“Yum!” another of the group said, and Wes couldn’t tell if that was about him or his food.
“Hello, ladies.” Wes forced a charming smile and then unbuttoned his black chef’s coat as a little part of him died inside. “Who’s ready to get some hands-on lessons?”
All the women eagerly raised their hands, laughing as they made their way over to the long bar in the kitchen. His ingredients were neatly arranged, his mise en place set up by Suzie ahead of time, and the recipe cards were stacked in front of each chair at the bar along with colorful Jell-O shots and glasses of champagne.
He inhaled a deep breath as he took in the festive atmosphere, trying to center himself.
This was a party. Someone was getting married, and this was their fun night with their friends. Maybe the last fun night if this chick’s marriage went anything like Wes’s had. They didn’t need some grumpy-ass dude ruining their evening.
He tried to keep that in his head as he laid his chef’s coat over a chair and reached back to tug his T-shirt off.
The ladies made appreciative sounds and comments as the cool air hit his bare skin. Their reactions should’ve stroked his ego. If he’d been his younger self, he’d have rolled around in that kind of attention, would’ve egged them on and played it up. If he’d been that guy, he would’ve sidled up to the bar with them and knocked down some of those shots, found a hot single woman in the bunch and charmed her into his bed for the night.
But right now, looking at all the pretty faces and roving gazes, he couldn’t find an ounce of interest in anything but the booze. Since his divorce, that part of him had died as well. All he saw when he looked at women now was trouble, drama, and disaster waiting to happen.
No, thanks.
One of the ladies leaned over and poured him a tall glass of champagne. “What’s your name, handsome?”
My name is Chef Wesley Garrett. I trained under renowned Chef Amelia St. John, and for a half a second, I owned the restaurant of my dreams and was going to be the next big thing in the city. “Roman.”
“Ooh, nice name. You speak Italian?”
“No. Spanish.” Because that was what his adoptive mother spoke and was the language of half his former kitchen staff. But he’d be damned if he was going to perform it like this was some show. “I’m rusty, though.”
“That’s okay, darling,” said an older lady from the far end of the bar. “We didn’t hire you to talk.”
A few of them laughed, and the muscles in the back of his neck tightened. The light scent of the champagne drifted his way, and though he’d never been a champagne drinker, his throat became parched. He closed his eyes for a second, breathed through the urge, and focused on why he was here.
Money in the bank. Money in the bank.
He picked up a knife, pasted on a smile, and grabbed a bowl of ground beef. “All right, who’s ready to handle some balls?”