Sinfully shameless chef, p.4
Sinfully Shameless Chef, page 4
He somehow manages to keep a completely neutral expression despite the fact that I’m about to stroke out. “What's your point?”
I growl at him and clench my fists at my side. “This isn’t the time to sunbathe. Nor is this the place to do it.”
Jameson angles his head down to look at me over the top of his glasses, his bourbon eyes dancing with humor. “I beg to differ. I like the early morning sun when the ultraviolet rays aren’t as harsh, and this is the perfect spot to do it because with all these buildings”—he motions toward the apartments that line the street around us—“this is the only spot around to get sunlight for longer than half an hour.”
I stomp my foot and take another step closer. “Move the damn chair so I can park.”
“Oh?” He feigns innocence and places a hand over his heart. “You wanted to park here?”
“Yes.” I motion to my car blocking any traffic that might come down the street. Thankfully, this early, there isn’t much. “I would.”
“Well, that's a rather unfortunate coincidence that it's my sunbathing spot, isn't it?”
I groan and throw up my hands. “You’re a real piece of work, Fury.”
He grins at me and waggles his eyebrows. “Thank you for noticing.”
“Jesus Christ, who taught you your manners? I'd like to have a little chat with them to tell them what an asshole you are.”
His jaw drops, and he presses the same hand over his heart again in mock offense. “Ouch. I'm sure if my mother were alive, she’d be deeply offended by that statement.”
“If my mother were alive…”
Shit. Now I feel like an asshole.
I suck in a deep breath of the cleanish early morning air and try to calm my racing heart and flaring temper. Getting so worked up isn’t healthy. And hearing he lost his mom like I did allows the tiniest hint of regret to creep into my heart. “I'm sorry I said that.”
He shakes his head and shifts up until he’s sitting, the movement of his perfectly toned muscles making my mouth water. “No, you're not. You meant it.”
Well, if he's going to give me an out…
“Of course, I meant it. You're doing this on purpose to make my life difficult.”
“Why would I do that?” He motions toward our buildings and the door to his side. “My soon-to-be restaurant is right there. This is a logical place to sunbathe so I can catch my rays and get right to work.” He offers me an almost kind smile—one I might actually believe if I had never interacted with him before. “I'm sorry it conflicts with your parking situation, but maybe you’ll just have to get here earlier next time.”
The confident smirk he gives me signifies I'm not going to get anywhere with him.
Motherfucker.
I stalk back to my car, wrench open the door, and slide in, letting the door slam behind me.
It truly isn’t in my nature to battle with anyone. I have enough battles in my life without that, but he seems intent on ruining my day and my business.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
I shift the car into drive and have to circle three more blocks before finding a different parking spot. Of course, by the time I walk back to the restaurant, he's MIA from the lounge chair, but it still sits blocking the spaces.
If I threw it on the sidewalk to open the parking, someone else would just slip in and take it before I could get back since people don’t give a shit about loading zones around here. And if I walk all the way back to my car and drive over here to do it, Jameson would undoubtedly be right back to interfere.
Jerk. Jerk. Handsome fucking jerk.
The door to his restaurant stands open, and his deep, smooth voice drifts out. I shouldn't eavesdrop, but if I have any chance of winning against a guy like him, I might have to play dirty.
I stop outside the door and press my back to the brick just to the side to ensure he can't see me, but I can still hear.
“Is there any way we can get that here sooner?” The frustration comes through in Jameson’s question. The man is annoyed, which brings an unnatural amount of happiness to my heart.
“Unfortunately, not. Our supplier says it’s on backorder. Some production issue.”
I don’t recognize the other voice, but it must be the contractor for his build-out or someone he ordered equipment from.
“Shit. Can we cancel the order and you get one from somewhere else?”
“Not that model. Everywhere is sold out.”
“What about a used model from another kitchen? A restaurant that closed? I don’t even mind used at this point.”
“I already checked. None available.”
“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Jameson sounds pissed.
Good.
Any delay in his plan is only going to help me with mine. The determination to get Grandma’s Kitchen open before his restaurant does has kicked into overdrive. I just have to be careful not to overdo it, or I’ll end up with a major health setback that will only help him win.
I rush past the door to unlock mine and slip inside.
Butterflies still dance in my stomach at the realization that this place is mine. All mine. Growing up, I never could've imagined this when I was using my Easy-Bake Oven and stirring whatever was on the stove with Grams. But now, my dream is finally coming true.
If I can only figure out a way to stop Jameson Fury.
4
IZZY
Taking a sip of my coffee, I review Anna’s resumé again, scanning her previous employers and experience even though I’m already confident she’s what I’m looking for. After almost a week of dodging Jameson and getting here before the sun comes up to ensure I can park, coffee is the only thing keeping me running. That and the joy of hearing him arrive and knowing I got here first.
Thwarting his plans feels good, even if it is a small victory in the grand scheme of things.
And although it’s a bit early to be hiring people, since it will likely be six weeks at the very least before I can open, I’m going to need help getting things set up. At least one or two trusty employees I can count on. People who can have my back the way Grams always did.
