I think every woman should have a blowtorch.
–Julia Child
Scarlett
He’s holding a kitten.
A young gray cat with fluffy fur sticking out everywhere. The kitten is attacking his finger with his little chomp chomp chompers and Guy…he doesn’t really notice.
It’s quite the study in contrasts, Guy standing there staring at me like the overlord of Hell seeking to torture one of the eternally damned, while a cute little furball gnaws on him with the most adorable look of intensity on his tiny face.
I strangle back laughter.
Guy’s head tilts, watching me with hooded eyes.
I can’t think straight with a handsome man standing in front of me holding a kitten. He’s wearing workout clothes, but to call them just workout clothes is an insult to shoulders everywhere. The shirt outlines his broad chest and lean waist, and those sweatpants….
But what stops me and effectively kills the emerging laughter are his lips.
I still remember them. Warm and strong and assured, and his tongue—gah, the memories fly through my mind, scrambling my brain.
That’s it. I’m broken. My brain is broken.
It’s the only explanation for what pops out of my mouth.
“You kissed me.” The words emerge like an accusation.
“You kissed me back. Actually.” His eyes search mine. “You kissed me first. But you said it was my fault right before you did it.” He considers me carefully, the evil scowl has disappeared, replaced with amusement that makes his eyes glint with evil hellfire.
I did do that and say that, dang it.
“It’s not my fault you could charm the dogs off a meat truck.”
His gaze warms by a single degree—the only indication my words had any small effect on him—and then his eyes flick to my mouth.
Maybe more than a small effect.
I nip that thought right in the bud. He’s everything I don’t want. Controlling, arrogant, a complete jerk. I don’t go for jerks, not anymore. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt that says, “I went to jerk-land and all I got was this stupid t-shirt.”
“You’re the food truck owner,” he says.
“Um . . .” Dang it. Caught out, times two.
“Don’t try to deny it, I came here because I knew you’d be here.”
“Are you stalking me now?”
“I wouldn’t have to if you’d stop avoiding me.”
Movement to the side distracts us both.
“Hi! Nice to see you again.” Bethany waves a little sheepishly.
Awkward silence. They’re both staring at me.
I find my tongue. “Bethany, this is, uh, Guy Chapman.”
She nods. “Yeah, I know.”
One of Guy’s eyebrows lifts in a sardonic arch. “Mildred?” he asks her.
She flushes. “Oh, ha, ha, right. Well you know, I can’t give out the name of a friend to a virtual stranger. That way lies murder. Even if it is at a charity event and even if I did hire you to cater. It’s always people you know, you know? And I didn’t know you knew each other already…. But if that’s the case,” her gaze flicks back and forth between the two of us. “Why did you ask me what her name was the other night if you know each other already?”
“It’s been a while since we were formally introduced,” I explain in a rush. My face is hot and I can feel Guy’s eyes on me like a laser beam of interest and confusion.
“Huh. Okay, well you’re being a weirdo right now, which makes me want to find out even more. So, Guy, we are heading out to this great dumpling place around the corner and would you like to join—?”
“He can’t,” I interject. “He’s very busy, I’m sure.”
Bethany rolls her eyes at me. “Can he speak? Because it seems like you’re doing all the talking for him.”
“He can speak. He can even participate in conversations in third person about him and wipe his ass with one hand.”
Bethany laughs and I stare at him. He has a sense of humor? It’s like he’s suddenly turned into a turnip.
The instructor comes over and sweeps Bethany into some conversation and now I’m alone with Guy. I mean, we’re in a room full of people, and Bethany is only a few feet away, but the way he’s staring at me and the awareness of his proximity…. It feels like we’re the only ones in the room.
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?” he asks, his green-eyed gaze intense but his tone perfunctory. Completely in contrast with the formerly bitey little kitty, who is no longer on the attack. In fact, he’s snuggled up against Guy’s chest, eyes drooping, his purring rumble filling the space between us like a little motor.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“If you must know, I thought you would be mean to me.”
It’s the truth, even though it sounds lame. Like we were two kids on a playground and I took his favorite swing and now fear his retribution.
His head tips back in surprise. “What exactly did you think I’d do?”
“I didn’t really know, but I’m not good at confrontation. I was worried you’d threaten me somehow or try and scare me away from parking in my spot.”
His lips purse. “That’s…actually a valid concern. If I promise not to be mean, will you still hide from me?”
I think about it. “I can’t promise anything.”
“Why not?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been dying to say, and we’ll go from there?”
