The Lost Recipe for Happiness - By Barbara O'Neal Page 0,55
look. “This is a key maneuver, Julian. I need to be the general in this kitchen, and I have to establish my authority on their terms. If you show up, I’m just another fuck.”
Her language startled him, and at the same time, he felt a deepening respect for her. The unwashed hair in a ponytail, the lack of makeup, the simple gray T-shirt that hid her breasts, the slightly baggy jeans that did nothing to enhance her curvy bottom—all of that was part of the game, too.
She was far brighter than he’d realized. But a woman didn’t rise through the ranks of high-end restaurant kitchens without a lot of guts and intelligence. Period.
Maybe he’d just been thinking of her as another fuck. Or something. A line of heat worked its way down from his ears to his jaw, prickling. “I get it.”
She picked up her fork. “Thanks.”
“Well, will you call me when you’re home, anyway? I’ll worry.”
Her luscious, crooked smile reached her eyes. “Yes, boss. That I can do.”
And for one long second, he saw her beneath him, both of them naked, her round white shoulder beneath his lips, his hands in her hair, a flash so hot and vivid that he had no idea where it was coming from. Jesus.
He picked up his fork, dug with great attention into the food. “Thank you.”
Elena pushed into the restaurant at 7. Her hip and leg were starting to ache again, but she couldn’t afford to take anything for the pain. She made her rounds through the front of the house, checking to make sure it would look its best that evening, and she was once again pleased by the elegant sense of tropical joy Patrick had brought to the rooms.
Juan and his family sat at a table near the kitchen, and she stopped to say hello to them. His wife was a shy pretty girl, not much more than twenty-five, and she was quite pregnant with her third child. Their two boys, about two and four, ran trucks around their plates, taking bites of plain enchiladas every so often. Their parents conversed quietly. Spying Elena, Juan stood. “Please, Jefa, join us.”
She nodded at his wife. “Hola, Penny, how are you feeling?”
“Good.” They all spoke in Spanish. “The boys are learning their numbers. We might even have a new house!”
“Fantastic.”
“I told Penny we had to work tonight, so she brought the children to have supper with me.”
“I’m glad you’ll be here, Juan. Thank you.”
His gentle dark eyes rested on her face. “You need a day off. Soon.”
“You know better.”
“I can take care of things for a day or two. Me and Ivan.”
“I know you can, and I appreciate the offer. Once things are up and running, I’ll be happier.”
He nodded, raised one finger. “I asked my brother to send me something for you,” he said, and pulled a small bottle out of his pocket. It was a holy water bottle, with a carved plastic rose on the cap, and a picture on the front of Juan Diego and the Virgin of Guadalupe. “It’s water from the church in Mexico City. And a rosary. He had them blessed for you.”
Elena stared hard at the bottle and beads, trying to rein in her emotions. “That was very kind of you,” she said, and her voice betrayed her. A tear escaped into her lashes and she picked up the gifts. “Thank you.” She kissed his cheek.
He nodded. “Cook with the saints tonight, eh?”
Elena laughed, draping the rosary around her neck, where it fell, cool and reassuring, against her breasts. “I will.”
A half hour later, a small knot of employees had gathered, Ivan among them. He was dressed in surprisingly elegant street clothes, a silk and wool sweater in vivid turquoise, with a loop of black scarf around his neck. In his ears were silver rings. He looked like a well-to-do pirate. His jaw was freshly shaved, and he smelled faintly of some exotic aftershave.
“Hey, Jefa,” he drawled, eyes glittering beneath heavy lids as he looked behind her. “Where’s Patrick?”
No wonder he was all dressed up. “He’s still in Denver. Not sure when he’ll be here.”
A slight shrug. “Too bad.”
In the kitchen, a festive mood reigned. The radio played an oldies station, and bags of groceries sat on the stainless steel worktable. Juan stood guard over the bags, and behind him were the troops—two dishwashers, the three ski boys and three Mexicans who made up the line, and Alan, from the front of the house. Ivan