, do enough. That I would always want more.
Those starving pieces buried inside terrified me. Would I ever be totally happy with what I was doing or where I was in life? Would I ever feel joyful contentment? Or even moderately good enough?
There was a certain level of striving that I was okay with. I didn’t want to lose my drive or my standards of excellence. Those qualities required fierce tenacity and ferocious hunger. My long-term goals required me to push, to keep rising and become a better chef.
Yes. Those were good traits, but what about the darker side of those same desires—the gaping abyss inside me that wanted to consume everything in my path. Would that desire ever be filled? Satisfied? Exhausted?
I shivered despite the warm day. Did I even want to consider those questions without a cup of coffee first?
I yanked open the rusty door to my Land Cruiser and decided my crazy musings could wait until after caffeine. My foggy brain didn’t have the energy for serious self-examination right now.
Thursday morning traffic was as difficult as every other day of the work week. Durham wasn’t an overly populated city by any means but driving downtown was always a special experience. Traffic made me rage-y.
By the time I got to Killian and Vera’s restaurant, Salt, I had devolved into a furious, cursing caveman. I noticed Dillon’s Lexus in the parking lot and breathed a minute sigh of relief. It was comforting to have an ally in life in the nearby vicinity. Knowing I was meeting up with Dillon soothed some of my frazzled edges and whispered rational thought back into my haggard brain.
Although, after wrestling my purse from the passenger’s seat and walking the short distance to the main entrance, my traffic frustration and subsequent calm had turned to buzzing nerves and a flurry of internal butterflies.
I didn’t know Vera enough to call her a friend, but she had always been nice to me. If we ran into each other in a public space, I wouldn’t hesitate to walk over and say hello. Killian, on the other hand, was intimidating as hell. Like some kind of brutal warrior from Greek mythology that was willing to kill you over a stolen wineskin. My courage shriveled to an embarrassing shell of itself.
He was mortal, I reminded myself. Exactly like me. Fine, four years of my life had been spent working for him, listening to him yell at me, perfecting my craft so he wouldn’t yell at me, trying to do whatever it took to avoid him yelling at me… But he was as human as me.
I should thank Killian for those difficult years. He’d given me the tools for success that I planned to use to climb my way to the top of this city’s culinary upper echelon. He’d helped mold me into a competent, experienced chef. He’d promoted me to one of his coveted sous chef positions and demanded perfection and because of that I was confident I could produce perfection.
Still, I’d lived over four years of my life balancing the growing pains of maturity against trying desperately to not cross his line of fire. I’d seen him at his worst, throwing dishes across the kitchen and snarling at anything that breathed near him. And I’d seen him at his best, earning awards and stars and accolades from the most important organizations and people in our industry. He was hardheaded and cocky, but also fair and talented, and pretty much a genius with food.
He was everything I wanted to be. That said, walking into the restaurant that he’d abandoned Lilou for was like some kind of religious pilgrimage for me. A restaurant like Salt was the big goal, the destination. I was convinced this was what was at the end of the long, arduous journey I was willing to struggle my entire life to reach.
I had no false hopes that I would be able to accomplish what Killian had in the time that he had accomplished it. Killian was kind of a freak when it came to success. I was on the right path and I needed to remember that.
My fingers trailed reverently over the bright blue doors that opened into the main dining room of Salt. They were the only bright spot of color in an otherwise starkly white layout. My breath caught in my throat as I took in the rest of the space.
The restaurant might as well have been glowing with an angelic hue for all the wistful and slightly jealous emotions rushing through me. It was the first time I had been inside, and the first time I realized it was so close to completion.
Vera and Killian had both left amazing jobs—dream jobs—to pursue opening a restaurant together. Killian had abandoned a lot of his claimed awards by leaving Lilou, ones that were specific to Lilou’s kitchen. Vera had given up her food truck for this. And they had no guarantee that it would succeed.
I was as impressed with their persistence as I was worried for them. They were both unquestionably good at what they did. But was good enough?
For a lot of great chefs, it wasn’t. There had to be more than good food to make an acclaimed restaurant. Where the real awe in my assessment came from was the “it” factor they had nailed with the décor and ambiance. Between the big wooden rafters and the garage door walls that would open to the outside during the warmer months, I already felt comfortable in this space. I already looked forward to the food. I was already planning girls’ nights out here. I couldn’t wait to book a reservation and discover the menu.
They’d nailed it. And I tried not to hate them for it.
“Hello?” I called out when I realized I’d been standing frozen on the stone entryway floor for long enough. “Is anyone here?”
