It would be going both easier and faster if I had a sous chef working under me on this gig, but one of the few things Stone had insisted on was that this was to be a one-chef show. That means I’m doing everything from the prep work to carrying out the finished courses. It would be hard work even if I had help, but now, if not for Stone’s perfectly climate-controlled kitchen, I would be breaking out into a most unladylike sweat.
I look longingly at the ultra-premium anejo tequila that’s destined to go into the salsa. I wonder if Stone will let me keep the leftover ingredients. If that’s the case, I’m having a few celebratory shots once I get home.
I shake my head, getting it back in the game. In the cooking world, you don’t put the cart before the horse because any number of things can go wrong, especially if you’re juggling multiple centers of attention, like I am now.
A glance at my watch both tells me that I’ve been at it for three hours straight now and only have about thirty minutes before Stone’s declared serving time. Better step on the gas a little harder. I don’t know anything about him, but I figure that he’ll be a stickler for punctuality.
One thing I have in my favor is my sense of timing. Even going back to my days in the trenches as a line cook, I can say that I never sent out a plate of food that was less than perfect, or worse, cold. Everything will be ready right on time, I affirm to myself.
“How’s progress?” says a voice off to the side.
I jump a little. I was so absorbed in what I was doing that I didn’t notice that the man himself had decided to materialize for a check-in.
I pause in my knifework and look over. Stone is standing down at the other end of the counter, watching me.
It’s only the second time I’ve laid eyes on him, the first being when he had breezed through when I had started working in his kitchen late this afternoon. All of our previous interactions had been through texts, e-mails, and phone conversations. He was, it seemed, always too busy to meet in person. I didn’t take that as a snub, either. Billionaires don’t get to be billionaires by loafing and socializing.
The same way I didn’t get to where I am today by stopping this close to the finish line. I am torn between wanting him to go away and being curious about him.
He looks the part of the insanely wealthy—expensive clothes from head to toe, everything just so. On top of that, he’s exceptionally easy on the eyes. Dark-haired and tall without being towering, he leans on the counter with confidence. He gives the impression of being flawlessly fit beneath his clothes. Probably loves to play tennis or golf or both.
I push down my curiosity and opt for wanting him to find something else to do. “Everything’s clicking,” I tell him, half-turning back to the cutting board so he will get the message and leave. “It’ll be ready for you and—” I pause, realizing that I had put little thought into whom the other half of his party might be. My curiosity bubbles up all over again. “Your guest,” I finish.
“Good,” he says. He lingers for a bit longer, looking over the small sea of ingredients. Then he’s gone, and I’m back to crunch time.
I’m using the corner of a napkin to wipe up stray gold flakes, feeling like the world’s most posh housekeeper, when everything falls neatly into place and is at the ready at seven o’clock sharp, exactly as ordered. I scoop up the two plates and carry them from the kitchen and down the hall to the dining room.
There is a luxurious table in the center of the room, too long in my opinion for two people sitting opposite one another to enjoy any kind of dinner conversation. Seated at the table is a slim, auburn-haired woman in a mauve evening dress. She’s very slim, actually; the kind of thin that screams professional model. I wonder if she’ll be able to handle the astronomically rich food I’m about to offer up. Probably just pick at it.
Stone himself doesn’t exactly seem eager to enjoy the meal, either. He’s out of his seat and wandering around his side of the room, looking like he’d rather be doing something else. He has the look of a man who wants to be on his phone but is making an effort to be polite.
“Ah,” he says, noting my presence in the doorway. “It’s ready.” He nods approvingly, and I move over to the table.
I set down the first plate in front of the woman, who offers me a wispy “thank you” and a small, perfunctory smile.
Stone seats himself on the other side of the table, and I set down his plate in front of him.
He surprises me by commenting with enthusiasm, “Looks terrific. Thanks for your hard work.”
I start to thank him, then realize that I’ve dropped completely off his radar again as he turns his attention to the woman. I mentally shrug. I have been dismissed.
The woman has her hands folded in her lap and seems to be in no hurry to raise them to take up her napkin or silverware. This, I judge, is going to be one quiet dinner. It seems like a good time to make my exit.
Back in the kitchen, I arm sweat off my brow, hoping that it wasn’t there when I
