The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,4

If you’re going to cause trouble, why don’t you leave? I don’t have any beef with you, okay? I’ll even grab you a to-go box, Ms. Sweet,” I add icily.

She scoffs and is about to tell me off when there’s a commotion at the front of the restaurant.

I look toward the noise, and see the first trickle of a camera crew filing into the lobby. I turn to tell Nadia she better not fuck anything up, but she’s gone, and I’m not about to chase her into the bathroom.

Instead, I sigh and start for the front when I see my hosts come up to greet them. Everyone’s smiling and shaking hands. My spirits lift a little. I have an amazing team with me tonight. It doesn’t matter what Nadia says.

I’m heading back to the kitchen to see where we’re at when I catch sight of a head of jet black hair pushing through the crew, into the restaurant.

Four

Stephen

“You kidding me, Chase?” I ask, incredulous.

“Sorry, Stephen. I got the names mixed up,” Chase replies, childishly bouncing up and down his seat as if he could make the limo go faster. “They’re very similar, after all.” His midwestern accent is coming out; as it does when he thinks I’m angry.

I’m worse than angry. I’m hangry.

We went all the way across town to a restaurant called ‘Genesis’, which turned out to be some hole-in-the-wall vegan spot, popular among lesbians and men with dreadlocks. Very much not the place we were scheduled to hit.

We were supposed to be shooting at some new spot called ‘Origin’.

“‘Genesis’, ‘Origin’,” Chase explains, holding up his hands. “Basically, the same thing.”

Just as I’m starting to protest, the limo screeches to a stop.

“We’re here!” Chase calls out. He opens the door, and I slip out.

There’s paparazzi hanging outside the restaurant. I squint through the flashbulbs. Some fans are huddled on the sidewalk, and I take a moment to sign a few autographs, including one on a copy of my first book.

Then Chase grabs my elbow to steer me inside. I glance at my watch. “It’s already eight o’clock,” I whisper to him.

“I know…”

“They’ll be in the middle of the dinner rush.”

“I know…”

“We were supposed to be here before the dinner rush.”

“I know, but if the kitchen crashes during their first dinner rush, then fuck ‘em, right?”

I shrug. I guess that’s true. C’est la vie. Still, there’s a part of me who’s thinking how much I would have hated the arrival of someone like me back when I was the buzzed-out chef opening his new place.

Inside, Kenny and the crew are already set up. I turn on my TV charm.

“All right, Origin,” I grin at the cameras. “Let’s begin your Hard Opening.”

The hostess has already come out from behind the stand. She leads me to a table near the windows.

As I follow her, I check out the crowd. It’s a who’s-who of the dining scene. Rich, only-in-New-York types. People who consider themselves professional foodies, even though they’ve never cooked a single meal in their life; all of them with palettes as unsophisticated as a dog’s. Yet, you need them to keep your restaurant afloat until the people who really do know food discover you. That second round of diners will become your regulars, while these gadflies zip off to the latest hot opening.

I’m impressed this joint has brought out this many of that crowd. If the food is halfway decent, it bodes well for them.

The hostess gestures to my seat and I slip in. Out of the corner of my eye, I note where Kenny has the cameras set, making sure I frame myself well for the shots he’s set up. I just pray we won’t need to get a spit-take at this place.

“Hel-loooo, Mr. Longvale,” coos the tenor of a man’s voice. I look up to see a lanky guy in what appears to be a fitted chef’s coat standing over me. “I’m Paulie,” he says, extending a hand. “I’m Origin’s sous-chef. We have a great menu planned for you, tonight.”

“All right, Paulie,” I say, giving his hand a rough shake. “Where’s the head chef?”

“Slaving away over a hot stove,” he says, smiling at the cameras.

“Maybe you should get your ass in there and start helping then,” I say sternly.

“Yessir!” he squeals. After one more smile at the camera, I watch him rush back to the kitchen. It’s partly open to the dining room, putting the chefs on display for the diners like performers before an audience.

The design gives me