The Billionaire Bad Boys Club(44)
Author: Emma Holly

“Jesus,” Trey murmured, looking at her. “You’ve broken into a sweat.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I just really want to oversee the kitchen.”

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. Oversee. I’ll take care of the rest of this.”

Rebecca hurried off as if she were escaping a guillotine.

A server stopped her in the back hall. “Chef,” she said, a smile on her face. “Your clam chowder is a hit. Folks are scraping their bowls!”

“Great,” Rebecca said. She moved aside to let the waitress pass. Though glad to hear the accolade, she wondered if it meant her other appetizers were simply meh.

Steady, she ordered, grabbing her chef’s whites. Even as she shoved her arms through the sleeves, she pushed through the kitchen door. There she found the sort of chaos she didn’t like to see.

Raoul was haranguing two of the newbies with the Spanish version of get your asses into gear.

“What?” she said to get his attention. “Are we in the weeds?”

“No. Just slow getting off the mark. These two—” he narrowed his eyes at the flinching cooks “—need to get over their f**king quivers at turning up the heat.”

“You,” Rebecca said to the newbie she knew had quicker hands. “Go help plate. I’ll take over your station.”

“Yes, chef,” he said, already trotting off despite looking unhappy.

“Fast and pretty!” she yelled after him. “Presentation is important. Don’t send anything hot out cold!”

“You’re staying?” Raoul asked, seeming relieved by this. Apparently, they were closer to the weeds than he’d wanted to let on.

“Yes.” She took control of the departed newcomer’s sauté pans. “You’re overseeing the grill?”

“Yes. Lorenzo’s expediting.”

She’d seen this on her way in. Lorenzo was one of their senior men. Once they picked up speed, he ought to have no trouble keeping the train on track.

“Focus,” she reminded the sweating newbie beside her. “When Lorenzo calls an order for your station, let him know you’ve got it. If someone is working on the other half of your dish, keep him in the loop on how far along you are. Everybody communicate!” she finished with a bellow.

“Yes, chef!” the kitchen bellowed back.

She smiled at that, and turned back to work. For the next ten minutes, the kitchen’s chaos became the nimble dance it was meant to be.

Then the lobster started returning.

Lobster couldn’t be rushed. You had to cook it gently or you’d lose its exquisite taste and texture. The Lounge’s version was butter-poached with creamy broth and orzo. Topped with savory Parmesan “crisps,” it made a memorable small entree, the sort diners would come back for . . . assuming, of course, that it was actually cooked.

In spite of the hubbub around her, the second server to call for a re-fire put Rebecca on full alert.

“Crap,” she said. Adrenaline poured through her as she signaled the second newbie to take her pans. Fearing the worst, she headed straight for the pass-through. Lorenzo was poking the rejected food in befuddlement.

“They’re raw in the middle,” the server insisted, which Rebecca could see for herself.

“Why are you letting them go out like this?” she demanded of Lorenzo. “You’re supposed to check every plate.”

“I—” Lorenzo stammered, his big brown eyes filling up with tears.

Rebecca’s brain went into panic mode. The senior man was built like a wrestler and normally tougher than alligator hide. She hadn’t cursed him out yet, so the problem had to be personal—a fight with his girlfriend, or some such thing. “Christ,” she said, too stressed out to be sympathetic. “Don’t do this to me tonight.”

“Sorry, chef.” His eyes welled up even worse, tempting her to slap him out of it. “I’ll pull it together.”

“Damn it. You’re my best expediter after Raoul, and he’s better than you at meat. Don’t make me take you off this post.”

Lorenzo dragged his sleeve across watery eyes. “Yes, chef. I’m sorry.”

Rebecca didn’t want sorry. She wanted her crew to straighten up. “Seafood!” she called over her shoulder to that station. “Give your f**king lobsters more time in the oven.”

The smattering of yes, chefs she got back didn’t satisfy.

“Fuck,” she snapped in her deepest drill sergeant’s voice. “You know that bastard from Wilde’s is out there. He’s dying to see us fail!”

“We never fail, chef!” Raoul roared back at full volume.

Her head chef was grinning, which put her nearer to an even keel. She slapped Lorenzo’s shoulder to let him know they were all right, then pointed to the newbie she’d shifted to plating. “We’re a team here,” she said in a quieter tone. “You be Lorenzo’s back-up if he needs it.”

“I’ll tell the guests new plates are coming,” the waitress assured her.

Nodding curtly, Rebecca strode back to the sizzling cooktop and her orders. As a rule, she didn’t relish blowing up. She was so wired now her hands shook. Her entire life seemed to be trying to overwhelm her at the same time: the twins, her house, her f**king sweetheart of a boss and his f**king too-sexy-to-stand best friend. Her breath caught in her chest as if an ogre had her around the ribs. Emptying her lungs required a conscious effort.

Focus, she ordered. Just like you told the crew.

The newbie at her elbow glanced at her sideways. “You okay, chef?”

“I will be,” she promised him grimly.

~

Zane was having a bad Monday.

This, he decided, was a fitting follow-up to his shit weekend—not to mention every crappy minute he’d suffered through since waking alone on his yacht. If Rebecca had tried to put a whammy on him, she couldn’t have done a better job.

The trip to Montreal had begun as merely uncomfortable. Missy had been a smidgen too curious about why Trey didn’t want to see his aunt.

“I know so little about you,” she’d wheedled on the Bad Boys jet. “I’m not some on-the-make groupie. You can trust me with your personal life.”

Except he couldn’t. He liked lots of things about Missy, but trust wasn’t in the mix—not on his own behalf and certainly not on Trey’s. Maybe she’d have kept the gory details about their childhood to herself. Maybe she’d have let them slip the next time she wanted to seem in the know in an interview. Zane couldn’t predict what she’d do and didn’t care. He didn’t want to share his past with her.