Cockney: A Stepbrother Romance (19 page)

Yeah, it’s like that. 

Okay, the reviewer’s
supposed
to be this big secret, but any modern restaurant in London worth it’s truffles knows who he is, fake mustache or not. He’ll come twice before writing his review. You get two hits to make it
perfect
. There’s no third chance, ever.

Needless to say, there’s an absolute
chill
over everything in the kitchen as soon as Ian drops the bomb on us. Well, a chill over
almost
everything, because I’m still seething mad at Oliver. It’s stupid because it’s not like I have any damn right to feel jealous or whatever. But...
ugh
, I don’t know. I guess there was just something about seeing him out there, with
her
, that has me seeing red. And it’s the absurdity of me feeling
jealousy
about someone like
Oliver
that maybe bugs me even more. 

His face it etched in wood when he comes back inside following an utterly white-faced Ian. Yeah, this is a
big
fucking deal. It may not be the Michelin guide, but it’s the
Times
. This is the sort of review that will make or
shatter
a place like
Jolie
, and we all know it.

There’s a silence as Oliver stands in the middle of the kitchen, blinking and swallowing thickly. He finally looks up and around at everyone, his face stony. His eyes catch mine, and for a
second
I think about giving him some sort of encouraging word or gesture. A nod, a smile; anything I guess.

But then the back door opens and Marco and
Delia
scurry guiltily inside, and that second passes.

Yeah, no, screw him.

Oliver nods sharply at the silent kitchen staff, “Alright, stations; let’s do this.”

We fall into the rhythm of a working kitchen, everyone lost in their own jobs and their own tasks as orders come in. But this time, it’s different. This time, there is
silence
aside from the sounds of knives chopping or grills sizzling or whisks whipping. The whole place is standing on this knife edge, just waiting for
that
order to come through.

It does, finally. And from then on, the whole place goes into overdrive. Ian is hovering at the service window, making sure each and every thing that goes out looks perfect, even if it’s only going to be walking
past
the reviewer’s table. And Oliver is a freaking
mess
. He’s sweating, his eyes darting all over the place as he starts to get more and more agitated at the window. I can see his movements getting more erratic, his muttered swears getting louder and louder.

Finally, I manage to find some sort of excuse to move past the front line right by him. I tap his arm, “Hey, are you gonna be okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“Oliver,” I hiss, “You’re a
mess
-”

“I said, I’M FINE,
cook!
” I flinch as he turns, roaring at me loudly. Loud enough that Ian jumps back from the service window and that half the kitchen looks up quickly. I clench my jaw, my eyes seething as I see the fire in his.

“Get back to your fucking station, Chloe,” He growls, glaring at me and all business now. All cocky, arrogant, firing-on-all-cylinders Chef Oliver.

“
Fine
,” I sneer, and turn sharply on my heel to head back to my station.

“Fine
WHAT?!
” He roars.

Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me. He’s going to pull this NOW?

I grit my teeth and turn back, glaring at him defiantly, “I said
fine-
”

“I heard what you said!” He roars again. He suddenly snatches up a plate and hurls it against the wall, shattering the plate, scattering broken shards and an array of radicchio salad everywhere; “It’s YES CHEF; do you
fucking
understand?”

It’s like a slug to the gut, and I can feel my whole body start to tremble, and I’m furious at myself when I feel the sting of tears in my eyes.

Do NOT cry; do NOT fucking cry in front of him.

“Are we
clear
, Chloe?”

I’m shaking my head at him slowly, the tears stinging my eyes and my pulse thundering in my ears. I’m thinking of the way he made me feel, the things I
let
him do, and the things we should have said yesterday, or this morning; things I can’t
imagine
saying to him now.

The charming, rough-and-tumble boy I knew from before is gone, and it’s so stupidly obvious to me now that I’m suddenly ashamed at myself for not seeing it before. The boy whose charming and quirky antics, whose bold and cocky bravado swept me off my feet all those years ago - the boy I thought I was finding all over again - is gone.

The arrogant, pig-headed, prick of man he’s grown into has buried him completely. 

“Chloe-”

“Yes, chef.” I say it quietly in a voice not my own; a voice distant and forced.

Yes, you fucking prick.

“Good, now get back to your station.”

What the hell happened to you, Oliver Beckett, and where did you go?

*****

We don’t speak a
word
through the rest of the shift, or through closing. And at this point, I don’t even give a shit what happens with the
Times
table. 

Who cares?
Fuck
Oliver and his little temper tantrum. Fuck him getting his reviews and his groupies and his Michelin stars. And fuck him
especially
for doing cocaine outside with
Delia
, like he’s some sort of
actual
rock star or something. 