“Fine.” He runs a soft finger over the head of the cat snoozing in his arms and says, “I want you to park your truck somewhere else.” And then as an afterthought. “Please.”
“No.”
His eyes are penetrating and bright and focused right on me, like nothing else exists. “How much?”
I blink under his hard stare, confused. “How much what?”
“How much money?” he enunciates, as if I’m very, very slow.
He thinks he can pay me to leave. “You can’t just throw money at me and expect—”
“What about ten thousand dollars?”
My mouth pops open. “You can’t be serious. I don’t own the space. I’m renting a small section.” For a great price from a deal I got because of my friendship with Bethany and the Crawford’s, which I’m sure he must have figured out by now.
“I know. But I would like to purchase it and I don’t think the owner will sell unless you leave willingly.”
“You got that damn straight,” Bethany pops back into the conversation. “Although technically, it’s not mine either, but I’m sleeping with one of the owners.” She winks.
Guy stares at her for a second and then faces me. “Well, what about it? Ten thousand dollars, free and clear, and all you have to do is find somewhere else to park.”
It’s not a small amount of money. But in New York City, it’s not enough.
Real estate costs are bad enough, but food trucks are almost worse. They are insane to try and park in the city—one of the reasons I almost didn’t pursue this venture at all. Some trucks are out parking at 1 a.m. just to get a decent spot, and breaking a law is almost a certainty. You can’t park in a metered space, or within 200 feet of a school, or within 500 feet of a public market and the list goes on. One vendor told me he paid $12,000 in parking tickets and fees in a month. Bethany finding this unused space in a decent and legal area was the only reason I could start the truck in the food place. And still, I have to cater on the side to make ends meet.
“You and I both know that’s not enough.”
His eyes are locked on mine. “Is there anything I can do to entice you to leave?”
“No.”
His jaw firms. “What if I find an alternate location for you that’s just as good?”
“Like where?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I shake my head. “I like my spot.”
“I need it.”
“That’s not my problem.”
His voice is firm and unyielding, just like his face. “I can make it a problem.”
“Why would you do that?”
“I am turning that area into a high-class, exclusive dining experience. I want to use the lot as part of the plan, and no one will want to see a trashy truck selling inferior desserts while they’re dining in luxury.”
And there it is. All cold calculation and arrogance. Except for the kitten in his hand that opens its little mouth in a yawn and regards me with half-closed drowsy eyes.
“Sorry if my cupcakes offend your delicate sensibilities, but you aren’t the boss of me.” The words are pushed out through gritted teeth. “You don’t own the world. Not everyone is going to cave to your demands because you snap your fingers and say so.”
The corner of one lip tilts and even though I’ve been wondering if he ever smiles, I don’t even want to see it. I want to punch it.
I poke him in the chest next to where the cat is snoozing. “It’s your fault I got fired last year and no restaurants would hire me. For Goodness Cakes is my only hope and you will not take that from me, too.”
A slight crease forms between his brows. “What are you talking about?” He glances over to where Bethany is talking to someone and then back. “You said we’d been introduced before. Is that true?”
Anger is a simmering boil in my veins while I stare at him. He really doesn’t remember. “You still don’t recognize me.”
He stares, hard. Eyes roving over my face. “We haven’t met. Not since before the other night. I would remember you.”
“Picture me holding a blowtorch. Maybe that will spark your memory.”
He blinks rapidly. Stares at me in confusion. Then his eyes widen, oh so slightly. “You’re that chef.”
“That chef. Right. That’s me.”
He shakes his head. “It’s been years since the…incident. You can’t expect me to remember every aspiring chef I interview.”
“Because so many of them try to set you on fire?”
His eyes brighten and his mouth twitches. Is he going to laugh? “I probably repressed the memory. Should I send you my therapy bills?”
“Was that a joke?”
“No.” But his eyes are still alight with humor.
“It hasn’t been years,” I insist. “It’s been less than a year.”
He stares me down, but I stare right back.
“You were wearing a hat,” he says finally.
The comment is so random it throws me off for a moment. “What?”
“That day. Your hair was covered by a chef’s hat.”
“Oh. What does that have to do with anything?”
The intensity of his gaze softens for a few seconds, like he’s dazing out but then shakes his head and snaps back to focus. “Nothing. It doesn’t matter. The point is that you need to find another location for your truck, and I am going to make sure it happens, one way or the other. I’m stubborn and I have a lot of resources.”
Frustration sinks into me like cat’s claws on a couch. “You don’t understand. You blackballed me, and I had no power to go against it. And now you’re just going to do it again? You’re a legend in the industry.”
