Page 12 of Until August

Of course he was. I should have known it was him, giving off all that big dick energy.

“You have an open kitchen,” he continued. “And from where I was sitting, the head chef looked like an island. There was no second in command, nobody helping you manage your station chefs, and no extra hand to jump in and dig them out of the weeds. You were all alone, Nicola.”

My back stiffened.You were all alone, Nicola. Because, yes, I had become an island. But how could he have seen so much when I hadn’t even seen him?

Guess I’d been too preoccupied to scope out the customers at the bar.

Despite knowing I should go back inside and slam the door on this conversation, I turned to face him. It was dark, his face cast in shadows, but I could still make out his features. And I could feel the penetrating gaze of those green eyes.

“Why did you come in tonight?”

“Like I said, I wanted to see you.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”

He exhaled a breath and shoved his hand through his hair. “Honestly? I don’t have a fucking clue.”

“You can do better than that.” I didn’t know what kind of answer I was looking for. This man was a stranger. Just because we’d shared a meal four days ago didn’t make us friends. And yet I felt drawn to him, so I moved closer when I should have run the other way.

“I suspected you were a chef and asked David if you had your own place,” he said. “I was curious to see what your restaurant was like, so I came to check it out.”

I considered his words but got the feeling he was holding something back. “Did he tell you anything else about me?”

He shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask him for any personal information. Only the name of your restaurant.”

I relaxed a little, but his next words put me on edge again.

“You need help, and I’m available to start immediately.”

I almost laughed in his face. The audacity of this man. I folded my arms over my chest, a weak defense. “I don’t even know the first thing about you. For all I know, you can’t even cook.”

“I can cook,” he said calmly. “But to be a sous chef, you have to be able to do more than just cook.”

I knew that. I tilted my head and studied his face. He still seemed so familiar, but I had no idea why. “Where have I seen you before?”

He took a step closer until he stood right in front of me. Close enough to touch.

The air buzzed with electricity, and an unwanted thrill shot through me as his scent washed over me. Clean. Masculine. Citrus and sandalwood. And something else… cinnamon?

“You tell me.” His tone implied that we’d met before. The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-smile as if this guessing game amused him.

Fine. We’d play Twenty Questions. “Where are you from?”

“LA.”

“Where have you worked before? What kind of experience do you have?” I reiterated as if I was interviewing him for a sous chef position. Which I absolutely was not doing.

“I’ve worked at a few places. I’ve been working in kitchens since I was fifteen. Started as a dishwasher and worked my way up.” He hesitated a moment as if he was deliberating over how much information he was willing to share. “Anton Renaud took me on as an apprentice, and by the time I left, I was his sous chef.”

My eyes widened. Holy shit. Anton Renaud? If he was trying to impress me, it had worked. Anyone who had worked under Anton Renaud deserved bragging rights. He was one of the best chefs in the country, renowned for his food as much as his temper. Chez Anton was a two-starred Michelin restaurant in LA. “You worked for Anton Renaud?” I asked slowly.

“For seven years.”

Curiosity got the best of me, and I couldn’t help but ask, “Why did you leave? Did he fire you?”

He gave me a wry smile. “No. I quit to do my own thing. Wanted to run my own show. I was young and ambitious, and my ego was calling the shots. I was convinced I could do anything.”

“And it bombed?” Since when had I become such a cynic, expecting the worst-case scenario?