The heat in the kitchen was stifling, making every article of clothing cling to my skin. Flames licked up from the nine-burner cooktop and steam rose from large stock pots filled with boiling water. Shouting ensued all around me, but this kitchen was a well-oiled machine. There were six of us running this brigade, and we had been on our feet for over twelve hours preparing for this evening. We were hot and we were tired, but we were only halfway through one of the busiest nights this restaurant had seen this year. College graduation was upon us, and we had been booked solid for three nights straight. One hundred and fifty covers every two hours for three nights meant a lot of food and a lot of cash. Businesses all over the bustling city were profiting from this weekend’s influx of out-of-town visitors, and restaurants like ours were reaping the benefits.

I paused a moment, looking around the kitchen, and couldn’t hold back the smile, feeling my eyes start to well up. This was what I had worked so hard for. I loved working in the kitchen; it came naturally to me. After my father left when I was just eleven, it had become my job to make dinner every night; otherwise, I never would have eaten. My mother never changed her demeanor, remaining cold and detached, so life as I had known it continued on as usual. The only difference had been that I had decided not to care anymore and learned to manage on my own. I worked hard and finished school a year early, graduating at seventeen, then enrolled in culinary school, where I learned to master my craft and excelled in all courses. Food was something I was passionate about, and it treated me well. I graduated from the culinary arts program with top honors and was sought out by many local restaurants. It felt nice to be wanted; that was something I had never felt while growing up. This restaurant hired me on as their sous chef, a position offered only based on skills presented in the classroom and how well I had performed on their kitchen test when I applied for the job. Yes, food treated me well, and as I looked around the kitchen, I knew that I was where I belonged. It had taken a lot of hard work and sacrifice, but I had finally found my happy place. This restaurant specialized in beef and seafood, serving only the finest and freshest cuts of each. All vegetables were locally grown, and the breads were baked in an artisan kitchen located four blocks over. We were known for quality food, excellent service, and our support of local businesses. The people in this town were all about supporting the local community, and no restaurant in the area rose to that challenge quite like the Cork and Cleaver.

Tonight, I was expediting, and as the next orders were placed in front of me, I set about plating them expertly. Sauces were spread onto the plates with just the right amount of finesse. Steaks were checked for temperature accuracy based on customer preference. Plates had to be spot checked for cleanliness before finally reaching the hot plate. This was a process that took great precision, and it was by far the most rewarding thing I had ever known.

“Service, please!” I announced, bringing about another flurry of activity as servers snapped to attention. Three hours later, the kitchen was closed, the burners were shut off, and everything was cleared and put away; surfaces sparkled as if shiny and new and ready for another day of cooking. On my way out the door, after a very long day, I heard my name being called.

“Brooke?” It was Donnie, the executive chef. I turned and followed his voice, finding him sitting in his office. I poked my head in and smiled.

“What’s up?” He motioned for me to have a seat. I plopped down into the armchair, completely exhausted, and smiled again, waiting for him to speak.

“So, you’re off the next three days,” he stated knowingly. I nodded. “Are you nervous? Do you have any questions or concerns about the interview process?”

I had been working in this kitchen for five years, and in that time, had proven myself to be a competent chef and leader. Under Donnie’s guidance and care I had quickly become a highly sought-after chef, and because of that, I received a call from an up and coming restaurant out in Los Angeles to interview for their executive chef position. A rare opportunity for someone of my young age. I was scheduled to leave tomorrow afternoon.

“I’m feeling pretty confident,” I started. “But what are the odds they’ll hire a twenty-four-year-old chef from Michigan? I mean, come on, this is L.A.; there’s no way I could even begin to blend in.”

