Page 24 of Indulging Temptation (Tempting the Heart #1)
SANTINO
O ne of these days I’d love to experience what an actual day off is.
I was supposed to have one but while I was on my way back from Luci’s preschool event, Claire, the weekend hostess texted me to let me know that the executive chef scheduled for tonight had a family emergency, so he won’t be able to come in.
I had every intention of calling in my other executive chef, but they are on vacation, and the sous chef I have that acts as a fill in when need be has been out sick.
So that left me to come in, instead of going back to Tomás’ to see Lorena like I had planned.
“What a fucking douche bag.” I overhear the servers talking amongst themselves. Even though it’s loud with the auditory mayhem that is synonymous with the kitchen on a busy Friday evening, I can clearly make out everything they’re saying.
Preoccupied with the role of fill-in expediter, seeing that all the orders coming in and out of the kitchen are running smoothly, I decide not to intervene.
That is until one of my waitresses, Josie, walks over to me after commiserating with the group of servers I just overheard, with a sour look on her face, and the same plate of steak that has been sent back multiple times already, I have no choice but to redirect my attention.
Thankfully, I’m able to pass off the expo job to one of my culinary directors in training.
“He said it’s overdone.” Josie rolls her eyes as she lifts the plate up with a shrug. “Like no shit. What the fuck do you think happens when you order a medium-rare steak and keep sending it back because it’s too pink?”
She isn’t wrong. This would be the third time now that the same guest has sent back the steak. They ordered medium rare originally, complaining about it being too rare, and now it’s overdone.
For a second, I wonder if it’s a food blogger or food critic that is purposely testing me.
Hell, for a moment I even look past my staff, up to the ceiling and see if there are cameras secretly recording like I’m being punked, but, of course, there’s nothing.
This simply tracks with how this week has been going.
An on-going series of surprises, testing my patience as well as my self-restraint.
I take the plate from her, offering to do what is required of me as owner of Cielo + Cibo.
Dealing with people like this guest, who I’m going to have to force a smile with.
As well as putting on my best customer service bullshit face so I can cater to their damn near impossible needs.
“Just worry about keeping up with your tables. I’ll take it from here. ”
“Yes, Chef,” Josie says before heading back out to the main dining room.
I’m about to go address the guest who has been giving Josie a difficult time when one of my line cooks, Marcus, snaps for my attention. I pivot, moving closer to the hot line. “What’s up?”
He eyes the plate. “Is that for table nineteen?”
“Afraid so.” I let out an exasperated sigh. Marcus shakes his head with a stern look on his face.
“Good luck, Chef. Me and Josie were just talking and apparently when she went to take their order, the guy at the table was calling his girl some wild shit.”
“Like what?”
“She only overheard them talking for a second. The vibe was uncomfortable, but Josie said the woman was looking down at the table, not seeming to be enjoying his company, and he called her a whore and shit like that.”
My blood boils. To hear that someone is in my restaurant being disrespectful to anyone, especially to a woman? Hell fucking no. That shit does not fly with me whatsoever.
My dad may have become an asshole in his later years, but if there was one thing he drove home in me and my brother’s heads is to treat women like queens. And that whoever you end up in a relationship with needs to be treated with the highest level of respect and nothing less.
“Yeah, that’s not going to fly here, what so fucking ever,” I say to Marcus as I go to exit the kitchen, plate in hand.
As I approach the closed swing doors, I take a deep breath, same as I always do when I need to shift gears from Tino in the kitchen, to Santino the restaurant owner.
Usually, it takes only a few seconds, and I can make the switch with no problem, but tonight feels different.
I can’t explain it, but the feeling only increases as I walk through the doors, reaching an off-putting level now that I’m out in the main dining room.
I’m caught between feeling aggravated and anxious.
Unfortunately, I’m no stranger to either, but usually when I become anxious and am about to have an anxiety attack, my hearing dulls and my peripheral vision goes with it, making me feel like I’m in a tunnel.
That’s not happening, but still, the twinge I get in my gut that does happen when I’m anxious is present, and it’s absolutely fucking with me.