Days of looking through resumés have left my tired eyes itchy and sore, but finally having a great candidate sitting right in front of me feels like a massive step forward toward getting this place up and running.
I glance up and grin at Anna. “Your resumé is perfect. I can’t believe you’re available and want to work in a small upstart like mine.”
She smiles back at me, her soft-blue eyes twinkling in the early morning light streaming in from the windows in the back of the restaurant. “I like it.” She shrugs. “I’ve worked at a lot of super-busy high-end restaurants, and it always burns me out. My current job is stressful as hell. This should be a little bit quieter.”
A laugh bubbles up my throat, and I shove a hand back through my hair which has become a disheveled mass after working on getting the tables and chairs moved in by myself this morning. “Well, I hope it’s eventually busy in here, too.” I hold up a hand. “But don’t worry about the high-end thing. That isn’t really my style.”
Anna glances around and nods. “I love your style.”
I look at the still mostly vacant space and can’t stop smiling. “Me, too.”
There isn’t a whole lot in here yet, just these tables and chairs I managed to salvage from a place Ashley found that was shutting down. The mismatched wood hues and crazy-painted chairs in a rainbow of colors make my heart soar, though. Maybe because they aren’t perfect, and they remind me of myself. Grams would love them, too. They’re just happy. And I could use a dose of happy these days. Most people could.
I take a deep breath and try to push that thought out of my head so I don’t lose it again. Going non-stop day and night to clean and help monitor the contractors to get things built-out perfectly has left me barely able to move without pain and regret.
Once I’m done and ready to open the doors, I’ll let myself have a big cry imagining Grams’ reaction if she were here, but for now, I need to focus on moving forward as fast as possible and ignore all the other things threatening to derail that. “So, when can I get you to start?”
Her eyes widen slightly, and she glances around. “Don’t you want to interview other people?”
I nod. “I am doing other interviews. I think I have the budget to hire four part-time people.”
“Oh…” The smile she was wearing falters slightly. “I kind of hoped to be full-time.”
Crap.
I sigh and chew on my bottom lip. “I can’t offer you full-time because of benefits and tax issues.”
Because with the hourly wage she commands with her experience, I need to conserve my small budget.
“Oh.” She nods slowly. “Well, I could probably make it work as long as I was getting at least thirty hours a week.”
“No problem.”
“Really?”
I nod and rise to my feet. “Definitely. I don’t want to lose out on having you. I hope to have you here in a couple of weeks to help get the final things in order. Does that sound good?”
She stands. “Sure. I will put in my two-week notice at my current job so that works perfectly.”
I shake her hand and then walk her to the door. “I can’t wait to work together.”
Anna grins back at me. “Neither can I. This place is going to be really cool.”
“I hope so. I’ll give you a call tomorrow with a time to come in and do all the final paperwork.”
“Sounds great.”
She slips out the door, and I return to my seat at the table we were using for the interview, lowering myself with a groan at the little zing of pain that shoots through my abdomen and lower back.
These damn tables were heavy.
Maybe I shouldn’t have moved them myself, but I didn’t have much choice. I need to save money any way I can, even if that meant renting a U-Haul and “delivering” them on my own.
I run my hand across the dinged wood and sigh. These old tables are definitely a little worse for wear, but it’s all I could afford, and they do give the place a little bit of character. And that’s exactly the way I want it.
It’s not a stuffy, uptight place where people feel like they have to wear a coat and tie or a dress to come to have a meal. Jeans and T-shirts are more my style…at least, most days.
I glance down at myself and the stains all over my shirt and pants. Although, lately, my style has been grimy and dirty with working on getting everything ready.
By the time I force myself to go home at night because my body just can’t keep up anymore, I look like I’ve been digging in a dumpster. Which I kind of have, I guess, trying to find anything I can to help with my budget issues.
And now, I have almost everything ordered and just need the perfect staff. Anna is going to be a wonderful head waitress. She has one of the most experienced resumés to come across my email since I made my posting. I can’t wait to have her help in getting the final thing set up.
I flip open my folder with the rest of the resumés to get ready for the next interview when the door swings open again.
Anna sticks her head in. “Oh, good, you’re still available.”
“Do you have a question?” I would have thought she’d be long gone by now. It’s been at least ten minutes since she left.
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth and glances around, avoiding eye contact.
A leaden ball drops into my stomach. “What’s wrong?”
“Ummm…” She rubs the back of her neck. “As I was leaving, I happened to bump into the owner of the place next door…”
Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no.
I jump to my feet.
He didn’t…
She sighs and finally meets my stare. “And well…he asked if I had interviewed with you and wanted to see my resumé, so I gave him a copy, and…”
NO!
“He offered me twice what you’re going to pay me, plus benefits.”
Jesus. That bastard. Now he’s poaching my staff?
I somehow manage to find my voice. “Are you kidding?”