What a
joke
.

I’m lost in my own little ball of negativity, scrubbing down my station, when I suddenly feel a presence behind me.

“Hey.”

I whirl, and Oliver’s just standing there with his arms crossed, just
grinning
that incessant fucking
smirk
on his face at me, as if nothing’s happened between us since the previous night.

“Oh
what
now?”

He frowns, “Could I talk to you in the office?

I drop my jaw at him, “What am I,
fired?!
”

He wrinkles his brow, “What? No, Jesus. Just come talk.”

“I’m still closing up,
chef
.” 

I turn on my heel to go back to scrubbing the counter down, but I gasp as I feel him pull close behind me. His hand pushes my hair back from my ear as he leans in, “Look, you know what that was.” 

“Yeah, you being a royal
asshole,
” I toss back.

“I can’t play favorites, Chlo-”

“Well you can play fucking
fair!
” I hiss, whirling back to him jabbing my finger into his chest, “That was fucking ridiculous, and you know it.”

“You were out of line.”

“Says the man doing
drugs
off the blade of a knife with his, what, eighteen year old staff?” I sneer at him. “So what, five years later you’re still into high school girls?”

I narrows his eyes at me; “She’s nineteen, and trying to get into college.”

“Oh, Oxford?” I smile sweetly at him, and he grins.

“Look, you looked like you were going nuts and I just wanted to see how you were doing, dick.”

He shakes his head, “You can’t do that, not in here.”

“What, show emotion?” I say hastily, pushing my hair back from my face pursing my lips at him.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, Oliver, you’re right, I know exactly what you mean. You mean you don’t want me getting
attached
or something, like one of your ‘
girls’.
”

He scowls, “Jesus, Chloe, that’s not what I fucking said-”

“Listen,
chef
,” I spit out, stabbing him in the chest with my finger, “
Get over yourself.
” And then it all pours out; everything I should’ve said the second I walked off the plane at Heathrow. “You know,
this
little thing between us should have happened a long time ago. But it didn’t, and then we made up for it last night, badly. End of story.”

Oliver looks away before he shakes his head turns his gaze back to me, his eyes burning into mine, “You’re not letting me-”

“Listen,
chef
, we’re good, okay?” I shake my head, and pinch the bridge of my nose before I look up at him. Then I’m saying the words and
believing them
, because I have to. Because I can’t have
feelings
for Oliver Beckett, not with who we are now. 

“I know what you’re looking for here and I’m looking for the same thing. We’re done, okay? No more games, no more back and forth. You be you, I’ll be me. In a few months I’ll be out of your hair and we’ll
maybe
have to see each other on Christmas or something, okay?”

He tightens his jaw and glares at me, but he’s silent.

“Look, I need to finish here.” I look up at him, “Please.”

Oliver nods and holds my stare a second longer before he steps aside and I storm away.

Well, shit; fucked that up about as royal as possible. 

She’s out the door before I can even change that night. When I finally slump my way through the front door to our house like some sort of marathon runner tumbling over the finish line after the thirty-odd hours I’ve just had, the house is quiet and dark.

I shower alone that night; her door shut and my mind on the activities of the previous night.
“What I was looking for there?”
I mean what the fuck is that supposed to mean? I angrily grab the soap, growling at my reflection in the mirror - a reflection sans a jaw-droppingly-naked Chloe this time - and think about it long and hard. Really, what
am
I looking for with Chloe? Feelings? A damn
relationship
? I mean, Christ, She’s my- she’s-

Fuck, no; it’s not even possible, even if I wanted it. And I
don’t
, of course. I mean, this is
me
we’re talking about; I don’t do clingy, messy, dramatic relationships. Hell no. But - shit, I don’t know, something's different with Chloe. The sort of different that I can’t get out of my head; the kind of different that’s imbedded itself in my skin like a tattoo.

I was denied by this girl five years ago.
Denied
. I mean, that
never
happens to me. I’ve basically never been shot down, never been told “no” to. When I see a girl, and I want her, I can basically
bet
that I’m going to be hearing her screaming my name later. So, there, that’s it; that
has
to be why I’m obsessing over this. Chloe’s the
one
girl that said no, and I can’t deal with that. She’s the prize I was denied five years ago that I’m still fucking chasing.

Fuck. That.

There are literally a million other girls in the city of London I could be out fucking the hell out of right now. A million other lays to get Chloe out of my head; a million other faceless women to replace her.

I look up and meet my own eyes in the mirror through the steam of the shower, tightening my jaw in resolve. Fuck it, that’s the move; leave this shower, get changed, drink an espresso or something and just go
fuck
something.