Spicy (Palate #1) (2 page)

Twenty minutes before my shift at Palate was supposed to start, I sat in the parking lot outside
the restaurant feeling frazzled.  Why had I thought it was a good idea to bring my car to Los Angeles?  It wasn’t even a dependable vehicle, what with the way the engine coughed and sputtered.  It was nothing but a constant source of frustration for me. 

I missed being able to get across the city in ten minutes tops.  That was one thing Burlington had going for it.  You sure couldn’t get from one end of Los Angeles to the other in ten minutes.  Allowing time for travel was proving to be an interesting exercise in defeat.
  No matter what I did, I seemed incapable of being punctual.  These days, I was always running late or else super, freakishly early.

After growing up in small town Vermont, the
city traffic took some getting used to.  I’d lost track of how many times I’d been cut off and flipped off on the drive to the restaurant and I wasn’t even a bad driver…although I had an ex-boyfriend who might disagree.

At least my son
Joel had been somewhat cooperative tonight.  I’d felt bad about only getting to spend a couple of hours with him in between filming for the show and going to work, but he’d handled it like a champ.  In fact, he’d seemed much more interested in gawking out the window at the cars driving past our tiny apartment than in spending quality time with me. 

The countless smudges of his fingerprints on the glass were proof of that.  I made a mental note to add that to my list of ten thousand chores that required my attention. 
Make that ten thousand and one.

I didn’t mind
Joel’s lack of interest in spending time with me…much. 

It gave me a chance to actually brush my hair before leaving the house.  Not to sound like a slob or anything but that was kind of hit or miss these days.  I certainly didn’t look all glammed up in real life the way I did on the
cooking show after the makeup artists and stylists had gotten through with me.  Ah, TV magic…

Though I hadn’t realized it back when I was living the life of a college student, I’d been one hot bitch. 
The old Mina of three years ago never would have dreamed of leaving the house without being all done up.  But these days when I thought of her, she seemed like someone I hadn’t seen in decades. 

I missed her.

As I scrutinized my appearance in the rear view mirror, I raised an eyebrow.  When had my hair become so long?  The wavy black tresses were almost down to my waist!  I did some mental gymnastics as I tried to figure out how long it had been since my last haircut.  Being unable to remember probably meant it had been far too long. 

But I had to say, the longer hair actually didn’t look so bad.  In fact, I kind of liked it.

“Right,” I muttered under my breath, giving myself a much-needed pep talk.  “Get in there and knock ‘em dead, Mina.  Don’t let that asshole Gavin get to you.  Just do your job and be damn good at it.” 

I had a habit of cursing like a sailor when I was under pressure.  My
devoutly religious mother said it was a terrible, sinful, shameful habit.  I wasn’t so sure I agreed.  But then as a rule, we didn’t agree on much.

I got out of the car, locked it and walked inside. 

The second I walked through the ornate stained glass and mahogany front doors of the restaurant I realized I was horrifyingly underdressed.  I’d assumed my black wide leg slacks and fitted white button up blouse would help me blend right in with the other staff members, but I’d been mistaken. 

Every man in the place wore an expensive looking suit
and every woman – even if she was an employee – was decked out in a satin or lace cocktail gown of some sort.  In fact, I was probably the only woman in the entire building who wasn’t wearing a dress.

Imagine how you’d feel if you showed up to a costume party and you were the only one dressed up.  And then imagine you bent over, your costume ripped and you had to spend the rest of the seemingly endless evening walking around with your butt hanging out.  Oh, and to top that off, imagine you just happened to be wearing the most hideous pair of underwear you own. 

That pretty much summed up how I felt.

Great, things were just off to a
peachy
start.  Ugh.  I should have known that when the kiddo didn’t throw his usual five tantrums in five minutes it was an omen.  Sure, I’d been lucky enough to make it to the restaurant on time and in one piece, but at what cost?  Of course something else was going to go wrong.  I’d been stupid to think otherwise.

“Mina?”

I spun around and came face to face with Gavin Rothe. 

Wonderful, my night was getting even better.

I fidgeted, feeling embarrassingly exposed.  I mean, I looked fine in my simple attire, but amidst the sea of glamorous and stylish people, I felt as out of place as a cat in a swimming pool.  I’d wanted to impress Gavin so much that he’d have no choice but to respect me.  But instead I was flustered and humiliated.

He looked as handsome as ever in one of his signature black suits.  His chestnut brown hair was slicked back, giving him a slightly more dapper appearance than I was used to seeing.  On the show he usually left his hair tousled and slightly messy looking, perhaps as a silent ‘screw you’
to the network executives he made no secret of loathing.

“Your restaurant is beautiful,” I told him. 

I was desperately trying to deflect from my fashion faux pas, but I also meant what I said.  The soft lighting, subdued shades of blue and grey and unobtrusive music created a rich and relaxing atmosphere.  It was a place anyone would want to be – but it came with a hefty price tag.

I still couldn’t understand why Gavin famously had a months-long waiting list of potential customers willing to pay hundreds of dollars per plate
.  To spend that kind of money on one night out seemed ludicrous.  But then the only places I’d eaten out at in the past year or so had pre-cooked burgers on the menu and ball pits full of screaming, sticky-fingered children in them.

“Thank you.
  You look…nice,” he said after a momentary pause.  Gavin’s eyes traveled over my body as he took in my choice of clothing.  He didn’t say a word but he didn’t have to.  Clearly I stuck out like a sore thumb. 

There was no way I could just ignore it, so I decided to bite the bullet. 
I crossed my arms because hostile stances, as my mother disapprovingly called them, gave me courage.  There was something about standing there with my arms folded or my hands on my hips that gave me a little confidence boost – and that was something I could certainly use.

