Page 5

TRACK:Bob Dylan & Johnny Cash, “Girl from the North Country”

OCTOBER

“All right, boss lass, hit me.”

The giant, portly Scotsman stands before me, red brows knitted together as he watches me chew. He fists his sausage-like fingers under his chin.

A small circle of people crowds around us amidst the shouts and clangs of the kitchen.

I close my eyes, savoring the mouthful of fluffy, cheesy egg, turning the flavors over in my mind.

Then I hold a single hand up, like an evangelical preacher communing with the heavens. But not to literally hit him. To make my proclamation.

I open my eyes and utter a single word. “Speck.”

“Speck!” everyone exclaims.

The Scot—my sous chef Rufus MacDonnell—slaps his broad forehead dramatically. “Reese, you ridiculous genius. You know, I thought about prosciutto, but speck is another level.”

“Mon dieu!” Jacques, our executive chef, shakes his head over at his desk, as if that’s the worst idea he’s ever heard. “Smoked meat will mar the purity of the egg.” But even now I see him scribbling on his inventory list.

“You have a gift. Even Jacques agrees,” Rufus says. “I know that particular mustache twitch of his.”

I wave a hand at him, smiling and tucking a strand of my sandy blonde hair that’s escaped my twist behind my ear. But somehow that compliment stings. Just a little. People used to tell me that when I got off stage, my guitar in hand.You have a gift.I ate it up.

Now, my gifts are constrained to semi-useful things like naming the missing ingredient in a soufflé.

Still, Rufus was being kind. He’s a good guy, as much like a brother to me than an employee, and I smile genuinely. I know I made the right decision in hiring Rufus last year.

I reach for another bite. “Not just a mean boss, am I?” Even without the smoked prosciutto, the soufflé is delicious.

“Hate to break it to you, but you haven’t got a mean bone in your body,” Rufus says, scooping out more cheesy egg onto plates for the other staff still milling about—ones I should instruct to get back to work. But Rufus is right. I’m not mean. I can’t be. I worked for too many assholes back when I was a server to run a restaurant with an iron fist, and a little social break won’t hurt anyone.

I look around L’Aubergine’s kitchen. I’m proud of what I built here since I took over as manager. I’m good at my job. The restaurant used to be somewhere people went because it was part of the Rolling Hills hotel, but now, people come here from all over just to eat—it’s a gorgeous French restaurant with a hotel attached to it.

I hired the right people. Even with a cantankerous executive chef, who scowls but grabs a plate from Rufus, we have an amazing team.

“Sophie lass!” Rufus exclaims. “Try some soufflé?”

I turn to see my front of house manager—another fantastic hire—approach with an armful of tablecloths. Sophie’s short and curvy, with creamy brown skin and tightly braided hair swirled in a bun on the top of her head. “Actually I came to talk to Reese.” She smiles at me. “But it does look pretty good.” Sophie opens her mouth to indicate Rufus should give her a bite.

My heart melts a little at the tender way Rufus gently inserts a forkful of egg into her mouth.

I watch them with a softness that borders on pain. I should discourage their budding romance, given in a couple of months, Sophie will be his manager. But what they have is too sweet and pure for me to interfere with. Besides, love may be as long gone for me as the guitar-string callouses that once graced my fingers, but that doesn’t mean I can’t let my heart lift the tiniest bit at the sight of other people meant to be together.

I carry my plate over to the sink, giving them some space. I didn’t plan on stopping in the first place—I have a ton of work to do before our brunch seating starts.

“So it makes the list?” Rufus asks me as I rinse the plate.

I nearly drop it in the sink. The words send a jolt of nerves through me. Of course—the soufflé’s not for the brunch menu. Rufus is testing out new recipes to provide options for the contestants to make onChef’s Apprentice, which will be taking over our kitchen in only a month’s time.

I should be excited about the reality show about to descend on my restaurant—my staff certainly are, even though their schedules are being upended to make room for it.

Maybe I would be if it weren’t for that particular person who dumped it on me.

I grit my teeth even now at the memory of that call from Eli—part owner of the Rolling Hills hotel, and technically the reason I’m here. Though it was his sister who hired me, after Eli and I ended things two years ago.

After Eli unceremoniously dumped me, more like.