Dillon popped her head through the swinging kitchen doors and waved me back. “We’re in here.”
My eyes dropped to the mug in her hand. “Is that coffee?”
She smiled at me, waving her cup in the air. “It’s fresh. Better get back here before Vera drinks it all.”
My respect for Vera leveled up knowing she was as much of an addict as I was.
The promise of caffeine took the edge off my nerves and I entered the kitchen totally unprepared for the gleaming glory that awaited me. Lilou’s kitchen was spotless. Especially after I spent hours scrubbing it last night. But it was also old enough to have lost some of the shiny sparkle that brand-new kitchens possessed. Like a cartoon with an illustrated glow, every surface, every appliance, every inch seemed to wear a halo.
“Wow,” I heard myself say with childlike awe that I couldn’t help.
“Welcome,” Vera greeted, as pleasant and kind as I’d always known her to be.
I tore my eyes from the expensive machinery to focus on the chef I had come to admire and respect over the last year. “This is crazy.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “It is crazy.”
Her embarrassment only endeared me more. “It’s nice though, yeah?”
She laughed self-consciously. “There’s more room than the truck. That’s nice for sure.”
I looked around at her massive kitchen space, mentally comparing its size to Lilou’s. Salt had it beat by at least five feet on every side. “This kitchen is amazing. I can’t wait for you to open.”
Vera raised her eyebrows behind a sip of her coffee. “Why? Looking for a job perchance?”
It was my turn to blush. It was a generous offer from her. And unsubstantiated. “I, uh, I-I like Lilou.”
“That’s a lie.” Dillon snorted, sharing a friendly look with Vera. “She hates Lilou.”
“I do not!” I defended quickly “I love the restaurant.”
“Fine.” Dillon sighed. “She hates Wyatt.”
Vera laughed again, but it sounded surprised this time. “What? Why?”
Dillon snorted again, hopping backwards to sit on a steel counter. I inwardly cringed at her irreverence but held my tongue. Dillon didn’t have the same kind of worshipfulness I had with kitchens. Or with anything really. She was pretty much aloof when it came to social cues and expected behavior. Which were my favorite things about her. Most of the time.
“He’s an asshole,” I blurted, feeling safer with Vera than I probably should have. They were friends. This would have been a good time to hold my tongue.
Vera laughed again, more subdued this time though. “Every good chef is. It’s the only way they can protect their fragile egos.”
Dillon canted her head at Vera. “You’re not an asshole.”
Killian’s voice boomed from a doorway that led to a hallway at the back of the kitchen. “You’ve never cooked with her.”
Vera’s eyes narrowed at her fiancé. “Poor, abused baby.”
He grinned at her and I had a sympathetic pang for Vera. How could she stand him looking at her like that all the time? Killian had to be one of the most beautiful humans on the planet to begin with, but then add in that adoring look in his eyes and the way his whole body seemed to warm and lean toward her? How did she survive it?
I would have died by now. Or gone into permanent shock.
She was for sure a lucky woman. But she also had to be one of the strongest out there. Not because of how beautiful Killian was, but because of how difficult he could be too.
“I am abused,” Killian agreed, closing the distance between his bride to be and the doorway in long, stretched strides. “Thank you for noticing.”
She rolled her eyes and looked at me as he put his arms around her middle. “See what I mean?”
“Yeah, well, Wyatt is an asshole in a totally different way than”—I waved my hand at them—“whatever you two have going on.”
Dillon made a sound in the back of her throat and gave them a disapproving look. “It’s like this all the time, Ky. You should be around when my brother and Molly are here too. The four of them in the same room is downright disgusting.”
“What do you mean disgusting?” Killian demanded.
I turned my back on all three of them and went hunting for coffee. I found a French press near one of the stovetops with a saucer of creamer next to it. Yes. Please.
While I poured, Dillon exclaimed, “Are you kidding me? Y’all are like a Hallmark Christmas movie, but all the time. I didn’t even know it was possible to get sick of love. But I am chronically grossed out these days.”
Vera and Killian laughed, too far gone to be bothered by Dillon’s comments. “Your brother is way worse than I am,” Killian argued. “He’s like a smitten puppy.”
I turned around just in time to watch Dillon give a pointed look at Killian’s arms still firmly encircling Vera. “And you’re not?”
Killian only grinned at her. “Obviously I am. I’m just way cooler about it than he is.” He turned back to me. “Let’s get back to the topic. Why is Wyatt an asshole?”
This wasn’t something I wanted to talk about with my former boss. And my current boss’s friend and mentor. Time to deflect. “You’ve met him. It’s self-explanatory.”