“You’re looking at it all wrong, Brooke. You don’t need to blend in; you need to shine, which is something you excel at, my dear. From the moment you set foot in my kitchen, you have never ceased to amaze me. I know L.A., and I know the restaurant where you’re interviewing. The owner and I go way back. He wouldn’t have sought you out if he didn’t think you could cut it in his kitchen.” Donnie leaned back in his chair with his hands behind his head. “You’ve got this, kid. Now, go and make me proud.” He smiled warmly and stood to give me a hug. Donnie was ten years my senior, and he had taken me under his wing as a mentor and father figure over the years, only wanting what was best for me. I had been an only child, so I welcomed the care and attention with open arms. He’d been a good friend and a great boss. I knew that if this interview didn’t work out that I always had a place in Donnie’s kitchen; it was a peace of mind that gave me great strength as I set about my latest adventure.

* * *

When I opened the door, I found Jade, my best friend and roommate, curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine and her favorite feline companion, Marmalade, an orange tabby that had followed her home one day. She looked at her watch before rising up from her comfy position and pouring another glass of wine.

“Long day,” she declared, handing me the glass.

“Yeah,” I muttered, kicking off my shoes and flopping down on the opposite end of the sofa. “It was a good night, and the team was on top of their game, but I am glad to be home and off for the next three days.”

“Are you all packed?”

“Almost. I just need to throw in a few more items, and I’ll be good. I won’t need much; I’m only there for one night.” I took a sip of wine and leaned my head back, closing my eyes. “I’m dreading the flight.”

“I know. Just be sure to take your Dramamine. You’ll sleep most of the flight and be ready for some sightseeing. Hey, maybe you’ll catch a glimpse of a celebrity or two. Be sure to take pictures.” Jade clapped her hands together, bouncing in her seat.

“What are you, five?” I laughed. “I promise to take lots of pictures if I see any famous people. Do you really think they just wander about the city? I’m pretty sure they would get bombarded by crazy fans. The most famous person I’ll see will be the owner of the restaurant where I’m interviewing.”

“Bummer,” she pouted. “But you should keep your phone charged just in case. What if you get there and meet someone and fall in love?” She batted her eyes playfully. Jade and I were both single and had known each other for six years, meeting through mutual friends at school. We hit it off immediately and moved in together less than two months later. Neither of us was currently dating anyone, despite Jade getting asked out repeatedly by guys at work. We hadn’t met the men of our dreams.

“I highly doubt I’ll meet the man of my dreams and fall in love during a two-day visit,” I replied, rolling my eyes and making her laugh. “And if I do, I’ll be sure to call you right away.” I stood up and stretched before yawning loudly. “Well, I’m heading off to bed. Are you still driving me to the airport? My flight leaves at six.”

“Yep, see you bright and early, sunshine.”

“Don’t stay up too late and set your alarm,” I called out, looking back to find her settling back in with Marmalade.

* * *

I hated flying. Being trapped in tiny seats among hundreds of people was not my idea of fun, but it was the fastest way to get to California from Michigan. Thankfully, I'd spent the extra money and booked a seat in first class. I never flew, so I figured that I might as well do it in style and comfort. Well, not exactly comfort, but it certainly looked better than the alternative sitting less than ten feet behind me. I settled in and was rewarded with a glass of champagne and a warm blanket. I snuck a peek back at the crowded rows behind me, noting they had neither a beverage nor a red blanket. I guess that’s what two hundred bucks more bought you. My interview was scheduled for first thing tomorrow morning, which meant I had plenty of time to explore the city and see if it was a place I could live.

I was only scheduled to be in L.A. for two days and one night, and I intended to make the most of it. I was going to check out as many restaurants as I possibly could, do a little shopping, and visit the beach. I had never seen the ocean; most of my beach hopping had been spent on Lake Michigan, which was by far and away the most beautiful body of water I had ever seen. I had seen photos of the ocean, and they paled in comparison to Lake Michigan’s deep blue waters. Even though I had my favorites, I still wanted to check it out, just to say I was there and had dipped my toes in the water. I didn’t plan on swimming. I had watched enough shark movies to know you wouldn’t be eaten alive if you remained on the beach.

