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Chapter 1
Unlucky Day
Gina
I’m already late for work and dreading the inevitable reaction from my boss, ex-celebrity chef Randy Thorn, who’s also a thorn in my side. That’s why I pull into the first empty parking space I see and hit the brakes with more force than necessary. I’m just frustrated that I’m late again. Clutching the steering wheel tightly, I visualize the disapproving look on Randy’s way too handsome face. I really, really hate that he’s so good-looking. He could choose to be anywhere in the restaurant— the kitchen, the office, even the bathroom—yet I’m certain he’ll be at the counter, checking the time as I walk in.
After a mournful groan, I look at the clock on the stereo. It’s 1:17 p.m. I should have been here seventeen minutes ago. Sighing, I mutter to myself. “Dang it.” There’s nothing to do now but face the music. So I snatch my purse off the passenger seat and swing open the door of my ten-year-old, weather-beaten Honda Civic. Then I feel and hear it as the jarring noise of metal grinding against metal reverberates through me.
Horrified by what I’ve just done, I let out a sharp gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth. “Oh no, no, no!” Can my luck get any worse today? This morning, I overslept by an hour after not hearing my alarm, missing the first half of class and the crucial knife skills exam. Fortunately, Chef Blasingame agreed to let me take the test in a brief fifteen-minute window after class, but that bit of grace extended to me has made me later for work than usual. It now seems clear that luck has wholly deserted me today.
Yet dwelling on this recent mishap is not an option. I get moving, scrambling out of my car to assess the damage. Yikes. The edge of my car door has carved a nasty gouge through the paint and metal of someone’s bright-red Mercedes Benz.
“Great,” I grumble under my breath. My eyes sweep the parking lot in search of the car’s owner, even though I really don’t have time for this. But my scan is fruitless. Even though nearly every spot is taken, there’s nobody out here but me. Why, oh why, couldn’t my car have nicked that tiny, less expensive vehicle at the end of the row instead? I wish I could ignore this. I shudder to think how much this is going to set me back.
Thinking on my feet, I dig through my purse and find a pen and an old business card from Jack of All Tires. I quickly sketch an arrow on it and jot down, “Sorry about the door. Find me at the register. Will pay. - Gina E.” I’m not entirely sure how I’ll manage to pay the bill, but I’m willing to try. I slide the card under the wiper blade on the driver’s side and dash across the lot, making a beeline for the café.
Once inside, I’m almost immediately swept up in the vibrant chatter of our bustling dining room. This place is a hit for a reason: the food is simply out of this world.
“You’re late,” Randy grumbles. The grouchy chef’s culinary magic is the secret behind the restaurant’s newfound popularity. He’s positioned right where I knew he would be and doesn’t even bother looking up from the work he’s pretending to do.
“I know,” I barely whisper as I dart past him, heading straight for the staff locker room. I can sense Randy’s glare boring into me, loaded with silent reprimand. It seems like making my life more difficult than usual is his favorite pastime.
The locker room is filled with the inviting aroma of fresh-baked bread, smoked meats, and savory sauces. I inhale deeply, relishing the heavenly scent. The smell almost makes me forget I’m working for a tyrant.
We’re not assigned lockers, but since we’re all creatures of habit, I open the one I always use. While rummaging through the metal box for my apron, my deodorant and lipstick tumble out, clattering onto the wooden bench and then to the floor.
“Gosh, I’m such a mess,” I mumble, aware that every passing second is crucial. Randy is likely blowing his top by now.
Quickly, I pick up the fallen items. My locker is crammed with so many books that there’s hardly space for anything else. I’m back in school. This time I’m learning the culinary arts. I’m enrolled in an intensive program that boasts it will make me a professional chef in just eighteen months. I’m sixteen months in, and I would say that I’ve come a long way since the beginning. Most of my favorite classes are for baking, though. I’m not sure I’ve taken to cooking more than I have to whipping up delectable breads and desserts. I love the art of baking more than anything.
Suddenly, the door swings open, and I instinctively straighten up. Randy strides in. His imposing physique and striking good looks command my attention.
“I didn’t anticipate you being late every day after we discussed your plans for school,” he says, his tone so disapproving.
After finding my apron, I slam the locker shut. “Neither did I,” I reply, meeting his glare with defiance.
I watch the show as he widens his stance and folds his arms—his favorite pose. And really, you know, I should not be attracted to how he looks right now. That’s why I make a concerted effort to divert my gaze from his chiseled biceps and the tattoo on the front of his forearm, which I really, really like a lot.
“Why should I continue supporting you when you’re constantly late?” His words jolt me from a momentary lapse of judgment.
As usual, when we’re locking horns, I mirror his posture, folding my arms and meeting his gaze with a snarl. “Are you seriously asking me that?”
“Yes, I am.” As usual, his tone drips with arrogance.
What a jerk. I roll my eyes dismissively. “Well, you didn’t seem to have much of a problem with my tardiness after my muffins and tarts sold in record numbers.”
Yes, indeed. A few months back, one of the bakers abruptly left in the middle of his shift. I stayed late to finish his work, but instead of following his recipes, I used my own. For the next three weeks, customers couldn’t get enough of them. Fortunately, Randy set aside his pride, albeit reluctantly, and asked for my recipe. Now my pastries have earned a permanent spot on the menu.
“Beginner’s luck,” he snaps dismissively.
I gasp, offended. “Are you really this big of a jerk?”
Randy shakes his head and massages the bridge of his nose as if my tardiness is the ultimate inconvenience. “Damn it, Gina. Could you just stop being late from now on?”
I open my mouth, poised to stick to my guns.
“Because,” he continues, “I’ve shown you a lot of leniency.”
