Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” Zander asks.
“Taking some things to cook tonight back home at the rental.”
“From my fridge?” Zander asks.
“Your fridge that’s stocked with my money.” Nolan squares up with the younger man. Nolan is taller by a few inches and obviously an athlete, while Zander has more of the lean build of somebody who visits the gym regularly, but not like it’s a religion.
“You can’t just take random shit out of the freezer,” Zander says. All the barely contained animosity from the day is clearly boiling over. He’s letting it all out in his tone. “I know you’re a hotshot in the NHL, but this is a restaurant. This is my kitchen, now. You may not understand how these things work, but we order the food we need. You can’t just walk in the freezer and grab whatever you want.”
Nolan takes a step closer, exaggerating the difference in height and size between the two men. “You work for me, Zander. And my dumb NHL ass marked exactly what I took on the inventory sheet and already called our suppliers to make sure it can be replenished before service tomorrow.” He lifts a clipboard and presses it a little too hard into Zander’s chest. “Feel free to check my work, chef.”
Nolan brushes past me without looking my way.
If this is a preview of what working at Taste is going to be like, I’m suddenly worried all the testosterone in the air is going to rub off on me and I’ll wind up growing a mustache. Then again, maybe I’d look cute with a little red mustache… Okay, no.
“Boys,” Paisley whispers under her breath once both men are out of earshot.
9
NOLAN
Am I hoping to get under Mia’s skin? Definitely. Am I also surprised to be enjoying myself a bit? Yeah.
I stir the sauce. It’s a salmoriglio sauce I’ve tweaked and perfected to be absolutely killer with salmon. Tonight, I’m taking a risk and pushing the recipe even further. Instead of simply mincing and incorporating the garlic, I’m giving it a bath in hot oil until I’ve got garlic confit. I’m also frying up razor-thin slices of garlic until they’re crunchy and browned to sprinkle over the salmon when it’s finished. I know adding more variations to garlic is hardly a risk, but I’m having fun in the kitchen for the first time in a while.
I tell myself it’s only because I’m an asshole, and getting under Mia’s skin can make even the most mundane task fun. But I can’t hide from the fact that I used to love cooking as much as I loved being on the ice with my teammates. It scratched the same itch for me–that endless pursuit of perfection. The challenge of performing under pressure and excelling.
I’m lost in the craft of what I’m doing as I manage a few tasks at the same time, knowing I’ve only got a few minutes left before Mia comes back to our grudgingly shared cabin. She’s going to be starving. I know as much because I saw she didn’t eat all night. I also tried to suggest she stop to get something in her stomach, but she blew me off, probably out of stubbornness, and went hungry.
The thought of her working all night on an empty stomach was driving me crazy. Call me soft, but I’ve always had an odd compulsion to make sure the people in my life are well fed. The guys used to joke that I was like their pushy grandma at Thanksgiving, but fuck them. I just don’t like the thought of people neglecting their bodies like that. And sure, Mia probably isn’t supposed to even qualify for the “in my life” category at this point, but it bothered me seeing her skip a meal all the same.
I’m going to fix it the only way I know how. I’ll cook something so good she can’t say “no”. Once Zander headed home for the night and I was assured that she was catching a ride home with Paisley, I drove back to the cabin to get a head-start.
I’m smiling to myself when the door opens. Mia steps in, wrapped in her coat, scarf, and hat. She pauses, kicking snow off her shoes on the entrance mat and staring at me. She takes in a deep breath through her nose. “That almost smells like salmoriglio…” she says.
“Impressive,” I say. I’m not bullshitting, either. It really is impressive that she can pick up the sauce I’m making from the doorway with nothing but her nose. I guess she wasn’t fucking around in New York these past two years. “Are you hungry?” I ask. Yes, you are. I know you didn’t eat all night.
“Actually, Zander made me a plate to eat before he left. He said he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”