His eyes widen slightly at the backhanded compliment, but I can’t stop the words from continuing to spill out, the frustration and anger from the last year giving me the bravery and the stupidity to speak with truth.
“I was just starting out. I’m still starting out. I made a mistake, but you nearly ruined me over it. When you use your power for evil instead of good you are doing your part to limit the voice of others. Besides, cupcakes have as much value as escargot. You might have more resources than me and you might do your best to get rid of me and you might even succeed. But I will fight you till the end. Not because I’m stubborn, too, but because I have no choice.”
He’s glowering at me, expression inscrutable. Something flickers through his eyes though and I can’t quite tell if it’s respect or pity. Then he speaks. “I don’t want to see you on my street next week.”
Anger has escalated from a simmer to a downright inferno inside me. “Then don’t look in my direction. Problem solved.”
His voice turns snappish. “You really want to fight me on this?”
“Are you always such a butt-sniffing turd nugget?”
He sputters for a second, waking up the cat in his arms. “I’m not sure what’s more insulting, the reference to excrement or the fact that you’re pairing your inferior food with mine.”
“Go piss up a rope.”
“You have frosting in your hair.”
My mouth pops open, eyes blinking too rapidly. Mostly because, well, he’s likely right. I usually have frosting, flour, powdered sugar, or something on me. I mean, it’s not exactly uncommon for chocolate chips to fall out of my bra at night when I’m getting in the shower.
But still. I can’t stand him, his smoldery assholery, or the fact that he’s still holding that damn adorable kitten.
I can’t do it anymore. Blindly, I turn and push past the people still lingering in the room. My vision is a red haze of exasperation and helplessness. What he said was true. He could probably shut me down with no more than a snap of his fingers, and I’ll have no power against him.
I’m on the sidewalk and halfway down the block before Bethany catches up with me. I’m so steaming mad I almost forgot about our dinner plans. I feel like I could angry-walk all the way across the Williamsburg Bridge. It’s around here somewhere, I’m sure of it.
“Scarlett! Slow down!” She catches up to me, panting to keep up. “I have your sweater.” She hands me the garment and I shrug it on, shoving my hands into the holes with more force than necessary.
“What happened with that guy, Guy?” She snorts. “Guy, guy. Ugh what an awful name. But he is kinda hot, he’s got that whole sexy glower thing going on. It’s not really my bag, I much prefer hunky footballer types, but you know that.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, and we stop in the middle of the sidewalk. “You want to talk about it?”
I take a deep breath to try and lower my blood pressure. There might be actual flames coming out of my ears.
“It’s a long story.”
“Good. You can tell me at dinner because it’s literally right here.” She stops in front of a small storefront with a red awning.
We walk into the narrow restaurant space—hardly big enough for the counter and two small tables with rickety chairs. Bethany orders us enough dumplings, spring rolls, sesame pancakes, and soup to feed half of Manhattan but I don’t say anything.
I grab us some waters, napkins, plastic forks, and chopsticks from a counter to the side. I take a few deep breaths, regret my life decisions, and think of all the things I should have said to Guy when I had the chance while simultaneously hoping I never see him again.
When we take our seats, my aim is distraction. “So, how’s work? Has Mr. Crawford really retired or is he still poking around being obnoxious?”
Bethany gives me the side-eye. “My soon-to-be father-in-law has mellowed in the manipulative ass-face department, however that is not the topic at hand. Yet.” She points at me. “Time to spill. What was up with all that intense staring and tension? I couldn’t tell if you were going to rip off his head or his clothes, but since you were running down the sidewalk like the hounds of hell were after you, I’m presuming it’s the latter.”
I huff out a laugh. “The head coming off, yes, the clothes, not likely. I’d rather sleep with an ornery porcupine than Guy Chapman. It would be less likely to stab me multiple times.”
Except every time I’m around him I want to make out with him, but that’s beside the point and irrelevant now. The fact that he’s a giant turd helps make him less attractive. Sort of.
She laughs. “That’s cute, but not cute enough to get you out of this conversation. You already avoided me once at the gala when you saw him, and I knew I should have pushed you harder then. Let’s start at the beginning. How do you know him? And why have I not heard about this?”
Because I don’t like telling everyone my embarrassing moments when they’ll likely witness it for themselves eventually?
But this is Bethany. She’s the least judgmental person I know. And so I tell her. “You know how Gwen and I were in Page Seven that one time?”