I slipped in my earbuds and fired up my music app, choosing a song by my favorite band, Paradox, then leaned back against the small pillow, closing my eyes, thankful that the Dramamine had already begun to take effect. I felt the plane begin to back up, a sensation I greatly detested, then waited another fifteen minutes before feeling the plane’s speed increase rapidly as we descended down the runway and lifted off the ground. I heard the soft sounds of Sebastian Miles, his deep voice serenading me as sleep began to take over. I hadn’t slept well the night before, so I welcomed the darkness as it overtook me.

A jerking motion awakened me from my slumber as the plane began to descend. I rubbed my eyes then looked at my phone to check the time. I had slept more than four hours. As my mind continued to take in my surroundings, I realized that the same song was still playing. I must have had it on repeat, which meant that he had been singing to me for hours. I felt sorry for my cabin neighbors, praying that the noise level had been low enough that they hadn’t had to listen to the same song over and over. That would have driven me insane.

The plane touched down fifteen minutes ahead of schedule, and once again I was thankful for having chosen first class as I was among the first passengers to exit. I hadn’t checked a bag, so I made a hasty retreat through the terminal and out to an awaiting taxi. I gave the driver my destination, and soon we were on our way, speeding through the nightmarish traffic that makes up the Los Angeles freeway.

Twenty minutes later, we pulled up to The Westin Bonaventure Hotel. I stepped out, looking around in an attempt to take it all in. I turned toward the entrance and was promptly escorted to the lobby by an elderly bellhop with a friendly smile. I gave him a generous tip for his kindness and approached the front desk.

The elevator stopped on the eighteenth floor, and I made my way down the hall toward my room. Once inside, I dropped my bag onto one of the beds, walking over to the large windows showcasing a view of the surrounding city. I had arrived. I dashed off a quick text to Donnie and Jade, letting them know I made it safely to L.A., then took a quick shower before heading out to explore the city until I was ready for dinner.

* * *

I’d heard great things about the hotel’s signature restaurant, so I made my way to the thirty-fourth floor and stepped up to the reservations desk to inquire about a table for one at the exclusive L.A. Prime.

Seated on the far side of the restaurant, along the bank of windows that helped make this restaurant famous, I sipped my wine and stared at the Hollywood sign in the distance. The waiter came by with a fresh glass of wine before taking my order. The streets below bustled with traffic, both vehicle and pedestrian, and I was reminded of my most recent trip to New York City with Donnie. He had taken me there to attend a food and wine event in the hopes of helping me mingle with the upper elite in the food industry. I loved the electric atmosphere full of energy and excitement. That was exactly what I felt when gazing down at the street below. Electricity was everywhere, and I didn’t mean just in the hundreds of thousands of lights that adorned the surrounding signs and buildings. This town was electric because it was alive.

The first course was placed before me and, as I gazed down at the gorgeous plate of food, I couldn’t help but smile. I had ordered one of the appetizer specials: braised double-cut pork belly with a pinot noir reduction and Fuji apple butter. The pork was so tender I didn’t need a knife. I took a small forkful, swiping it through the apple butter, and raised it to my lips. Small explosions of flavor burst forth on my tongue, bringing a smile to my appreciative lips. Oh, how I loved dining on pork. Soon after finishing, my plate was cleared and a silver dish of sorbet was placed in front of me; just two small scoops was all that was required to cleanse my palate. In one swift motion, the silver dish was removed and my entrée was presented carefully before me.

“Enjoy your meal, Mademoiselle.” I picked up my knife and fork and, true to my culinary training, sliced precisely down the middle, revealing a perfect medium rare cut of beef. I had ordered one of my favorites: steak au poivré with assorted black and pink peppercorns and a brandy demi-glaze, which paired perfectly with the 2008 Cabernet Sauvignon from Napa Valley I was currently enjoying. I loved food. Food didn’t scare me, it didn’t demand anything of me, it just sat there waiting for me to turn it into something amazing, which I did gladly. I loved being creative with food; I was good at it. It was what I knew, and it made me happy when nothing else did.

