I feel those words in my bones.
“So, what do you think? Pretty amazing, right?” asks Noah. “And let me show you the kitchen. It’s not nearly done yet, but I think you’ll be pretty amazed at what’s already back there.”
Noah’s walking toward the kitchen, but I stay rooted. My scowl is deep. I'm sure that I look severe right now. In fact, I know it, because when Noah looks back, he jumps a little. It’s the same fear-stricken look the lower chefs give me when I inspect a finished dish. It’s that shaking, might-pass-out-or-pee-themselves look.
“I don’t need to see the kitchen,” I say, already turning back toward the red curtains.
“Because you’re ready to sign?” I hear Noah’s dress shoes clicking across the floor in a fast pace to catch me. He’s afraid that if I step back outside of these curtains, the euphoric hypnotism will leave me, and I’ll be crashed into reality.
“Not exactly.”
“Wait.” He’s out of breath just from jogging that short distance. “Are you saying you’re not going to take the job?”
I glance around one more time and feel lighter. “Sorry, Noah. I appreciate the offer, but it’s not for me.” It feels good to say it. This place may skyrocket my career, but in the words of Marie Kondo, it will never spark joy. I’m done with it.
All of it.
“No.” Noah looks like he’s going to hurl. It makes me think that all the talk of Martin was just to bait me into taking the position. “You have until Sunday night to decide.”
“I thought it was Saturday?”
He gives me a desperate smile. “What week ends on a Saturday? Sunday makes more sense. Take an extra day to think abo
ut it more. I won’t accept an answer before then.”
“Sorry, man. My answer won’t change.” I turn and leave it all behind.
Chapter Twenty-Six
June
You know what’s crazy? Holding hands with RYAN HENDERSON in public! I don’t know why that fact is striking me more than making out with him in private. Forget the fact that our mouths have touched; Ryan lacing his fingers with mine while we walk into his work is the most exciting feeling in the world.
I have the greatest urge to hold our clasped hands in the air like I just won a boxing match and yell, “I’M HOLDING RYAN’S HAND!!!” at the top of my lungs for all of Chicago to hear.
And I act on that urge.
“Shhh, you loon,” Ryan says, yanking our hands back down.
He makes me promise I’ll behave when we go into the restaurant, and I agree, but only because I have one hand behind my back, fingers crossed. I’ll do as I see fit once we get in there.
When we step into the kitchen, a hush falls over it. It’s equal parts reverence and fear. Ryan’s dark eyes slide over every surface, and the entire staff waits with bated breath. I had no idea Ryan struck this kind of fear in people (clearly, they didn’t know him during his saggy-jeans-and-green-leprechaun-boxer phase). But I’m not going to lie; it’s sexy as all get out holding hands with the man that’s making the poor guy in the corner tremble in his stained apron.
I glance up and see the beautiful severe lines on Ryan’s face and savor that I get to be on this side of his life now. The side that knows how many crinkles live beside his eyes when he smiles and that his dimple only pops when he is really and truly happy.
“Chef, you’re back,” says a woman stepping forward before her troop. Her eyes slide from Ryan to me and down to our hands. Her face softens a little—almost as if she’s relieved to see our interlaced fingers. I like her immediately.
“Not officially,” he says, the new stern quality to his voice a little shocking to me. It sends a happy little chill dancing down my spine, and I can’t wait to see what happens next. “I just wanted to stop by, see how the kitchen is running, and show June around.” He squeezes my hand, and for a brief moment, his severity slides away, and he’s just Ryan again. “Nia, this is June. June, Nia is my sous chef. And an incredible one at that.”
Judging by the way Nia’s face beams from Ryan’s praise, I don’t think it’s a usual occurrence for him to dish it out.
For the next ten minutes, I follow beside Ryan as we walk around the kitchen. Everyone quakes, and no one escapes Ryan’s notice. “Tim, you hungover? Don’t let that happen tomorrow or you’re out of my kitchen. Sanders, tell me you’ve not been scorching my sauce like this the whole time I’ve been gone.” He’s ruthless.
“You,” he says, pointing to a wide-eyed young guy. “I don’t even know your name, but if you keep chopping at the pace of a snail, those orders won’t be out until Christmas. Don’t mess it up.” Actually, I cleaned up his language a bit. Turns out, Ryan has a real potty mouth in the kitchen.
It’s Top Chef in here. High-stakes cooking, and if you’re good, you go on to the next round. If you’re bad…I don’t know, maybe you just keel over and die? It feels that way by the fear radiating off of these people.
As much as I’m enjoying this live episode, I can’t help but notice Ryan never once smiles in here like he did in my donut shop. But I don’t know. Maybe that’s just the way things go in the chef world. What I do know is how happy I am to be on this side of Ryan’s wrath.