She nods. “Yeah, when that piece of crap date tried to roofie you and Gwen saw it and you guys totally got him arrested like a couple of badass bitches? I remember.”
“Shortly after all that, Guy was doing interviews for a new restaurant. They are notoriously hard to even get a chance to try. You have to be a big name or know someone. The person doing the hiring recognized me from the story with Gwen, and I got an interview. Which means, I got to cook with Guy. It would have been the opportunity of a lifetime except I ruined it.”
“What did you do?”
“I sort of,” I grimace and say the words quickly, like ripping off a band-aid, “Set him on fire.”
Bethany gapes at me, opened mouth for a few long seconds, and then she bursts out laughing.
The woman at the counter calls out her name and Bethany gets up to collect the order, still laughing her head off.
When she comes back with our tray, I help her set out the items on the teeny table.
“It’s not funny!”
“It is more than funny, it’s the best thing I’ve heard all year. How have I not heard this story?” She grabs the Sriracha and squeezes some onto her plate. “Please tell me everything.”
I sigh and fiddle with my chopsticks. “You haven’t heard it because it’s not exactly something I like to talk about. Basically, I was putting the finishing touches on a crème brûlée, and I…tripped.”
“So, you were torching a dessert, presumably standing in place and you, what, decided to run around holding a flammable? That doesn’t make sense. And that’s not like you. As crazy as you can get everywhere else, you’re meticulous in the kitchen.”
I squirm. “Okay, so it was less tripping and more of a…startle.”
Her brows lift and she waits for more.
“He came up next to me to observe, and I didn’t see him. Then he startled me, and I sort of turned into him.”
“What startled you?”
Bethany would needle in on the one topic I want to avoid the most.
I glance around the small space—there’s one couple ordering at the counter and no one is paying us any mind, but still. I lean in and lower my voice. “I have a Guy Chapman problem.”
Bethany pops a dumpling in her mouth and chews with a shrug. “What does that mean?”
“It means that whenever he’s around, I get crazy.”
“Like, talking to apples in the grocery store crazy? Or rip off all your clothes and throw yourself at him crazy?”
I fidget with my chopsticks. “The second one. It’s like he has this effect on me that I can’t control.”
Bethany nods decisively. “You should totally bone him. Set him on fire the metaphorical way instead of the literal way.”
I grimace. “I didn’t set him completely on fire, that was a slight exaggeration. I burned his chef’s jacket, though.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“His lucky chef’s jacket.”
“Oh.”
I stare down at the sesame pancakes on my plate, like they’ll make the story any less true. “It was ruined. And he’s known to be a bit of a perfectionist. Obviously, I didn’t get the job, but it was worse than that. He bad-mouthed me to everyone. And then I lost my job, which was crappy anyway, but no one else would hire me. Seriously. I couldn’t get a job making sandwiches at the bodega in Hunts Point.”
She takes bite of food before responding. “Okay, so you guys have all this awkward past history, but from where I was standing, there was also a lot of sizzle. He’s hot. And he’s a chef, like you. You’re basically soulmates and you should totally bone him.”
“These sesame pancakes are fantastic.” I take another bite. Perfectly crisp on the outside, soft on the inside and stuffed with chives and greens.
“Stop trying to avoid the subject.”
“Fine. We are not soulmates. Yes, he’s a chef, but in my book, that’s strike one. Strike two, he’s too important and well-known and rich. He would never slum it with the likes of me, and I wouldn’t want him to because strike three, he’s a major turd.”
“Being important and rich is not a deal-breaker. And no one is serious all the time. He made that joke, where he referred to himself in third person? That was self-deprecatory and funny. And I saw him watching you, that was more heat than hate. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be an ass all the time, he just has resting fuck face.”
I laugh. “What is that?”
“It’s like,” she waves a hand, “resting bitch face, but for dudes.”
“You didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He’s trying to make me move from my spot because it’s interfering with his fancy businesses. He called me inferior.”
She takes a drink of her water. “He said you were inferior?”
“Okay, well maybe he didn’t call me inferior directly. He said my food was inferior.”
“But—”
“I don’t want to talk about him anymore. Can we discuss something else?”
“Fine. But since he’s not Mr. Right or even Mr. Right Now, let me know if you want me to dig up any dirt on him. I know high people in low places. Or whatever.”
Our conversation moves on to our jobs, Bethany’s boyfriend, the upcoming holidays, and other various and sundry, but part of my mind lingers back, stuck on an ornery chef with bright green eyes and the means to destroy me.