Sinfully shameless chef, p.9
Sinfully Shameless Chef, page 9
And it’s all left me out of sorts, especially when unexpected visitors arrive. Only it isn’t my enigmatic neighbor standing just inside the door. A stunning woman with bright-red hair who looks vaguely familiar stands just to the left of the door, shrewd gaze assessing every inch of my restaurant.
Unease creeps over my skin. “Can I help you?”
She turns her head in my direction and smiles. “Oh, hi. I didn't see you there.” One of her manicured hands flits out. “I was just commenting that this is not what I expected.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Um, what do you mean?”
Why would she expect anything?
She waves a hand around again. “Oh, just that this isn't really the style I had pictured.”
Who is this woman, and why she picturing anything for my restaurant?
“And you are?”
“Oh.” She extends her hand to me and walks over to the table. “Sylvie Mason. I'm Grant's wife.”
“That explains it.” I roll my eyes, sigh deeply, and motion to the wall I share with Jameson. “You're in the wrong space.”
Her eyebrows fly up, and she glances around. “Am I?”
I point at the wall. “Jameson and your husband have the space next door.”
Her mouth drops open slightly. “Well, that certainly explains this.”
She motions around her absently.
What the hell is that supposed to mean?
My initial unease shifts to anger. Like I need Grant Mason’s wife here reminding me what a piece of shit my restaurant is compared to what they’re doing. “Well, if there's nothing else I can do for you…”
Her eyes fly wide. “Oh.” She presses a hand to her chest. “No, no, no! I didn't mean it like that. I love all of this.” She gestures around her again. “It's so eclectic and welcoming and homey and not at all what I imagine would come out of my husband or Jameson's heads.”
I snort and roll my eyes, unable to hold it back. “You can say that again.”
She chuckles and offers me a sympathetic look. “I take it you've had some run-ins with Grant?”
“Your husband isn't the one who has been a pain in my ass.”
This time, she drops her head back and laughs, and instead of moving toward the door and her inevitable date with my enemies next door, she points to the chair across from me. “Sounds like there's a story I need to hear.”
This woman is a total stranger, the spouse of the man who, for all intents and purposes, is going to try to ruin my business before it even gets off the ground, yet something inside me wants to open up to her for some strange reason. That’s very odd for me—letting anyone into my very private world. Yet, Sylvie seems genuine, and at this point, maybe a non-neutral party holds the insight I need.
I incline my head to the chair and lean back in mine.
She slips into the seat across from me. “So, you’re having a problem with Jameson? That doesn't surprise me. There's a reason he and my husband get along so swimmingly.”
My hands fist involuntarily on the table in front of me. “He's just so…”
A low growl comes from my lips that surprises even me while Sylvie's eyes widen.
She laughs again. “I get it; I really do. I can imagine trying to open a restaurant right next to them isn't going to make any of you friends.”
I don't know…
Jameson certainly acted like he wanted to be a lot more than friends the other night. The way he looked at me. The lingering touches. The almost kiss.
“Nor will what you did to him with the whole menu thing.”
“Shit. You know about that?”
Her tinkling laughter fills the room, and she shakes her head. “Well, I knew someone had done it, and Grant told me it was another restaurateur. I just put two and two together.”
I scowl and rock back in my chair, the old wood creaking ominously under me. “It was just payback for everything he's done to me.”
“Again, I feel like I'm missing something here. Care to fill me in?”
I sigh and give her the quick rundown of all the shit Jameson has put me through since my first day here. She listens intently, nodding along and laughing a few times. “And then, the day of his TV appearance, he showed up in my kitchen afterward. And while I was expecting anger, what I got was a lot more like…”
She shifts forward, clenching her hands on the table, her bright eyes dancing with curiosity. “Like what?”
“Like…flirting.”
Rapping her knuckles on the old wood, she laughs. “Jameson is a hopeless flirt.”
For some reason, that makes bile churn in my stomach and threaten to work its way up. Understatement of the century. And what happened with Jameson the other night was far more than a simple, flirty run-in. That man had me practically melting with one look. And that near kiss left me breathless and dizzy again.
I swear opening a restaurant next to him is not good for my health. “You know him well?”
She shakes her head, sending her red locks flying around her face, and sits back. “I wouldn't say well. But I met him after his appearance on Prime Chef. He was catering an event we were at as the celebrity chef, and he and Grant really hit it off. I know enough to understand that he's a shameless flirt and is probably just as likely to try to fuck you as to stab you in the back.”
I snort and shake my head. “That's reassuring.”
This woman’s analysis is spot-on the vibe I’ve gotten from him since the day I set eyes on him in the pouring rain. He’s a man who knows how hot he is and uses it to get what he wants. He never fails, and he enjoys a challenge much more than having something handed to him.
Am I that challenge? Or is the restaurant?
Sylvie grins at me. “I wasn't trying to be reassuring. I was trying to be realistic.”
I scrub my hands over my face and let the chair drop down onto all fours. “Christ, I can't believe I'm telling all this to a perfect stranger.”
