I hang up before she can say anything else.
The gauntlet, it seems, has been thrown down. Now, it just remains to be seen whether or not White has the courage to pick it up again.
Chapter 7 - Steph
I’m in a stew of feelings about this as I pace my apartment into the wee hours. On the one hand, I feel like I’d be returning to the scene of a crime by being in Stone’s home again. On the other hand, you don’t get many chances at redemption—especially not in the cooking world.
Maybe the overriding feeling, though, is anger. It’s coiled in my stomach like an acidic snake.
Stone doesn’t think I can cut it, cooking in a place where I’d previously bombed. He thinks I’ll choke, the sonofabitch.
I have to admit, too, that there is still another hand. Some part of me is actually looking forward to seeing him again, even if it is an angry part that’s determined to show him who’s boss of the kitchen, his or anyone else’s.
Anyone else—that gives me pause. I don’t know if this is going to be for another of his date nights or what. Best to find out before I start planning the menu.
It’s after midnight at this point. Should I wait and try to get in touch with him tomorrow?
Screw it, I say to myself. He called me after hours; that means I get to do the same right back.
I fire off a text asking how many I’ll be serving on Saturday. It occurs to me that this is a two-pronged question, as it also confirms that I’ll actually be there for the occasion. I’m hoping it’s not for another session between him and the model, Jamie Wells. I have a feeling that if there’s any lull in Stone shooting barbs my way about this past weekend, Wells would be glad to pick up the ball and fire off a few more. After all, I had spoiled her night out with a handsome, sexy billionaire.
Whoa, whoa, whoa…handsome and sexy? Is that how I’m thinking about him now?
I can’t think that way! Stone is the enemy. I have to crush him with this dinner.
Yes, that’s what I have to keep in mind, showing him a thing or two.
He’d probably like to have a look, too, the devil on my shoulder said slyly to me.
I tell the devil to shut up and go back to pacing. I have a pretty good head of steam built up when, surprisingly, my phone pings. I have an incoming text.
You’ll be cooking for one, it says simply.
I gulp a little at this. I don’t know if this is better than cooking for him and Jamie or worse. I decide on worse when my phone pings again.
And dress casual, it says.
Casual? I frown, looking at the screen. Now what does that mean?
Yet another ping sounds from my phone.
No chef’s jacket, the text reads.
“I…” I try, but that’s all I can get out. “You…” That stalls as well. I settle for “Ohhh!” and pace some more. I’m glad I live alone. If I had a roommate, they would have been after me with the weighted net and tranquilizer darts by now.
I finally calm down enough to speak, albeit to swear oaths to rub some truly fabulous food in Mr. Trent Stone’s face.
The next day, I get an email from Stone telling me to call Curtis with the figure for supplies I’ll need for the dinner on Saturday and he’ll wire the money to my bank account. He concludes the message with this:
“And remember, no chef’s jacket.”
It’s not nearly as satisfying to savagely click a close button on your computer screen as it is to slam a door, but I give it a good try nonetheless.
It’s Wednesday before I know it, halfway to game time, when Tira drops by the restaurant. I put the assistant chef into the driver’s seat so I can spare Tira a few minutes, and we go to the bar. I’m on the clock, but Tira tucks into a glass of pinot and listens smilingly as I outline my war plans.
“I’ll show him!” I snarl. “I don’t need a chef’s jacket to kick ass and take names!”
“So what’s the menu going to be this time?” Tira asks.
I smile wickedly. “Sushi roll—lobster tail, avocado, wagyu beef, caviar, and truffle oil. His wallet shall feel the sting of my wrath.”
“If he’s as rich as I’ve heard he is, your wrath is going to need a much larger stinger.”
“Yeah,” I concede, “he’s a billionaire. I’ve got that.”
Tira sips her wine. “Girl, Trent Stone is a billionaire’s billionaire. He didn’t just barely clear the mark; he’s firmly in the mid-billions.”
This steals away a little of my momentum. I’ve cooked for the rich and powerful before, so money doesn’t exactly impress me, but to be worth several billion dollars?
I shake my head. It’s a level of wealthy that I can’t even comprehend, so I decide it doesn’t bother me.
“So what?” I say. “The latest generation of a rich family thinks he can boss me around and feel superior to me? He’s got another thing coming.”
Now it’s Tira’s turn to smile, but hers is kind compared to my sharklike grin. “You really need to look up from the stove every now and then,” she says, “see what’s going on in the world around you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means Stone doesn’t come from old money. His parents were working class. Mother was a housewife; father was a working man. Stone built his company singlehandedly from the ground up. If he’s got