Killian’s smile died. “Regardless of what Vera has led you to believe, we’re not all awful. And I don’t think Wyatt is at all. He’s hard maybe, precise. He knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to go after it. But I don’t think that makes him an asshole.”
“Maybe,” I said noncommittally.
Killian wasn’t fooled by my halfhearted answer. “It’s probably hard for you since you used to work with him and now have to work for him. It’s not that he’s an asshole, it’s just a difficult adjustment.”
“It’s not that at all,” I admitted when I knew I should keep my mouth shut. “I don’t mind perfection. I worked for you and didn’t complain.”
Killian’s eyebrows rose slowly, and I knew I’d said too much.
“Much,” I added quickly.
He cracked a small smile. “He’s good for Lilou. He’s good for you.”
The back of my neck prickled, and I took a sip of coffee to hide my urge to rub it. “I don’t know about that. Maybe he’s good for the restaurant, but we butt heads in the worst way.”
Killian’s smile stretched. “He doesn’t like that you’re as good as he is.”
The compliment spiraled through me, warming me from head to toe, slightly thawing some permanently frozen place inside my chest. “I don’t think either of us like it,” I admitted, suppressing the ego swell.
His smile disappeared, and he straightened. It was like he put on a different persona. Gone was the man in love and in his place appeared a wise father figure that was about to offer sage advice. I shifted again. I had never been great with authority. “He needs you, Kaya. He was the best for the job, yeah? I didn’t give it to him to spite you. I gave it to him because he deserved it. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t important. He’s kept you as sous, right?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, but he also threatens to take it away from me every single night.”
“He won’t.” Killian’s affirmation was confident. “He can’t. There’s no one else in that kitchen that’s ready.”
“Hey!” Dillon cried out in protest. Killian gave her a look and she wilted, folding her arms over her chest and sticking out her bottom lip. “Fine, Kaya’s amazing, blah, blah, blah.”
Killian’s gaze moved back to mine. “Support him, Kaya. Support his role completely before you move on.”
My eyes narrowed. The boost to my ego from his compliment a few seconds ago was replaced with the sharp, raw feeling of vulnerability. I hated that he saw me so clearly. I hated that he’d managed to motivate me to stay with Wyatt while making me feel valuable as a chef all at once. I didn’t want people to see this much of me. I wanted to remain hidden, mysterious. Yeah, fine, I wanted my talent to be known, but I didn’t want that to give anyone insight to my insides.
“Why do you think I’ll leave Lilou?” I asked him, needing to know how obvious I was.
He shrugged and looked around the kitchen. “Because you’re never going to be satisfied with being number two. You don’t have it in you to support someone else forever.”
“I can’t tell if that’s an insult or a compliment.”
He smiled again, but this time it was at his future wife. “It’s admirable.” He turned back to me. “But EC is hard as shit. A lot of chefs want to get to the top, but few have it in them.”
I laughed to make light of his warning, knowing he was right. “I’m okay with hard.”
“That’s what she said!” Dillon giggled from across the kitchen, her arms raised over her head in victory like she’d won something for being the first person to ever say it.
We all groaned at her terrible joke, but inwardly I was grateful we could move past the life lessons portion of the morning.
“This is why you’re still single,” Killian teased her in that older brother way.
She stuck her tongue out at him. “Speaking of being single…” She paused dramatically and we all waited to find out where she was headed with this. “What’s happening with Sarita? Ezra was on the phone all last night and I fell asleep before he decided anything.”
Killian rolled his eyes. “If he was smart, he’d sell the damn thing. He should piece off all of the harem except for Lilou. They’re more trouble than they’re worth.”
The harem was how we lovingly referred to Ezra’s group of restaurants, all named after ex-girlfriends.
“He won’t do it,” Dillon stated simply, but with all the confidence we knew she had the right to have. “He loves them too much.”
Killian leaned back against the sink. “Which is ironic considering how much he didn’t love the actual women they’re named after.”
Vera snorted a laugh. “If he names a restaurant after Molly, I’m going to punch him in the throat.”
Dillon and Killian quickly promised Vera that would never happen. I wasn’t totally convinced, but then again, I didn’t know Ezra. I knew about him. And I worked with him enough that I knew what to expect from him in a professional setting. But I didn’t know anything about his personal life. Except that he dated high maintenance women with exotic names.
But even that was learned secondhand.
“What will happen to Sarita?” I asked, refocusing the conversation.
“We’re going to run it while Ezra is on vacation,” Vera answered. “Because we hate ourselves.”