She chuckles again. “Don't worry. I’m like the Fort Knox of secret information, especially when it comes to matters of the heart.”
Something tells me I don't have to worry about her revealing any of this to anyone. Though these circumstances do seem a bit unique.
“Even though your husband is his partner and my business rival? Seems like a bit of a conflict of interest, if you know what I mean.”
She shrugs nonchalantly and leans back in her chair. “I like to support the underdogs. The people who may not get such an easy lot in life and have to fight their way up every rung on the ladder of success. Something tells me that might be you.”
Damn, she's good.
Almost too good. It's a little unnerving how easily she can see me.
Am I that transparent?
I shift uneasily in my seat, suddenly self-conscious about everything—the second-hand tables and chairs, the handmade items decorating the space that I sourced from local donations since I can’t afford pricey décor, my own outfit of a stained T-shirt and ripped jeans.
Sylvie offers me a soft smile. “I think there's room in this area for more than one incredible restaurant. And I will gladly do everything I can to help you make yours successful.”
“Really?”
She nods. “Of course.”
“But…you don't even know me.”
Pushing to her feet, she rests her palms flat on the table and winks at me. “I know enough. Now, let me go scope out the competition for you.”
She throws her purse that probably costs more than the damn range Jameson wanted so badly over her shoulder.
I groan, close my eyes, and pinch the bridge of my nose. “You're going to be impressed.”
“Why do you say that?”
Opening my eyes reluctantly, I meet her gaze. “Because I am.”
That man may drive me bonkers and make me want to stab him with my kitchen knife…but he knows how to create an incredible restaurant space. As much as I complain about fine dining, he’s done it right. It’s elegant yet rustic. Stunning and comfortable without being stuffy.
She offers me a sympathetic smile. “Sorry.”
I offer a laugh I don’t feel and wave her off as I climb to my feet to walk her to the door. “You don't have anything to be sorry for.”
“I know. It just felt like the right thing to say. I mean…I don't want my husband's business to fail. But I don't want yours to, either. There has to be some middle ground.”
For a brief moment the other night, I thought perhaps that was true. When Jameson's hand brushed over my cheek so tenderly. When he stared into my eyes and sent my heart fluttering. But then, just as quickly, his mask of assholeness slipped back into place and he walked out of here without a glance back like he owned me.
Well, no man has ever owned me or ever will.
I have no intention of letting Jameson Fury win this restaurant battle or me. “I appreciate any help you can offer, Sylvie.”
She pats me on the shoulder and steps out into the warm summer air and sunshine. “I'll do my best. Now, the boys are waiting for me. Let me see what I can find out.”
With another wink at me, she makes her way next door. The thought of following her in is very tempting. And honestly, I doubt they would kick me out if I tried to get a peek of what they’ve done since the last time I was in there.
It's not like I could copy them even if I wanted to steal any of their ideas. I don't have the kind of money or resources to do anything even remotely like what they have going on.
But my feet remain planted as she disappears inside. Sylvie offered to be my eyes and ears over there. I'm going to let her.
It's best that I keep my distance from Jameson.
For his sake and my own.
JAMESON
The door to the restaurant opens and closes, the sound echoing through the vaulted ceilings and off the empty tables back to me in the kitchen.
I stick my head out and see a familiar red shock of hair. “Hey, Sylvie. We’re back here.”
She waves and makes her way across the hardwood floors, her heels clicking on the surface as she takes in everything in a way that makes me hold my breath in anticipation.
Shit. I didn’t think I’d be this nervous for her to see the place.
I wasn't kidding about what my “friend” said about Sylvie. The woman is shrewd, and she knows exactly what she likes when it comes to interior decorating, food, and men and certainly isn’t afraid to speak her mind about her feelings. She doesn't make things easy on Grant, and there's no way she is going to here, either.
If she doesn’t like something, she’s going to let us know quickly and without mincing words.
She reaches me and leans in to plant a kiss on my cheek. “Hey, where's my husband?”
I tilt my head toward the kitchen. “Stuffing his face with various menu items.”
With a laugh, she follows me back to where Grant sits on a stool pulled up to the counter, several dishes spread out in front of him.
He glances up at her and waves his fork. “Hey, babe.”
Sylvie leans in and gives him a kiss that would definitely not be appropriate if children were around, and I offer an exaggerated gagging noise as I return to the pot on the stove.
“Oh, stop it!” Sylvie chuckles. “We’re all adults here. And we get so little time alone without the kids that we need to take advantage.” She scans all the items on the counter. “I thought the menu was already set?”
Grant gives a bemused grin. “That’s what I said when I got here.”
I just scowl at them. “It is. It was.” This is difficult to explain to anyone who doesn’t share my obsession. It has to be perfect. And now, I’m second-guessing everything. “But after my little moment on the morning show, I'm starting to reconsider.”
Sylvie raises an eyebrow. “Why? You’re not happy with what you selected?”
“It's not that.”