Anna winces and shakes her head. At least she has the decency to look sheepish and apologetic. “Look, I’m really sorry. I know we hit it off, and I do want to work here, but…”
“You said you didn’t want to work at a stuffy, high-end restaurant. That’s exactly what that jerk next door is going to open.”
She raises one shoulder and lets it fall. “But that jerk next door also has huge street cred and a recognizable name. I don’t want to sound like a greedy bitch, but I’m probably going to get bigger tips at a place that sells more expensive food and has a celebrity chef.”
That motherfucker.
I fist my hands at my sides and fight the slight wave of dizziness that tries to overtake me.
Don’t let yourself get worked up, Iz.
Grams’ constant reminder rings in my head.
Don’t push yourself too hard. You can’t give one hundred and ten percent all the time.
I take a deep, cleansing breath. “There’s no way for me to convince you otherwise?”
Anna shakes her head and puts her hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry.”
Shit.
I sigh and drop my head back. “Well, at least I have a whole stack of applicants. Hopefully, at least a few of them will be interested.”
“Ummmm…”
Oh, God. What now?
I open my eyes and lower my head back down so I can look at her. “What?”
“Well”—she glances at the door—“I saw him grab a guy off the street who seemed to be walking this way. I think it was your next interview.”
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” I clench my jaw and storm toward her.
She holds up her hands like she’s expecting a blitz attack, but she isn’t the subject of my wrath. “I’m sorry.”
I push past her and shove out the door onto the sidewalk. “It’s not you I want to dice with my kitchen knife.”
Poor Anna follows me out and shuffles off down the street to God knows where. It doesn’t matter. My attention is elsewhere—like at the open door to Jameson’s place.
I march in there and find him leaning against a newly built, beautiful, high wooden bar top with another guy standing with his back to me. Probably my next interview.
Jameson raises an eyebrow. “I’m kind of in the middle of something here, Isabella. Can we chat later?”
“Chat later?” I scoff, and the guy he’s talking to ducks his head and turns slightly away from me. “No, we can’t chat later.” I march over to them, step between the two men, and jab a finger right into Jameson’s chest. “How dare you?”
“How dare I what?” The smug jerk has the balls to appear confused, his strong brow furrowing.
“Try to poach my staff!” I whirl around on the cowering guy next to Jameson. “Don’t you dare think about accepting a job offer from this man. I found you first.”
The guy holds up his hands and backs away slightly. “I’m not sure what I’m in the middle of here. I just wanted a job.”
“You’re hired.”
Jameson pushes an arm between us. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I was talking with Mr. Albertson. I don’t think we’ve finished our conversation.”
“I have an interview scheduled with him.”
How can he stand here pretending he hasn’t just crossed a major line?
Or maybe that’s the entire problem. There is no line for a man like Jameson Fury…
Jameson glances down at the large watch on his wrist that he probably paid for with his winnings from Prime Chef. “What time is your interview?”
Mr. Albertson chimes in innocently. “Ten thirty.”
Turning his watch face toward us, Jameson raises his brows. “Ten twenty-five.” He shrugs innocently. “I haven’t in any way interfered with your ability to interview him in five minutes, Isabella.”
I growl and stomp my foot. It might be a little childish. Okay, a lot childish. But this man seems to know how to get under my skin and get me worked up in a way that’s definitely not healthy for me…or him.
I’m not a violent person by nature. Far from it. But Jameson Fucking Fury is making me stabby, and I have an awfully nice set of knives just on the other side of that wall that Grams gave me as a graduation gift and I keep incredibly sharp.
“Really, Fury? That’s all you have to say after you just stole Anna from me?”
Jameson chuckles and offers me a slow grin that raises heat that definitely isn’t anger in body parts that definitely should not be heating up for this man. “Oh, I have a lot to say to you, Iz. I’m just getting started.”
JAMESON
Her perfectly pink bow lips open, and her jaw drops slightly, though why she’s still surprised by anything I say to her is a mystery. I would have thought the chair incident would have taught her something about me—that I’m not about to let her mess up my plans. Whether that be sunbathing or opening Fury.
“But I'm in the middle of an interview right now.” I flash her another grin. “So, let’s chat later.”
My words—or maybe it’s the grin—make her issue another low growl and stomp her foot again, and I can't fight back my chuckle. Getting her worked up has turned into my new favorite pastime, and this is only our third run-in. The woman has managed to avoid another confrontation by beating me here every morning over the past week—a feat only made possible by the fact that I’ve been so sore and exhausted that I’ve let myself sleep in a bit longer than usual.
There’s just something about how easy it is to push her buttons that really gives me the comedic lift I need after a long day’s work. It’s the same joy I got from messing with Rach growing up, only this time, the end result won’t be big sis running to Mom or Bash, crying about it. And I won’t have Dad smacking me around because I made Rachel cry. This time, I’m hoping the end result will be Isabella giving up and leaving…
But it feels rude to be having this argument in front of our friend here. The poor guy just came for an interview and got stuck in the middle of a war he had no idea was happening.
