Luck on the Line (5 page)

“That sexist asshole stopped everything he was doing as a favor to me to get this place cleaned up.” He lowers his face to me and I take a step back. I can see our reflections in the mirror behind him. “I think you were looking for a
thank you, Chef James
.”

“Thank you, Chef James, for inviting your pig friend to leave behind a mess.” I point to the dirty floor.

He looks away, smiling a half smile and shaking his head. “You’re being unreasonable.”

“You’re being a dick.”

“And
you’re
being a brat.”

My blood is boiling. I can see how red I am in the mirror. He’s so close that I can feel his heat too, radiating from his body, hunched in a predatory position. Neither of us says anything. We barely breathe for fear of igniting this bomb we’re building. His sea-green eyes light up and he takes another step closer to me, but something crashes outside. Pots falling and clashing like thunder. He storms out of the bathroom, leaving me with my heart pounding out of my chest.

I need to calm down. Why does this guy make me so angry, even if he just did something good for the restaurant?

I lean against the wall and I let my heart rate go back to normal before exiting. Chef James is nowhere in sight and thankfully no one saw us in the bathroom together. I walk through the tables and into my mother’s office. She holds her finger up at me and finishes her phone call. “Thanks, Adrienne. See you next Friday.”

Then she clicks and folds her hands on her desk. “How’s the list coming along?”

“What’s the deal with James?”

She’s taken aback. “Are you going to do this now? We’re not sleeping together. And even if we were—”

“Ew, Mom, no. I mean is he the best you could find? Some muscle head with a whisk and an apron and sexist friends?”

“What is this about?”

Then I take a deep breath. This is not me. I’m not going to go with my mom with every little problem. “Where did you dig him up?”

“Look, I know he comes off strong but he’s a local boy. He’s good at what he does. I was on that panel of judges on his episode of
Sliced Champion
and every single one of us was blown away. He can keep the kitchen in line. He’s got press appeal; I mean, look at that face. You don’t have to like him, just work with him. Besides, you two are going to be working together for a while and I think it’d be best if you were the bigger person and were nicer to him.”

“Me? Nicer to him?” I scoff and hate how childish I sound. “You hear the way he talks to me, right?”

“You’re not exactly the picture of a lady.” She pretends to skim some papers in front of her.

“Forgive me for not being a lady. I forgot it was 1925.”

She banishes the thought with a wave of her hand. “Why don’t you put your personal feelings aside and work with him instead of against him? The wine list still has to be finalized for the tasting. Why don’t you help him with that? An olive branch.”

I sigh, hating that she’s right. James did take care of the plumbing problem without being asked. I probably would have murdered Ben and flushed him down the toilet where he belongs.

“Fine,” I say.

“His office is right down the hall,” my mom says with a smirk. “I think I just saw him walk in.”

I turn around and go into the lion’s den.

The chef’s office is the size of a closet, and James is already making himself at home. His jacket is draped around the back of the chair and a cherry red motorcycle helmet hangs from a hook on the wall, because of course he rides a motorcycle.

I don’t know what to say to him. I can’t explain the coil tightening in my chest when I catch sight of him. He has his back to me and I trace his muscles, the width of his shoulders, with my eyes. I want to reach out and touch them, pull off his shirt and see the rest of that tattoo.

He’s examining his chef certification on the wall, which my mom must have put up before he got here. There’s easiness to his pose, and at the same time a wonder, like he can’t believe he’s here. He looks down and chuckles to himself. I wonder what can possibly be so funny and if he’s thinking about me in the bathroom. But of course he wouldn’t be, because I’m sure he doesn’t spend any time thinking of me at all. He runs his hand through his black curls and I imagine they’re as soft as they look.

Then he turns around and faces me.

“Shit,” he says, jumping back, placing a hand over his chest. “Don’t sneak up on people like that.”

“I didn’t sneak up, I’ve been standing here for five minutes.”

Then I realize I’m admitting to standing here and staring at him. We’re both silent. He’s looking at me and I can’t hold his stare so I look down at my shoes and then back at him.