“Was I supposed to wear something different?  I didn’t know there was a dress code,” I began to explain, hating that things were off to a less than stellar start. 
I wasn’t sure what was wrong with me.  These days I considered myself a fashionista if my clothes were simply
clean
.  And yet here I was getting all worked up about an honest and, let’s face it, pretty minor misunderstanding.

“You weren’t supposed to wear anything different,” Gavin assured me.

“But…?”

“Come with me,”
he ordered before I could get another word out.  He took my wrist then and led me through the exquisitely decorated restaurant, pausing only to nod hello to familiar faces.  He moved with confidence, his head held high and his grip on my wrist firm. 

As Gavin
walked it was like the seas parted, important-looking people stepping out of the way so he could forge a path for the two of us.  Clearly he was in charge.  But then from what I’d seen of him on the show, he made no secret of that fact.  Gavin Rothe was a perfectionist, a playboy and above all else, a self-indulgent, egotistical jerk.

I reminded myself that as we walked until I was silently chanting it over and over in my head.  Keeping those things in mind helped me feel less intimidated by the infamous celebrity chef.  I was, after all, just there to do a job.  As long as I went home with money in my pocket, who cared about anything else?

Gavin led me right to the back of the restaurant.  I found myself staring at a door just off the kitchen labeled Staff Only.  When Gavin opened it, I saw that behind it was a winding hallway with a number of closed doors on either side.

Like a man on a mission, Gavin purposefully ushered me inside
the second door on the left. 

He flipped on a light and I blinked as my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness.  It was
an elegantly furnished lounge, complete with a waterfall feature on one wall and a gas fireplace opposite of it.  Black leather furniture and a gorgeous rug tied it all together.  It looked like something out of a magazine.

We both seemed to notice at the same time that Gavin’s hand was still
encircling my wrist.  He let go of me abruptly, cleared his throat and took a step back, all while averting his eyes.  I toyed with my hair just so I’d have something to do with my hands.  At the same time, I sternly ordered my heart to stop pounding so hard but infuriatingly, it just ignored me.

Hearts can be stubborn that way sometimes, you know.

“This place is gorgeous,” I said as I tugged self-consciously at the hem of my shirt.  I hated how I never seemed to know what to do with my hands.  I wished I’d worn something with pockets.

The look
on Gavin’s handsome, masculine face was one I knew well.  My former boss often had that same gleam in his eye whenever someone complimented his establishment.  It was plain to see Gavin was proud of the business he’d created. 

“Some of my VIP guests prefer to enjoy drinks in here, away from
the prying eyes of the public…not to mention the paparazzi,” he explained.  “In fact, I have a group coming in later this evening.  But for now, we have the room to ourselves.” 

I
stared at him incredulously.  I’d gotten the impression he’d been flirting with me the previous night but I’d never imagined he’d be so brash as to do this.  A tiny part of me was admittedly excited – God, it had been a long time since I’d had sex – but mostly I was just outraged. 

“Look,” I finally said, my voice trembling ever so slightly, “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me or what you think you know, but I’m not that kind of girl.”

The corners of Gavin’s mouth turned up slightly at that.  He regarded me with a detached curiosity that only caused my temper to rage even more.  He had a way of acting like he was privy to a private joke and it got under my skin.  “And what kind of girl might that be?” he inquired innocently.

“I know what kind of repu
tation you have,” I shot back, balling my hands up into fists and planting them firmly on my hips.

“Enlighten me, please.”

Frustration was boiling up inside me.  Maybe I didn’t have time to read gossip magazines anymore but I still saw their covers when I was standing in line at the grocery store.  Gavin was a celebrity chef but that wasn’t what he was known best for.  He was a Hollywood playboy, a love them and leave them type who went through money and women at an astounding rate. 

“I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Gavin agreed.  “But it seems I must be, because I have to admit I’m stumped.  What kind of girl aren’t you?”  His tone was as expressionless as his face, making it impossible to tell what he was thinking.  In fact, I couldn’t even be sure he was playing with me. 

I hated that I couldn’t read him…but that was probably what he was striving for, right?  I knew men like Gavin.  They always had to have the upper hand.  It was so maddening.

My eyes narrowed.  Trust Gavin to play games, acting innocent when he and I both knew why he’d brought me back to a secluded room at his restaurant.  Talk about nerve!  Crossing my arms, I matter-of-factly informed him, “I wouldn’t sleep with you in a million years.”

Surprise and then amusement played over his
obnoxiously handsome features.  “A million years, huh?” he replied, his tone giving no indication of how he felt or what he was thinking.  He unlocked a closet then and opened it.  “I didn’t bring you back here for sexual favors, although it’s quite telling that your mind immediately went there,” he informed me teasingly. 

I had no words.

“These dresses are arranged according to size,” Gavin continued, gesturing to an assortment of colorful satin and lace numbers.  “Take your pick, get changed and then report to the kitchen for assignment.  You’ve got work to do and,” he added with a wink, “I don’t ever pay women for sex.  Not even a woman as lovely as you.”

I couldn’t tell whether the last sentence
was meant to be tongue-in-cheek, so I didn’t say anything in response.  Instead, I simply glared because it was easier to pretend to be livid than to admit I’d just made a complete and utter fool of myself.

I stood there motionless as my face burned.  It wasn’t until Gavin let himself out and shut the door behind him that I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor. 
I wanted to melt into the floor.  What had I just done?  Humiliation washed over me as I realized I’d just brazenly – and wrongly – accused my new boss of wanting to have sex with me for money. 

Ugh.  I didn’t think the night could get any worse.  But at least I got to play dress-up, I reasoned, trying to latch onto any shred of positivity I could.  And the dresses were pretty.  In fact, they were downright gorgeous.  They were the sorts of exquisite garments one might expect to see on a red carpet.