* * *

I woke to sunshine and blue skies unlike any I had ever witnessed. I couldn’t wait to explore the city after my interview. I dressed in my navy blue pencil skirt and white blouse, throwing the matching short jacket over my right shoulder as I headed out the door, my chef’s coat packed neatly in my handbag. The drive to the restaurant didn’t take long. I paid the cab driver, stepped out onto the busy sidewalk that made up the heart of the downtown district, and immediately felt at home.

The interview process took over two hours. I met with two of the managers before they sent me into the kitchen for my food preparation test. I was supposed to cook one of the restaurant’s signature dishes. Having been sent the list of dishes ahead of time, I knew right away which I would choose to re-create. Lardon’s was known for their beef Wellington, a hard dish to perfect for the average chef, but I was no average chef, and I wanted this job. By the time I brought it out of the oven, the color on the puff pastry was a beautiful golden brown. I just prayed that my timing had been as perfect as the other fifteen times I had prepared it before arriving in L.A. When I sliced into the elegant package, I knew instantly that I had hit it out of the park. The meat was a perfect medium-rare. I went about plating the dish, adorning it with glazed petite carrots, whipped potato mash, and a red wine demi-glaze. Satisfied with the finished product, I walked the plate over to the managers, placing it before them with a slight nod before turning and moving off to the side to observe them as they tasted my creation.

After quite a bit of sampling and nodding, their heads pressed tightly together as they discussed their thoughts of me. I was anxious, not sure what to expect, but I was confident enough in my cooking to assume that they were impressed, if not surprised.

“Miss. Caldwell, that was a very impressive replication of Chef Wolf’s signature dish,” Kimberly Mathews, Lardon’s general manager, informed me. “A lot of chefs wouldn’t be able to nail that as well as you did, and at such a young age. It’s clear that you have what it takes. I think it is safe to say that Mr. Wolf would want to meet with you and sample your talents. As you may know, we are looking for an executive chef for a new venue he is opening here in L.A. Mr. Wolf is out of the country at the moment; he is scheduled to return in six weeks. He’s in London preparing for the opening of Lardon’s of London. I can have him call you when he is ready to move forward if that works for you.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you for the opportunity.” I smiled gratefully. “I look forward to hearing from him upon his return to the States.” I stepped forward and shook both of their hands. “It was an honor to meet you both. Good day.” I breathed a sigh of relief as I exited the restaurant and stepped back onto the bustling sidewalk then hailed a cab back to the hotel and sank into the seat as the driver lurched forward.

Once I arrived back at the hotel, I quickly changed into a pair of black yoga shorts and a pink tank top; exposed pale flesh stared back at me, begging to be sunburnt. It had been a long Michigan winter, and the West Coast climate was exactly what I needed to brighten my day. I slipped my small purse over my shoulder and headed out onto the busy street, making my way back to the heart of the downtown district. After browsing through a few small boutiques, I grabbed a coffee and flagged down a cab, asking him to take me to the beach. I wanted to go for a leisurely walk and enjoy the rest of my afternoon before grabbing a plane back to Michigan later tonight. The beach wasn’t far away, and I made my way to the pier and sat down on a bench to finish the last half of my coffee, completely lost in thought.

“Mind if I join you?” came a deep voice, sounding a little out of breath and dangerously close. I turned and gasped, immediately drawn to the sapphire-blue eyes staring back at me. Butterflies instantly began fluttering around in my empty stomach. My gaze flitted over the man’s face, and I couldn’t help but linger over the pair of perfectly shaped lips that turned up into a slight grin when I didn’t stop staring. Two small silver studs winked at me from the lower right side of his mouth. They were called viper bites. I only knew this because one of the young guys who worked kitchen prep at my restaurant had the same piercing. On him, it looked slightly weird. On this guy, it was unbelievably hot. He looked vaguely familiar, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on where I had seen him. Perhaps he was one of the many famous people who adorned this city, or maybe he just resembled one of them. Either way, he was breathtaking, and for a brief moment, I completely forgot what had led me to sit on this bench in the first place.