Page 2

TWO

Noah

“What the fuck did you say to her already to piss her off that badly?” I hiss at the new girl. I knew I should have put someone else on the floor tonight. We’ve been expecting Olivia Zeston at The Snapper since word got out she was in town. At least I’ve been hoping.

Now there she is, looking effortlessly stunning and also like she swallowed five flies in the glass of wine she’s currently sipping.

Fuck!

I need this. A review on Zest for Life could make or break me here.

I know not everyone in Kraken Cove keeps up to date with the biggest food vlogger since Anthony Bourdain, but Sydneysiders do.

And Sydneysiders are a cornerstone of my new business, since it’s them and the Canberra wankers from the capital who make up the bulk of the tourists in this area.

Don’t even get me started on the Canberra wankers.

“N-nothing. I swear. She seemed fine when I seated her.” New Girl is practically trembling, and I tell myself to cool it.

The last thing I need is her running to her parents saying I bullied her on her first job.

Then it’ll get back to my mum, and she’ll never let me hear the end of it.

I only hired her as a favor to Mum. Her family are long term friends of ours, and I was trying to do the right thing by them.

How was I to know she’s clumsy as a fucking wombat wearing a softball glove?

Not exactly my first pick for front of house staff. Or kitchen staff. Maybe she’d be alright as the dish pig.

“Get back out there and find out what is wrong and fix it,” I tell her, spraying my overheated skin with another burst of cold water. I have to be careful not to dry out in the heat of the kitchen. As a kraken, my skin is delicate.

“Yes, chef.”

She scurries away and I turn back to my staff. “Billy, you’re in charge. I’m going to make this order myself. I don’t want to be disturbed unless the restaurant is actually on fire, you got it?”

“Yes, chef.”

She wants fish of the day. Of course she bloody does. There’s no fish of the day on the menu. Self-entitled fucking celebrity. Thinks she can custom design her own meal.

I guess she can, because here I am, scrambling around like a dog making it for her.

I growl to myself as I stalk into the walk-in fridge and dig out the fennel and some oranges.

Fucking fish of the day.

Lucky for me, Jess came up this morning with a fresh catch and the most beautiful snapper I’ve ever seen sitting on a big tray of ice, just glistening like a bloody princess.

I bought it, along with half her catch of prawns and leatherjacket, just because it looked so good.

Figured it’d be my dinner if nothing else.

Olivia Zeston wants fish of the day at The Snapper? She’s going to get snapper, isn’t she? And she’s going to get the best damn snapper she’s ever eaten.

I’m reducing the orange juice in the pan when I become aware of New Girl standing behind me again. “What?” I don’t even turn around.

“Um… it’s just that she’s…gone?”

“What!?” Now I turn, forgetting the orange juice and instead staring at New Girl’s pale face.

“What do you mean she’s gone?” I have no doubt who she’s talking about.

I just refuse to believe it. No way a major food critic does a walk out.

Not unless there’s something very seriously wrong. And not ever in a restaurant I run.

“Well, I went back out there and I thought maybe she’d gone to the bathroom or something, but she’s been gone ages. What if she’s not coming back?”

I kill the gas on the stove with the tip of one tentacle and mutter every swear word I can think of under my breath. Stepping around New Girl, I slither out of the kitchen and into the restaurant. Curious eyes turn my way. I ignore them.

New Girl’s fucking right. Table’s empty.

Where the hell has she gone?

I scan the restaurant, but she’s nowhere in sight. I walk out the front and gaze along the walkway to the pier and into the carpark.

Nothing.

I try out back and come in through the rear entrance to the corridor where the bathrooms are.

I pause when I see the door to the storage cupboard has been left ajar.

I don’t know how many times I’ve told New Girl to close it properly.

It looks untidy when guests walk down here to use the bathroom and all our shit is on display.

I’m just walking up to close it when a noise catches my attention and I freeze.

There’s a sniffling coming from inside the cupboard.

I sigh.

Great.

I suppose at least whoever I made cry this time had the good grace to find a private space to have their meltdown. Still, it’s a busy night. I need all hands on deck. I’m going to have to suck it up and apologize, aren’t I?

I reach out and take hold of the handle, pulling the door open. I do not expect what I find there, though.

Instead of a sniveling member of staff, I open the door to Olivia Zeston, teeth around her knuckle, sobbing into her hand.

She looks at me and her eyes go wide.

What the bloody hell? “Ah, sorry.” Why am I apologizing? It’s my damn cupboard!

But the unexpected sight of her pretty face reddened and screwed up in distress is doing things to my insides. Twisty, unpleasant things I haven’t let myself feel in years. “Is everything OK?”

She takes her hand from her mouth and wipes it surreptitiously on her dress. “Yeah, I just… I just—” She doesn’t say any more before a fresh wave of tears overtakes her and her body shakes with another sob.

She looks like I probably looked for months after Charlotte left me standing at the altar like a fucking idiot. I can’t stand it.

I find myself opening my arms and pulling her in for a hug I never intended to give. Only she looks so sad and broken hiding here in my cupboard, and I don’t know what else to do. So I pat her hair awkwardly and make shushing noises, wondering what the hell I do here.

