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My real answer—how the fuck should I know? I’m no fortune-teller—was on the tip of my tongue. But Taylor didn’t deserve my real answer, and neither did anyone else here. Some of the people working for me had to drive an hour each way to get here. They chose to work at this restaurant because it was important for them to get the experience, to nail this thing called upscale, gourmet dining.
I leaned a hip on Taylor’s counter. “GS Properties is planning to build a mall. Last I checked the blueprint, the food court alone is going to contain twenty restaurants. Most will be high street, but chain companies offer insurance, 401(k), all the frills of a steady job. I tied it into the deal that all of my staff would be employed in the establishment of their choice once they start operating.” They were also going to get a contract comparable to the one they currently had with Descartes.
“I don’t want a steady job; I want to make art.” Taylor’s eyes zinged with determination.
I moved through to the seafood station, snatching a head of garlic from the chef’s hand. “Garlic goes in the pan last. Pay attention or hang your apron.” I crushed the garlic over a butcher block with the base of my palm, glancing at Taylor. “Employers will be clamoring for you, considering your experience. Then there’s the hotel’s restaurant. The investors said they want it to be fine dining to the highest degree. Seasonally updated menu, nine courses, European executive chef. I’m talking a half-Michelin-starred eatery, at the very least.”
“Yours has three.” Taylor folded his arms, curving a brow.
I shrugged. “Genius is hard to come by and impossible to keep.”
“Will you write us letters of recommendation?” Melanie peeped up, one of my chef de parties. “In case, you know, some of us decide to move away and try our luck in a big city?”
I stopped to lift the lid of the saucepan she was working on, sniffing. “I’ll sign whatever you print out.”
She nodded briskly, drawing a breath. “Thank you.”
“What about the existing small businesses? Do you think they’ll survive the change?” Dustin, the busboy, rubbed the back of his neck fidgetily. His dad had a mom-and-pop shop down the street.
“Most of them,” I replied honestly. “I dug into GS Properties’ proposal, and they seem to focus on the swanky shopping experience. They’re not gonna open a Walmart here.”
Dustin’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Sweet. Thanks for letting me know.”
“What about your new restaurant?” Taylor ran his tongue over his inner cheek, contemplative. “The one in London. Are you bringing in any…local enforcement?”
“Rhy’s done with my ass.” I shook my head. “He’s moving to Manhattan.”
“I meant anyone you think is a good fit.”
The penny dropped. Poor kid wanted to come with me. Problem was, I didn’t do baggage. I’d only ever had Rhyland tag along because I knew he wasn’t deadweight. Even during our heydays working together in France, Italy, and Monaco, Rhyland and I had always done our own thing. Different apartments, different social circles, schedules, hobbies, women. He was allergic to routine, and I was allergic to…humans, I guess.
Speak of the devil, my best friend rushed into the kitchen, his face whiter than the Brady Bunch cast. He grabbed my shoulder. “Row.”
I turned around, sending him a leveled look. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got an injured staffer.” Rhy pushed his sleeves up his massive arms. “Cut forehead.”
What was he telling me this for? I only knew one way to treat people—like crap.
“Do they need medical attention?” I spooned a handful of sauce from a pan, bringing it to my lips. “Too much rosemary,” I chided my chef de partie.
“Unsure.” Rhy scratched his neck. “Wanna come see?”
“Do I look like a doctor? Ask them,” I said slowly. “Or better yet, call an ambulance. We don’t need another Usher lawsuit.”
“First of all—OSHA. Second, I wanted you to know because—”
“Unless they bled into someone’s plate and a health inspector just walked in to witness it, I really don’t see—”
“It’s Cal,” he cut into my words, face thunderous. “Cal is injured.”
All the blood drained from my face. It rushed straight to my feet, which started moving. Running. I pushed Rhyland out of the way. He collapsed against metal shelves laden with bowls and whisks. The contents spilled over the floor with noisy clanks. I stormed the dining area, whipping my head, looking for her through the white-hot panic clouding my eyesight.
How had she cut her forehead? What the hell had she done now? Bang her head against a steak knife as a party trick? Had someone hurt her? A man?
Where the hell is she?
“I took her to the upstairs office to avoid a commotion.” Rhy appeared by my side, rubbing the back of his head with an accusatory glare. “Zeta is taking care of her. She dropped by with some lasagna for your dinner.”
