Cillian
“This chicken is dry, and the sauce tastes like shit,” Rosalee, our head waitress deadpans as she slides the plate across the stainless steel countertop.
“Are you for real?” I reply, pressing a fork into the chicken I cooked myself and watching the moisture bead at the cut edge. “They want me to remake this? It’s perfect.”
“You know who it is,” she says, rolling her eyes. “They do this shit every week. I know they’re George’s family, but enough already. They get the food half-price, then complain to get it comped. At what point do we say stop?”
“When George says stop,” I say, pressing my lips into a line, taking a deep breath to try to quell my agitation as I gather the ingredients and start making the exact same thing again.
“I don’t know why he doesn’t just tell them their meal is free and be done with it. I’m tired of this charade,” she says, dumping the food in the trash.
“He’s the boss,” I say, clenching my jaw. “His rule, his way.”
“Well, his way is stupid. We’re throwing perfectly good food away on top of giving away a free feed.”
“What do you want me to say?” I shoot over my shoulder as I drop the stuffed chicken breast into the pan. “It’s not my place to question how he runs his business, or how he treats his family.”
“Well, someone ought to. For my sanity, at least.”
I smile as I spoon butter over the browning meat. “I’ll take that under advisement,” I say, flashing her a grin.
“You do that.” She gives me a pointed look as she heads back out to the floor.
“Tell them this’ll be another twenty minutes.”
Most nights, I love my work. Being a sous chef is exhausting, but after working my ass off for most of my thirty-three years to get this position in the first place, I count my blessings more than I curse them. Landing a job at the prestigious Hunt & Gather was a big deal for me. I’ve been working hospitality my whole life. And not just in restaurants. My parents own the busiest Irish pub in town, Kelly’s—which is our family name. I’ve either been cleaning, cooking or serving from the moment I could carry a sack of potatoes on my own. This industry is in my blood. But some nights…well, let’s just say some nights suck ass.
“I’m here! I’m here!” A young waitress I haven’t met yet comes rushing in, a bundle of curves and burgundy hair. “Where is this going? There’s no ticket.”
“Replacement for table twenty,” I say, giving my eyes a minute to absorb the girl in front of me. She’s beautiful. I don’t normally mix work with pleasure, but for a busty lass like her, I might be willing to break the rules.
“Oh…um…” She presses her teeth into her bottom lip and I get the urge to pull that plump lip free with my own teeth.
“Not sure where table twenty is?” I ask.
“Oh, no. I know where it is. I just don’t want to go there.”
“They’re a handful, I know. But if you move away fast, you’ll be fine.”
“I wish it were that easy,” she mutters, taking the plate and leaving through the exit door.
I can’t help but smile after her, liking that the new girl seems to be fitting in quickly. And bonus, she’s cute too. I kinda want her. No. I definitely want her.
This job just got a whole lot better.
Hazel
That guy in the kitchen is hot with a capital H O T. Dark hair, molten chocolate eyes and an arm full of tatts. He’s chum to my eighteen-year-old hormones, and suddenly, being forced to work in my dad’s restaurant doesn’t seem so bad. Eye candy makes all situations better.
“Hazel! Is that you?” My auntie’s hand shoots out and grabs me before I can make a mad dash back to the kitchen after bringing their meal. I purposely kept my head down, avoided eye contact and everything. But still, they managed to pause long enough in their conversation to recognize me. Damn.
I plaster a smile on my face. “Hey guys!” I inject far more enthusiasm into my voice than the situation warrants. “What brings you here?” Besides the free food…
“Oh, you know us, we love your father’s menu,” she says, smiling as she looks me up and down with her scrutinizing gaze. “I think the better question is, what brings you here? Shouldn’t you be away at college by now?”
“Oh…” I fidget on my feet as I tuck my burgundy-colored hair behind my ear. “I didn’t get in. Not anywhere I wanted to go, anyway. I’m kind of… reevaluating my options right now. Dad wants me to give the restaurant biz a go, so here I am.”
“Nothing wrong with that,” my uncle says, nodding his approval.
“As long as that’s all you want,” my aunt adds with a slight scoff. “I always imagined you working in one of those high-rises as a manager or something.”
“Really?” My uncle frowns. “I always expected she’d be a kindergarten teacher or something. She’s always been the homely type.”
As they argue about what type of person they think I am—homely? Ugh!—I take the opportunity to make my escape, collecting dirty plates from the table next to them and making a mad dash for the kitchen, letting out my breath the moment I’m out of sight.
“That bad, huh?” The guy from before is smirking at me while he dips flattened out chicken breast into crumbs.
“I made my escape as soon as I could,” I say, dumping the dishes into the designated tray then moving over to the prep area. “They’re currently arguing over whether they think I could work in an office or a classroom. Seems the service industry is the wrong place for me.”
He glances up from what he’s doing and smiles. “Yeah? That’s very presumptuous of them. Did you tell them to go to hell?”
I let out a sigh as I lean against the counter and fold my arms across my chest. It gives me a good view of this guy’s ass, so I’m happy with my decision to move closer. “No. I just backed away the moment they started arguing. It made me feel like they thought my dad failed at life.”
“Is he in the service industry too?” He looks at me over his shoulder.
I frown a little, realizing that he doesn’t know who my dad is. Something about that knowledge makes me smile. Ever since I walked through those doors for my shift, I’ve been treated differently than everyone else. Seems being the boss’s daughter means I’m separate from the team. It’s been an awkward few hours. But then this guy—the sous chef by the looks of things—has no clue. This is a genuine conversation between two regular people. I like it. Almost as much as I like him…and his ass… Why do I want to squeeze it so bad?
“He’s a… chef,” I say, pushing off the counter so I’m not inappropriately staring at his ass anymore. “Well, he was. He’s in more of a managerial position now. More stress, better pay. He likes the idea of me working my way up, same as he did. But I guess everyone has opinions about what their kids should do with their lives.” I shrug and pick up the bowl of crumb mix and pour some more out for him.