My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,75
what for.”
“Can I threaten him to get it?” she asks with evil excitement written all over her face.
“Absolutely. I’m not going down like this. Especially because of some bitch like Meredith Wildeman.”
Chapter 14
Lorenzo
“Okay, Gilberto, after you trim those steaks, I want you to start working with Juan on the shrimp,” I tell the cook I’m overseeing as he starts with another filet round. “Make sure the shrimp are perfect. They’re the showpiece of one of the pasta courses. And save the shells for the stock!”
Gilberto nods, answering, “Yes, Chef.”
I’ve spent as much time as I can in the kitchen with Esmar and his crew, laughing and joking as we prep and work side by side. They are a well-oiled machine, providing interesting and flavorful dishes to the resort’s restaurant. Some might look down on a ‘hotel chef’ a bit, snobbily thinking that a true chef owns his own restaurant, but I can see the fire in Esmar and sense a kindred spirit in him. He works where he does because he is passionate about food and experience, not business and the hours of paperwork being the owner requires.
I feel like I have already learned a lot from him and will miss him after this event. But not yet because there is still much to be done.
While Abigail has gone to do her impromptu photo shoot, I’m getting ready for tomorrow’s rehearsal dinner which requires one hundred meals, and Saturday’s wedding, which is less than twenty-four hours later and will serve over three hundred.
These are not events you prepare for on the fly or on the day of, and as such, the true hard work begins today. Now.
Vegetables have to be cleaned and cut, proteins shaped and prepped, and fruits selected. About the only thing we aren’t prepping are the starches, but that’s because risotto can’t be prepared in advance and the pasta sheeter is going to be cranking out fresh fettuccine tomorrow.
Cranking. Such a fun American word, I think. CR-anking, cr-ANK-ing, crank-ING, I repeat in my head, unable to stop the smile from blooming on my lips as I emphasize various syllables. Languages are such interesting and funny things. An entire group of people simply agreeing that this sound means that thing. If only we could all agree more often, I think wistfully.
I know something I could crank. Or more precisely, someone.
I tilt my head, trying to decide if my crude wording makes sense in English, but ultimately, my mind focuses on the better part of the question. Abigail. Mia rosa.
The thought of Abi brings a surge of tension underneath my apron. She was all that I imagined and more. Last night was magical.
It wasn’t just the almost unlimited passion we had for each other and the touches that left me feeling like I could make love to her body all night long and never, ever tire. It was the pleasure I felt from every gasp, every sound she made, and every touch and look, even every smell.
It wasn’t the setting, although Esmar’s suggestion of the ‘Blue Lagoon’ certainly was a good one. It was the woman I was with. She was better than I could’ve dreamed possible. She was a goddess.
Right now, I would do anything to give her the same pleasure and feeling that we shared last night. The memories flood my mind, and I relive them, my cock surging to full hardness. I’m so lost in what I’m thinking about, in fact, that I don’t notice what I’m doing until the flames flash up, and suddenly, I’ve got a pan on fire.
“Shit!” I growl, grabbing a nearby lid and tossing it on top. Well, there goes that batch of herb-infused olive oil for the vinaigrette.
“Lorenzo, Lorenzo!” Esmar calls, hurrying over with a concerned look on his face. “What happened?”
“Shit. Sorry, Chef,” I tell him, pulling the pan off the fire and setting it aside to cool. Looking at it, I sigh. “At least it wasn’t the good olive oil.”
He chuckles good-naturedly, clucking his tongue. “Are you all right, my boy?”
Chefs are notorious for being fickle, and I’ve seen chefs go on screaming rants over a lot less, but he seems more concerned for me than that I almost burned his kitchen down. “Yes. Just a little tired. Had a busy night.”
Proving that we have an audience of cooks watching to see Esmar’s reaction to my fuck-up, a friendly chorus of oohs and oh, yeahs go through the crew.
Gilberto, ever the jokester, calls out, “You used Chef’s suggestion