We’re getting more and more of those and soon that’s going to affect business. We can’t hire additional help because we’re on top of each other as it is. We don’t own the building, and the landlord won’t let us expand, so we’re running out of options here.
I frown and set my fork down, taking my plate over to the sink and shoving the rest of my uneaten hoecakes down the disposal. I think back to yesterday, passing by the Everheart’s extremely large building. They have enough space for two restaurants. I push down the uninvited thought and look back at Sue, sighing.
She leans on the counter next to me. “You’ll figure it out. I have the utmost confidence in you. What’s the scowl about though? Not our kitchen size.” I swear she’s so perceptive.
I do not like talking about Knox Everheart.
I pick at my cuticle. “I saw Knox and his brother, Weston, yesterday when I picked up those new plants for the garden.”
“Which one’s Weston? The nice one who writes fan fiction or the asshole one who shops too much?”
“Does it matter? Did you not catch the ‘I saw Knox’ part?”
“I did. I was just trying to change the subject because I know how much you never like talking about him even though I’m dying to know why you hate him so much. Is it because his family’s so rich? Or because he’s so pretty and that’s just irritating given how rich he is? Not because he’s a gifted chef, right? I mean, you cook circles around him.”
Do I? No, I don’t think I do. Not that I’d ever admit that to him. “It’s because everything comes to him on a silver platter. That and he’s an asshat.”
“The couple times I’ve seen him, he seemed nice actually.”
I nearly choke on my own spit. “Nice? Are you kidding me? He’s the exact opposite of nice. Trust me, I know. He may be all charm and what not to people who don’t know him, but I spent four years in close proximity to him, and nice… he’s decidedly not.” Pbssh. Nice? For fuck’s sake, he even has astute Sue fooled. “You know what’s not nice? Me being waitlisted while he sailed in on a bribe from his father. You think I’m a more talented chef? Imagine how that feels when the rich, pretty white boy gets into the school you’ve dreamed about your entire life because his daddy made it so.” My voice has risen, so I take a couple of gulping breaths to calm myself.
“Okay, sure. I get that and it’s terrible, but is that it? You seem to have a lot of hate in your heart for the Everhearts.”
I think that’s enough, but there is something else. Something I’ve never told anyone before and have no plans of ever telling. “I overheard something he said about me after we first met. About me and my family. What he said to his roommate put a clearer light on him for me.”
No, not nice. This is why I don’t like talking about Knox Everheart.
*
The quarterly Austin-area alumni meeting has just been called to order by Chef Brown, our current chapter president. I’m sitting near the back of the room as usual because the only alumni I know have the last name Everheart. They’re front row center, of course, father and son. Flynn Everheart is a Michelin-star chef and always commands everyone’s attention because of it. He’s this chapter’s most distinguished graduate. Knox borrows his light by association.
Pretending the Everhearts don’t exist isn’t going to work this afternoon. Chef Brown is holding a crystal phallic-shaped object etched in gold. “Chef Everheart, please stand and come up to receive your award.”
Flynn stands and turns to the audience, waving his hand as though he were king instead of chef. His brown eyes light up his face, something I rarely saw during visits throughout the four years I spent in school with his son. His handsome face is creased with smile lines when he shakes hands with Chef Brown and poses for pictures. He’s attractive, but his sons must have inherited most of their beauty, dark hair, and blue eyes from their mother.
The audience erupts in applause. Everyone except me. And Knox interestingly enough. Trouble in paradise?
We drag through the rest of the meeting and my ears perk up when the correspondence secretary gives his report—his PowerPoint slide has Restaurant Family Feud in bold across the page along with other letters he’s received through the alumni post office box.
He says, “We received a postcard for a reality television competition for chefs coming up. It appears the deadline is tomorrow. I’ll pin up the postcard with the link on the bulletin board for anyone interested.”
When the meeting is adjourned, I look around trying to gauge if there’s any interest in the contest. Most people are gathered in small groups, no doubt boasting of their latest restaurant openings or what have you. Several surround Flynn, congratulating him on his new award. No one’s moving toward the board, so I sidle that way, checking my surroundings as I go. I glance at the corkboard, noting the link and put it in my phone’s browser.
The contest rules come up and the more I read, the more excited I get.
• Open to a team of three family members who work together in a restaurant owned by at least one of the members.
• Two days a month filming commitment for two months if the team advances. Five days in the third month for the final round.
• The winning team gains a new restaurant anywhere in the continental United States.
By the time I read the grand prize, I’m bouncing on my toes, too preoccupied to notice Knox’s approach.
“I haven’t seen you this excited since…” He taps a long finger against his chin. “I guess I’ve never seen you excited. What are you looking at?” He snatches my
