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Chapter One
Sophia
My stomach knots as my monster-sized brother Tor pulls his monster-sized black Maybach to the curb in front of the terminal doors.
The skycap tips his head toward the tinted windows as he approaches and the tap tap tap of my molars clicking together keeps time with my speeding heartbeat. I know I’ve forgotten something.
Did I put the Dark Opal basil on the produce order?
What if a food critic pops in for a meal, and I’m not there?
I don’t remember if I told the sommelier to watch the thermostat on the upper cooler. It was off by two degrees yesterday…
I swallow and wonder for the hundredth time in the twenty-minute drive to the airport if bailing on my annual trip with friends from my culinary institute days is an option.
I press on a smile as Natalie, Tor’s wife of four years—who has become one of my best friends—turns to look at me from the passenger seat.
“I miss margaritas,” she says, one hand on her eight-month pregnant belly as Tor flashes her a look. “I’m pretty sure this whole situation here was the result of a few too many margaritas, if I remember.”
She winks at me as my brother grunts. Shifting in my seat, the leather makes a loud stuttering squeak as I dig my fingertips into my palms.
I hate being away from my restaurant. It’s like leaving a helpless infant in the care of a gang of psychotic toddlers.
“I don’t need margaritas to knock you up,” my oldest brother grumbles. “My super sperm hit the mark every time.”
“Oh my God. Please.” I squeeze my eyes shut, shaking my head. “Stop. I’m still working on getting the image of you two on my desk four years ago out of my mind. I do not need to hear anything about margaritas and super sperm…”
Natalie chirps on a giggle and shrugs as Tor reaches over and pinches her chin, giving her a look that I know means as soon as I’m inside the airport, he’s going to find a spot to park the car and do some things I don’t want to think about.
“Maybe you’ll find yourself a little ‘knockered’ on vaca,” Natalie says on a smile as Tor presses his fingers over her mouth.
“Don’t say that to her. She’s not getting knockered-anything, not as long as I’m alive.” He clears his throat, drumming the fingers not touching his wife on the steering wheel, his nostrils flaring, then turns to me. “Call if you need anything, anytime. Either me or Cyrus will hop on a plane or make some phone calls…whatever you need. I didn’t like the sound of how things went last year on this trip of yours. Your so-called friends sound like morons.”
My two older brothers are more like stand-in fathers, since mine has never been in the picture. They are monolithically protective, and maybe that’s why I’m still single at twenty-six years old. That, along with my seemingly pathological obsession with cooking and running my restaurants, which takes up what feels like twenty-seven hours a day, twelve days a week.
Tor is my business partner at both my restaurants, and Cyrus takes care of my personal investments, making me a great passive income on the side. He also makes sure my house stays standing and my car gets the oil changed every 3000 miles. They are great, if not somewhat oppressive at times, but I know how lucky I am to have them.
“They’re not morons,” I start as I gather my backpack and tap my phone a few times to bring up my boarding pass. “The chef/restaurant life is tough. They self-medicate a bit too much, maybe. It’s stressful.”
“You’re supposed to be going there to de-stress,” he grumbles, as Natalie offers a sympathetic look, “not babysit a bunch of ‘friends’ who sound like they need a stint in rehab instead of a debauched vacation in…where are you going again? What island?”
“San Phillipe. Between the Keys and the Bahamas. It’s close enough for a three-day trip and great food. Two five-star restaurants, and it’s known for its amazing street food as well.” My mouth waters, thinking of the new culinary experiences that await, and a renewed excitement perks my spirits.
I’d always wanted to be a chef and own a restaurant as far back as I can remember. I cooked with my mother and grandmother since I could stand on a stool at the counter. I love the idea of putting ingredients together to create something magnificent that brings people pleasure and joy.
Watching people enjoy what I cook is like giving love to them, something I am pretty sure I’m never going to find in the traditional sense because work is my life and I can’t see any man putting up with my workaholic tendencies—or my smart mouth and general pain-in-the-ass nature, as my brothers call it.
Besides that, there’s my epically-wary nature when it comes to men. My brothers excluded, I don’t think men actually know how to tell the truth. Having a lying ass, abandoning piece of shit for a father probably has something to do with the sunshine and rainbows prickly cactus I am today.
I hate, hate lying.
Lie to me and that’s a one-way ticket out of my life. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.
No second chances.
So, saying dreams of white dresses are not on my dance card is an understatement. But, I’m not missing anything.
Food doesn’t lie. Food doesn’t leave. I fucking love food.
