Yes, Chef: A Grumpy x Sunshine Kitchen Romance

I rub my aching breastbone. When things get difficult and I've overstayed my welcome, people cut me loose. It went that way for years, bouncing between foster homes in the county, having case workers and teachers take an interest in helping, only to abandon me after one incident too many. It was that way with Jessica, whom I should have known was too good to be true. And now it's that way with Douglas, willing to shut the door in my face despite all my talent and grit.

I did this to myself—I always do—but that doesn't mean it doesn't sting. The only person who ever wanted me to stay was Sal, and I messed that up too.

I should have known that Green Street was too good to be true. So, I stay. Service begins. I settle in at my usual station, poissonnier, turning over seafood dishes with speed. The hum of the kitchen fades away, reduced to the shouts of the expediter keeping us on track, the sizzle of fish in the pans in front of me, the tick of my multiple timers as I take on tables—two, three, even four at a time. People are loving Jimmy's special, which I'm cooking; he's by the pass, fiddling with garnishes. We'll run out of snapper soon. I dab the sweat away from my hairline. Take a deep gulp of water, studiously ignoring the part of me that wishes it was a beer instead.

All the while, anger simmers in my bones like stock on the back of a stove. I roll my shoulders, grit my teeth. I finish a lobster Thermidor, one of the first classic dishes I ever learned to make, and pass it down the line. It's a staple at Pastiche, something I could make in my sleep. Normally I smile whenever someone orders it. Not tonight.

Across the kitchen, Hazel is a blur of activity. Jorge hums to himself as he sears off steaks. Jimmy passes two dishes to a server, a pretty woman whose name I don't know, with a wink. Hazel somehow catches the action and mimes vomiting into the vat of boiling water she's overseeing. I try to laugh but can't manage more than a pathetic wheeze.

"Um, Chef?" Another server pokes his head out from the pass. "We've got overcooked lobster. Table Nineteen."

Jimmy takes the plate, poking at it with his fingers. "It's not over," I say. "I checked."

 

"You sure about that?"

"Yes."

He nods—and then throws the dish, plate and all, into the trash. The kitchen goes quiet.

"Re-fire Nineteen," he says after a long, awful pause. There's a smirk on his face.

I manage to keep my hands from shaking as I take out a fresh pan. Select another portion of lobster. I remember something about the pre-service meeting, suddenly. Bret Whittaker, a reviewer for The New York Times, was likely to come in. He knows what I cook here, and he's never reviewed me well.

My ears hum with energy. An angry buzz that means I'm about to do something really fucking stupid. When I was a teenager, it was usually a fight. Now...

I don't give a shit. I don't work here anymore.

I shove past Jimmy into the dining room with fire in my veins.

CHAPTER TWO

Poppy

You're breaking up with me?"

Across the table, Ryan frowns. "Keep your voice down."

"Keep my—"

"Poppy, please. Don't make this difficult."

"But..." My head is spinning as I stare at his handsome face, the one I was starting to... "I thought you were proposing. You had a box." My throat feels uncomfortably tight. He scoffs, so I press on, "From Tiffany's. I saw it in your sock drawer."

Last week, when I slept over at his SoHo loft. He was in the shower, and I couldn't help myself. I picked it up, nearly opened it, then remembered that I'd want my reaction in the pictures online to be genuine, so I booked a nail appointment instead, and not-so-patiently waited for him to set up this dinner. When he said that he wanted to go to Pastiche, my father's most famous restaurant, I thought it was a done deal.

"Jesus. You looked through my things?"

"It was a little hard to miss."

He's scowling now. "I can't believe you."

"You're breaking up with me because I looked in your sock drawer?" I know I'm being dense on purpose, but it's that or break down entirely. We might be in a corner booth, but it's still a small—and exclusive—restaurant facing Central Park. I start to wipe my sweat-slick hands on my dress, then remember it's vintage Valentino and freeze. I jiggle my foot instead.

"Why the hell would I be proposing? We've barely been together five months."

"I...I don't know, I just thought—"

"People don't do shit like that. Be serious, Poppy."

I press my lips together. 'People', as in normal people who aren't me. People who don't jump in headfirst and think later. "Why?"

"I have to think about my future, you know?"

"Ryan—"

He gives me a look, as if I'm annoying him with all the questions. He's the one who took me out to dinner. What did he expect? A quiet meal by himself after I fled, humiliated?

"I mean, what do you want me to say?" He wipes his mouth with his napkin; throws it on the table. "You're fun. But you're not exactly wife material."