All of a sudden, two of my tentacles suddenly grow minds of their own.

Without warning, they slide around her ankles, and I’m almost bowled over by the sweet flavor of her skin where her bare calves meet my sensitive limbs.

My tentacles have taste sensors at the tips, perfectly conditioned to pick up sensitive changes beneath the ocean or being really inappropriate with strangers. Only I usually have more control.

Fuck!

She gasps and pulls away. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. This is so embarrassing. I should go.” She rubs beneath her eyes and moves to leave.

“Wait.” It’s me who should apologize. That’s never happened to me before. I glance down and catch the faint but unmistakable glow of orange which lights up all eight of my tentacles.

I stare.

That’s not possible.

There’s only one reason a kraken male glows, and it’s wrapped up with a whole lot of mystical bullshit. I mean, the whole fated mate thing is most likely bullshit anyway. Some biological remnant of something we’ve long since evolved away from.

She turns to leave, and I can’t stop my tentacles from reaching out to stop her.

“Don’t go! At least let me make you something to go. On the house. Unless it’s the food. Unless that’s the reason you’re crying.” I grimace. Then I remind myself she hasn’t tasted it yet.

Her mouth drops open. “Oh, no. Please don’t think that. No, it’s just…I got some unexpected news.” Her lip trembles again and I half expect more tears. “S-some bad news and I’m not coping very well right now. It’s not you at all. Your restaurant I mean.” She flushes.

There’s a pause. I don’t know what to say and she still hasn’t left.

This is awkward as fuck. I’m hardly the guy you’d go to if you want comfort.

I used to be OK with people, I guess. I remember I had friends.

These days most people in town avoid me, except my brothers. They’re the only ones I socialize with.

“I hope I didn’t give you the wrong impression.”

I frown. I’m trying to work out what she means.

“I’m not doing a post this week. I was actually supposed to be on vacation—” Her lip wobbles, and I have the urge to pull her into my arms again. I don’t of course.

“Oh. OK.”

I can’t say I’m not disappointed. I was hoping this would be the big break I’ve been waiting for.

There’s another pause.

“But I can! I mean you’ve probably already started making the food, haven’t you? And I’m sure it’s lovely.”

I scowl. “I don’t want you to write a review if you haven’t eaten it. I’m not trying to guilt my way into a good review.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t think that. You know what? How about I just go back to my table.” She shifts awkwardly and I feel like a dick.

“Hey,” I soften my voice. “I’m sorry. You’re having a rough night, and I get that. Believe me. What about we forget the whole review thing and I just cook you dinner. I promise you the snapper is amazing.”

She nods. “Your restaurant is beautiful. And everything smells delicious.”

“The snapper I’m cooking you. Fish of the day, right?”

Her eyes widen and a little unsteady laugh bubbles from her. “Oh! Oh, I see. Fish of the day. Snapper at The Snapper. Well how can I say no to that?”

Well at least she’s going to eat it. Before she can change her mind again, I steer her out of the cupboard and into the hall, closing the door behind us.

“You can’t. So take a seat and don’t worry about a thing.

I will take care of you tonight. I promise whatever it is that happened will keep until after dinner anyway. ”

She sighs. “You’re right. And I’m starving. Are you sure you don’t mind? I don’t want to be difficult.”

I look down at her as she walks in front of me, noticing for the first time how much shorter she is. She seems taller on video. In person she’s delicate. Almost like she needs protecting. Which sure as fuck isn’t my job.

I snatch my hand away. “You’re not being difficult. Now take a seat. I’d better get back to the kitchen.”

I dart through the side door, leaving her to find her seat by herself. It’s unwise, but I need a minute to get my head together. I’m sure it’s just the fact that I haven’t held a woman like that in my arms since Charlotte. Not like that. Not for anything but sex.

I don’t do anything beyond sex.

Not cuddles or comfort or relationships.

Not me.

Once burned, twice shy, or so the saying goes. I might be thick, but I’m not that thick.

The kitchen goes really quiet the second I step back in.

I look down in horror, but the soft glow in the tips of my tentacles has vanished. Perhaps I only imagined it after all.

“What is it?” I snap.

Billy, my sous chef, clears his throat. “She’s back, chef.”

“Yeah. I know.”

There’s a pause. “And?”

“Well, we still making fish of the day?”

I growl. “ I am making fish of the day. You are looking after the rest of the tables. Nothing has changed. Can you manage that, or do I need to get New Girl in here to run things?”

“No, chef. I mean yes, chef. I can manage.”

“Good.” I get another orange from the fridge and begin the sauce again. This meal is going to be the best fucking meal of her life as a matter of pride. Definitely not because I want the chance to make her smile.

Or maybe I do. This is the chance of a lifetime after all.

That’s all this is. And if I spend the next twenty minutes thinking about the way she felt in my arms, that’s because I’m concentrating on getting this right and I’m just processing.

Just trying to figure out how I hit that comfort food button that’ll get me a five-star review.

Because even if she said she’s not posting, if I blow her away, there’s a chance—a tiny chance—she’ll do it anyway.