Killian explained, “Ezra was going to cancel their big vacation, but Vera felt bad for Molly so here we are, running the most dysfunctional kitchen on the planet.”
“That’s not true,” Dillon argued. “Bianca is the most dysfunctional kitchen on the planet. Sarita will truly be better without Juan Carlo.”
I bit my bottom lip to keep from smiling. Juan Carlo was as pretentious as his name suggested. He was a beast to work for and a complete egomaniac. Wyatt was bad, Juan Carlo was impossible. But his food was only mediocre in my opinion and he never changed the menu. Still, somehow, he’d created the illusion of a big name for himself and prior to last night, I never thought Sarita would be available.
“You two are in charge until Ezra gets back? Then what?”
Killian gave me an assessing look that again made me feel too seen, like a kid in trouble with her parents. “Then the search begins.”
Looking everywhere but at Killian, I asked, “Do you think he’ll hire in house?”
“Hard to say,” Killian replied. “It’s always hard to say with Ezra.”
That response got me nowhere. I downed the rest of my delicious coffee and rinsed the mug out in the sink.
“Just set it there,” Vera directed. “I’ll get it later.”
“Are you sure?”
“It’s not a problem,” she promised, offering me a smile.
“Thanks. And thanks for the coffee. I needed it today.” I caught Dillon’s eye and nodded my head toward the exit. “We should get going.”
“Oh, yeah.” She hopped off the counter and turned to Killian, launching into something about how Sarita opens and delivery information.
Vera moved to my side and started walking, indicating that I should follow her. So, I did. Once we were back in the dining room, she nudged me with her elbow. “Do you want Sarita?”
I swallowed a lump large enough to be my heart. “Wh-what?”
“Don’t play humble with me,” Vera laughed. “Do you want it?”
Rolling my eyes at her so she knew I didn’t appreciate being called out, I admitted, “Obviously, I want Sarita. I’d have to be crazy not to want her.”
Her voice dropped, and she whispered, “He’s not going to give it to you.”
I would have felt devastated if not for the mischievous tone in her voice. “Why not?”
“Because you’re a girl.”
“I’ve never taken Ezra to be the sexist type.”
She shrugged. “He’s not necessarily. It’s the industry. It’s all men. And Ezra has never had a female executive chef before. He doesn’t even know it’s possible.”
She wasn’t telling me anything I didn’t know. The first day of culinary school I realized I would have to work twice as hard as the boys in my class that outnumbered me three to one. “Not even Dillon?”
“That’s what I mean,” Vera said quietly. “He’s definitely going to hire Dillon for Bianca. That’s already in motion. You’re either going to have to beat her or convince him to give two of his restaurants to women.”
I hadn’t thought of that. The floor seemed to drop out from underneath me. My fragile dream curled up into a ball and rolled out of reach. “Shit.”
It wasn’t possible. And not because I wasn’t good enough. Vera was right. If Ezra planned to give one of his restaurants to Dillon, there was no chance in hell I would get the other one. And I couldn’t compete with my best friend over a restaurant because it was the only option.
Besides, I wouldn’t be a good fit for Bianca. My integrity wouldn’t even let me apply for the position. I didn’t want to do fussy French food. I wanted spicy tapas and a sexy, smoldering atmosphere. I would suffocate Bianca. Or the other way around.
“Prove him wrong,” Vera coaxed. “Prove that Dillon is a fine hire, but that he’d be crazy not to give you Sarita.”
I looked at her, feeling helpless and lost. “How do I do that?”
“First, you’re going to have to convince Wyatt. And Killian. And me.” She winked. “But spoiler alert, I’m already on your side.”
“You’re not making me feel better,” I whispered, my guts exploding with butterflies and bumblebees and razor-sharp wasps.
She smiled at me. “Don’t wimp out on me now, Kaya. Continue showing me the strong, independent woman I know you are. The kickass chef that can outcook and outsmart literally any other man. Do your thing, woman, and the rest will follow.”
Her words were like a gust of wind on the dwindling fire inside me, reigniting the fight and flames that had gotten me this far. “This means I have to be nice to Wyatt though, doesn’t it?”
She laughed. “Sleep with him if you have to.”
I nibbled on my lip ring again, hating that I didn’t hate that idea as much as I should. Or at all. I made an amused sound to cover my reaction. “Pretty sure that would only make things worse between us.”
She winked at me. “Obviously, I’m kidding. But you have to at least try to get on his good side.” We reached the door and Dillon burst through the kitchen, quickly catching up with us. Vera slapped me on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s worth a shot! Bye, Kaya.”
“Bye, Vera…”
That didn’t go anything like I thought it would. Hell.