He grabs a handful of papers on the small desk and gathers them so they’re all lined up neatly. His biceps flex, pulling the chair away from the desk and sitting down. I can picture him doing pull ups, maybe from the kitchen doors after his shifts are done. A thin scar cuts his chest right at the V of his t-shirt, and I wonder how he got it.

“Can I help you with something or are you just here to observe?”

I groan. “Look, I’m sorry I yelled at you. That guy made me really mad. Thank you for what you did today. Like it or not, I’m going to be here until the opening. We can start fresh. My mom says you still need a wine list. I took a sommel—”

He stands, the chair creaking. A smile plays on his lips, but it’s cold. Not playful like yesterday. “Lucky, don’t take this the wrong way—”

I hate when people say that because no matter what you will
always
take it the wrong way.

“—but I don’t think you belong in this kitchen.”

It’s the last thing I expect him to say. Sure, I dropped out of culinary school. I dropped out of pre-law. I got kicked out of art school for throwing paint at the TA. I laughed in my film teacher’s face. I almost set my accounting textbook on fire. But through all of that, my jobs have kept me afloat and they have always,
always
been in a kitchen.

But he’s not done talking, and his words dig deeper and deeper. “You
clearly
don’t want to be here. Hey, I get it. Mom’s going to cut you off so this is a last ditch effort to keep doing—well—whatever it is that you do. I know your type better than I care to admit. But I have a kitchen to run, my name on the line, and it would probably be best if we kept out of each other’s way.”

For a girl who spends a lot of time putting people in check—whether it’s been servers who can’t pull their weight, roommates who try to skip out of town without paying their share of the rent, or general perverts trying to grope me for tips—I sure as hell am speechless.

And not in an angry way.

I mean, I’m angry as hell. But everything he says strikes all the wrong chords. My insides feel like guitar strings snapping in succession. He doesn’t know a single thing about me—

“My type?” I manage.

He nods, baring his teeth and shrugs. “Spoiled. Privileged. Your mom is giving you everything and it’s still not enough. When is it enough, Lucky?”

“You don’t know—”

He holds up his palm and my mouth goes dry. Tears bubble up from the tone of his voice, the utter stupid feeling of standing here wanting to make things right, and the scorn in his beautiful eyes. I hate that he makes me feel this way. I shouldn’t care. I don’t know him and I don’t want to. Then in the smallest voice I can find I start, “I have to—”

He starts shuffling papers and stares at the words printed of them but I know he’s not even reading them. “Don’t worry, I’ll tell Stella you helped. The less we work together, the better.”

I try to keep my voice even. “Okay.”

And then I turn around and walk back into the restaurant. I don’t realize that I’m shaking until I’m standing behind the bar. The shelves still haven’t been stocked and I mentally add that to my list of things that must get done. So much for my olive branch.

I can’t believe how much James’s words sting. Not because I want him to like me—I couldn’t care less. He’s full of himself and overly confident and his hair has too much gel in it. It’s that the girl he’s describing is the opposite of the girl I’ve been trying to be.

Well, fuck Chef James Hughes.

I punch a text to Bradley: Busy? Need a sugar distraction.

Five minutes later he replies: Mmmmm sugar. Everything ok?

Me: Yeah…

Him: 2 minutes.

“What are you smiling at?”

The soprano voice comes out of left field and I jump back, rattling the glass of the bar. “Shit, Felicity, don’t sneak up on people.”

“Oh! Sorry. I was just making sure you had everything you needed and to see if there’s anything I can do to help before I leave.”

“You’re going home already?”

She smiles. “Yeah, your mom and James have some Foodie TV event. They’ll be busy schmoozing and what not.”

Putting on a pretty face for the camera, you mean.

“You should join them,” she says cheerfully.

I look at her—really look at her. There isn’t a single drop of malice in this girl’s face. If she could radiate with good-glow, she would. I envy that.

“I think I’m good. But, actually, do you happen to have a copy of the tasting menu?”

She nods rapidly and pulls it out for me. “Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Thanks.” I hope my smile doesn’t look fake. “So, any hot plans on a Tuesday night?”

Felicity looks surprised. Her shoulders shake in the kind of heaving laughter that’s a cross between a laugh and an asthma attack. “Me? No way.”