I shove my hand back through my hair and sigh, wincing slightly at the pain in my side left from last night’s activities. Even my usual stress relief did nothing to erase what went down with Isabella the other day.
Nor can I forget that damn chili.
It won't leave the back of my mind. The flavor still assaults my tongue every time I think about it. And so does Isabella's scent. Can't get it out of my fucking head. But those are two completely different issues.
The one at hand is the delicious item she’s going to have on her menu and how it compares to the things I had planned before she tore mine apart with her wicked pen.
“I'm starting to wonder if my menu might be a little too ambitious for this area.”
Grant climbs from his seat to offer it to his wife. “I told him he's being crazy.”
She nods and motions to the couple of dishes I have laid out—some from the old menu and some potential new items. “I don't understand.” Her eyes drift over to the side with the more elegant plates, and she points. “I thought that this was the kind of food you cook.”
I clear my throat and glance toward the joint wall. “It is. But it's not the type of food the people in this area are used to. It might be a little too conceptual for them.”
Sylvie chuckles and shakes her head. “I can see you're just as much of a worrier and perfectionist as my husband. No wonder you two get along so well.”
I scowl at her. Even though she's one hundred percent right, it doesn't mean I have to like it. “Why do you say that like it's a bad thing? Being a perfectionist is what got me to where I am today.”
Grant nods and raises his hand. “Same.”
His wife smacks him on the arm. “I'm not saying it's a bad thing. But I do think you need to consider whether you want your restaurant to be all concept or to have a little heart.” She inclines her head back toward the shared wall like I just did. “Isabella?”
I narrow my eyes on Sylvie. “What about her?”
She shrugs slightly. “I may have stopped over there on my way here. And accidentally slipped in and talked to her for a while.”
Grant glances at her. “Accidentally? I told you the girl next door was the one who messed with the menu.”
Sylvie offers a faux innocent shrug. “I can play dumb.”
I laugh and smack my hands together. “All right. A spy. Just what we need.”
She holds up her hands and shakes her head. “Oh, no. I am no spy. I'm just letting you guys know that I really dig the vibe of her place. It's casual and inviting and very homey.”
I cringe at the word. “That is definitely not what we’re going for.”
She shrugs. “I get that.” She reaches out and grabs a bite of the new roasted chicken dish I came up with from the plate in front of her, unceremoniously popping it into her mouth. Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she groans. “Damn. That's good.”
Grant leans in. “Don't make those noises and say things like that in public. You know how I get.”
Sylvie laughs and smacks him again. “Behave.” She turns back to me and offers a sympathetic smile. “Look, I think you need to do whatever you want to do and not worry about what the beautiful blonde next door is doing. If you do, you’ll end up second-guessing everything until the day you open and probably long after that. That won't be good for your business. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t also put your heart and soul into each thing you make.”
My partner points at me. “Exactly what I told him.”
One of her slim shoulders rises and falls. “Yeah, but he probably doesn't listen to you.”
Grant points at her and laughs. “No, he certainly doesn't.”
I scowl at him. “That’s because I know what I want. This is all I’ve wanted since I was about five.”
He chuckles and shakes his head. “I still don't understand how the son of hockey royalty, whose brother was also one of the best players in NHL history, ends up as a chef instead of out on the ice.”
His words freeze my blood faster than being out on the morning ice ever did, and I school my features and try not to react to his comment. Grant and I may have become fast friends, but there are a lot of things I'll never discuss with him, no matter how much I like the guy.
The Fury family dynamics are one of them. Mike Fury was a beloved player, a hall of famer champ who could do no wrong on the ice. It was at home where he had trouble. But there’s always been an unspoken agreement between Bash, Rach, and me not to taint his image. Not because we’re trying to protect him, but because we’re trying to protect ourselves from having to relive those moments through invasive questioning from reporters.
So, I have no intention of answering Grant’s question. Instead, I shrug and turn back to the stove.
Almost as if she can sense the tension, Sylvie springs to her feet and claps her hands together. “Whatever the reason, I'm so glad you ended up in the kitchen. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be here in this lovely place. Really good job, boys.” She glances between us. “Really, you guys did a great job. I have every confidence this place is going to take off.”
Grant snorts and reaches out to pop a piece of the artichoke salad into his mouth. “I sure as hell hope so; otherwise, we’ll be in the poor house.”
That brings a laugh from everyone, but I can't help thinking about Isabella and her financial situation. If her restaurant fails, that's likely exactly what's going to happen to her.
Yet, having her compete with me isn’t good for my business, either.
I can't let my concern for her get in the way of having my own successful restaurant. Nor can I let the fact that she is beautiful and talented and sexy as hell disrupt my focus.
That woman is a liability in a lot of ways.
And a liability is the last thing I need right now—no matter how much fun it may be to mess around with her.
I need to keep things professional—as much as anyone can in this situation.
Yep, professional. I can do that.
Grant sweeps his hand over the dishes. “So, what’s your final verdict on the menu? We don’t have a lot of time left to make this decision.”