But like I always do, especially when I’m at the restaurant, I swallow the feeling down. Compartmentalizing it so I can trick myself into believing everything is okay, and maybe it was just the new strain of weed I smoked from the dispensary earlier that has me feeling on edge.
Note to self, don’t try new strains, even if it’s my tried-and-true sativa, on a day off, since I never know when I’ll be called into the restaurant.
Forcing a stoic, yet approachable, front, I casually nod and smile at guests as I approach table nineteen.
Picky guests like the one I’m walking to now are nothing out of the norm in the restaurant business, but this one in particular feels extreme.
And if I didn’t know any better, whoever is behind this is doing it intentionally.
Now nearing the table, my vision is met with a set of broad shoulders covered by a blue sports coat, hunched over talking to whoever sits across from them.
I pause for a second, taking one last breath, to prepare myself by turning on my most convincing customer service persona I can muster up so I can deal with them.
However, that’s all erased the second I take another step forward and see who is sitting across the table… staring at me , and not at him.
An unrecognizable feeling washes over me, causing my grip to tighten around the edge of the plate. It’s a wonder that it hasn’t shattered into a million pieces with how hard my hand is clutching onto it.
Anger, although present throughout my veins, and how hard my heartbeat is thrashing against my chest, doesn’t even begin to cut it.
Neither does jealousy. I mean, of course, I’m jealous.
Just the idea of her holding hands with someone that isn’t me crushes me.
Let alone the thought of someone touching and doing things to her, that I’ve been fantasizing about for all these years.
How anyone who has been granted the gift of her company could abuse that privilege by disrespecting her is unfathomable to me.
I wish it were me sitting across from her right now.
It should be me she runs home to at the end of a long day or straddles each and every night.
But all of the impossible aside, what I do know is that even if she isn’t mine, she will always be mine to protect.
I don’t care who the fuck this guy is. He picked the wrong restaurant to take her to and mistreat her like that. A fact I’ll remind him of after I make him apologize to her in front of me and loud enough that everyone sitting around them can hear.
She’ll likely scold me after what I’m about to do, telling me making a scene like this isn’t what the restaurant or my image needs, but fuck it. She’s my number one priority. Always has been. Always will be. So I’ll act accordingly.
My feet disconnect with my brain as I walk up to where she’s seated looking like she’s seen a damn ghost, across from her date, who I don’t bother giving the time of day to. Yet .
The thought and visual of her being here with someone, in the restaurant that she unknowingly inspired me to open, drives a sickening feeling to my gut.
This is all my fault. This is my karma, for denying her. Now, she’s left thinking I don’t care for her. Forced to settle for assholes who don’t deserve her and aren’t capable of worshipping her like I can – and will, someday, if she gives me the chance to.
I place the plate onto the table unsure of where I want to start first. I couldn’t give a fuck how this guy she’s with prefers his steak.
All I care about is getting him to apologize to her before kicking him the fuck out of my restaurant…
alone . Because if what I heard is true, and he thinks he’s leaving here with her, he’s got another thing coming to him.
“Tino,” Lorena breathes, not with her usual feisty vigor, but with a softness, that lets me know she’s trying to diffuse the situation already.
“Uh, ah,” a familiar voice says, wagging his fucking finger at Lorena to silence her. The fact that she listens to him enrages me. Even more so because I know I’m the reason for it. She likely doesn’t want to add fuel to the already simmering fire.
My fists clench at my side as I turn my head to look at none other than Owen Conti.
Why am I surprised? It looks like he didn’t learn his lesson years ago when I caught him talking about all the things he thought he could do to Lorena.
My stomach twists. He didn’t know her then, but apparently things have changed.
And whether he likes it or not, they will be changing again, because whatever this is between them is ending now.
“Put your fucking hand down, Owen,” I mutter under my breath with ample disgust in my voice as I say his name. “She was talking to me.”
“Well, now I want to talk to you,” he sneers, putting his hand down to grab his fork.
Obnoxiously he stabs at the meat, lifting the steak up.
“It should be me that you’re concerned with speaking to.
Usually when someone screws up, their attention and their sincerest apologies should be directed towards who they screwed over. ”