In New York, the best nights to go out were weekdays—mostly because I worked weekends, but also because the weekend is for the office crowds who don’t normally venture out. Girls pretend they’re on an episode of Sex and the City and guys wear too much cologne. No one knows how to act, tip, or behave like anything other than Neanderthals.

“Why not?”

She shakes her head. I can picture Felicity following my glamorous mother around to events and parties. I bet all of her dresses are like this one, grey and tan and somber.

Suddenly I hear James’s laugh booming from the office areas. He and my mother share in a private joke and their laughter burns inside me like acid. They’re coming this way.

Bradley’s name pops up on my screen: Outside! This monster wants zee cookies.

“I’ve got to go,” I say, and for a moment I think Felicity deflates with disappointment. I contemplate inviting her out, but then, what’s the point of making a friend when I’ll have to leave soon anyway? The fewer ties, the less complicated, I’ve learned. “See you later.”

“See you at home.”

Home? It’s so weird saying “home” to this girl I’ve known for less than two days.

I grab my bag off the chair and hurry for the safety of Bradley’s car. I don’t want to look at Chef James’s face if I can avoid it at all. Who does he think he is? He’s got no idea what my life has been like.

As Bradley revs the engine, I look back at The Star. James holds the door for my mother and our eyes catch. Embarrassment fills my stomach, like the thousand butterflies fluttering inside there suddenly catch on fire. I hold up my hand to the glass. A smirk plays on his lips and he shakes his head, my mother oblivious to our exchange. There’s something terribly satisfying about giving a guy the finger.

Bradley’s Mercedes is a silver bullet on the grey crowded street, twisting and turning on the downtown streets with an ease I never mastered. I have a license, but the thought of hitting that gas pedal makes my body freeze with memories of my dad’s accident. I go where the train, bus, or my legs can take me.

We find a place to park, and then walk to Angie’s Bakery in Somerville, near Sky’s apartment. I’m shivering in the cool air of the AC. Bradley takes my chin in his finger and pulls it up so I meet his baby-blue eyes.

“Where are you in there?”

I point to my temple and say, “Trust me. You don’t want to get in here.”

“I know. I’ve already tried.” He opens his door, leaving the statement hanging there. We grab a seat in the bakery. The counter smells like heaven, lined with glossy frosted donuts and candied apples, wild berry tarts, artfully piped cupcakes. He orders for us—bacon maple donuts, strawberries and cream, a lemon cupcake, and a slice of apple pie. I don’t like apple pie, but Bradley can put away more sugar than should be fair. He takes his coffee with half and half and a jar of sugar. I drink it black. His hand lingers on mine too long while we wait for the waitress to set down our treats. His hand banishes the cold of the air-conditioned shop, and I really wish it didn’t.

“Earth to Lucky—”

The desserts land in front of us in a delicate metal tier. I dive right in, biting into the comforting sugar and bacon treat.

“I’m guessing your first day of work wasn’t a big lemon-vodka party?” He nudges me lightly.

“You’re not clever.” I elbow him hard. “You two tricked me.”

“It’s for your own good.” He sets a hand on my knee.

“The restaurant really is nice in a fancy sort of way. Apart from the sections that are falling apart. There’s no staff other than the kitchen. I mean, really, the tasting is coming up and we don’t even have a wine list. What has Stella been doing all this time? There’s shit on the floor, but Magic James is the one who got it fixed. The plumber was a pig and Super Chef gets mad at
me
. Like
I’m
the problem out of everything that’s wrong with that place.”

I’m breathing hard. I didn’t realize how fast I was talking until I put my hand on my chest and feel the vibration.

“Don’t worry, Champ.”

“Don’t worry?” I talk with a mouthful of strawberry cream. “This isn’t why I came home. I came home out of familial duty and then I get roped into this. Yeah, I’m going to worry.”

“What I mean is to forget about that James prick. He sounds like a douchebag.” He dusts crumbs off his fingers tips. “Looks like one too.”

I lick a drop of glazed sugar from my bottom lip. “My mom wants me to work with this guy and he doesn’t want to work with me.”

Bradley laughs. His laugh is so easy, the kind of happiness that radiates like sunlight.