Pick Me... Or Else

Chapter 1 

Olivia

“Two lamb, one chicken, one beef!” I call out, snatching the order docket from the machine as soon as it prints.

“Yes, chef!” comes the immediate reply from my staff.

I keep a close eye on Jenna in particular and am happy to see she doesn’t look up when she answers this time.

Good, I think with a proud smile, watching as she stirs a simmering pepper sauce, sending a heavenly aroma through the kitchen. She’s finally getting the hang of it.

Another docket prints, just as two plates from an earlier order slide up onto the stainless steel countertop, ready for my quality control.

“One vegetarian, one fish!” I call out from the docket at the same time I’m casting an eye over the plates. They look good, and I decide it’s about time to do the rounds in the dining room.

I make it a point to do this when I can, even though I’d much rather stay back here in the chaotic, vibrant, bustling clockwork of my kitchen than be out there making small talk.

But the patrons always get a kick out of a visit from the owner and, when the feedback is positive, it makes me feel on top of the world. Besides, tonight’s relatively quiet, and the kitchen is more than capable of running on its own.

“Jenna!” I call, motioning for her to come over. “You’re calling orders now.”

I can see the terror in her eyes, but she nods anyway.

I shoot her a reassuring smile. “It’s a quiet night, don’t stress. You’ll be fine.”

“Yes, chef,” she replies. “And thanks, Olivia,” she adds quietly.

I give her a soft clap on the shoulder as she comes around to my side of the counter, and I grab the two plates to deliver myself.

As predicted, the whole dining room turns to look at me as I make my way across the floor in full chef’s garb. I like to tell myself it’s the patron who gets a kick out of this, but I have to admit, I don’t mind it so much either, at least this part of it.

It’s not often a Black woman gets looked at with this kind of awe, and I relish every minute of it. I should. I earned it after all.

“Here you are,” I say with a smile as I approach a young couple at the window table and place their meals down. “I’m Olivia, and this is my place. I hope you have a wonderful meal and if there’s anything we can do for you to make this night a special one, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

“Thank you so much,” says the woman, smiling at me and then looking eagerly at the fish I just set down in front of her. “This smells and looks incredible.”

I give a little bow of gratitude before leaving them to their meal, but inside I’m brimming with pride. This is the reason I got into the restaurant business – to bring people joy through my food. I gave up everything to follow this dream, and it’s moments like this that remind me it was all worth it.

“Hi, folks,” I say, approaching a table of four with the same warm, welcoming smile. “I hope you’re enjoying your evening so far?”

They haven’t received their meals yet, but I can see they’re already well into an expensive bottle of red wine.

“Oh, very much,” replies one man, an older guy with wisps of white hair peppering his otherwise dark gray crop. He has a warm but refined vibe to him and as he lifts his glass, I understand why.

“This Becker Estate is a wonderful vintage,” he tells me with a voice that says he knows what he’s talking about. “I get the feeling we’re going to need another before long but tell me, do you have anything from the St. Clair Estate? I was just telling my friends about their 2004 Cabernet Sauvignon, and you would absolutely make my night if you have it.”

The man looks up at me with a hopeful smile but my chest feels like it’s about to turn to ice. Luckily, I manage to pull myself out of the sudden daze that the name St. Clair always brings up in me and get on with the interaction as a restaurant owner should.

“I’m afraid we don’t carry St. Clair here,” I tell him, forcing an apologetic smile. “But may I suggest the 2006 Truchard Cabernet Sauvignon? Like the 2004 St. Clair, it’s a dry wine, with smoky notes and gritty tannins.”

The words make me feel almost nauseous, but I manage to keep it together for long enough to get through the rest of the conversation before heading to the wine rack. Not that I want to be there staring at the very thing that reminds me of Damien St. Clair, but it’s inevitable that, in this business, I’m going to be reminded of my ex from time to time.

As I ran my fingers along the bottles looking for the Truchard, I can’t help but remember the days before everything got so complicated – before I found out he wasn’t just some regular waiter but heir to the St. Clair wine fortune, before his parents kicked up a fuss about him working a job that was supposedly far beneath him, before I understood I would never be welcome in their world. 

Before I figured out I didn’t really have a chance with him in the first place.

Back before all that, he was just Damien – the man that made me laugh, who charmed me every night that we waited tables together until I agreed to go out with him, the man who held my hand on that first date and told me how beautiful he thought I was.

I catch myself thinking these thoughts and shake my head, as if trying to loosen the memories from my mind. I realize I’m daydreaming, and it annoys me that just the mention of his name can still get under my skin like that. I left that life behind, severed those ties when I chose to go to France and study culinary arts instead of having my heart broken by a guy way out of my league, at least from his parents’ perspective. There’s no room for that in my head anymore.

I find the Truchard and manage to deliver it to the table with the kind of hospitality my customers deserve, warm smile and all. But as I walk back to the kitchen I feel the smile fade, and by the time I get back to calling orders, I’m well and truly grumpy.

“Isaac!” I call to my sous chef. “Where are the orders for table four? They’re on their second bottle of wine and still haven’t eaten. Do you think we’re running a bar here or a restaurant?”

“Relax,” he calls back, frowning over a flaming pan. “They’re already on the counter!”

I look over just as one of the waiters whisks away the plates, but I’m not in the mood to be spoken down to by an employee.

“What was that?” I ask, making my way around the counter and into the kitchen proper. In my voice is a warning.

“Olivia,” he says, and I hear the exasperation in his voice. He doesn’t even look up from what he’s doing. “I’m running the kitchen, I’m getting out the orders, what more do you want?”

I’m about to tell him I want his respect, rather than his attitude, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Olivia?” comes Jenna’s voice. I turn to see her, looking up at me with concern in her eyes.

The expression deflates me, and she gestures with her head that we should step aside.

“Are you okay?” she asks, laying a hand on my arm. “You seemed really happy when you left. Did something happen?”

I sigh. Jenna might be my mentee, but she’s also my friend and that means she’s very good at reading me. It’s that kind of attentiveness that gives me assurance she’ll be a great chef one day. And it makes her a great friend now.

“It’s Damien,” I tell her.

Jenna makes a face. “Like, your ex, Damien?”

I nod. “I mean, it’s nothing, really. But one of the patrons started talking about St. Clair wine, and it really got to me.”

I take a deep breath, feeling the ache in my chest where love used to be.

“It still hurts to think about him,” I admit.

Jenna nods. “I know you really loved him,” she commiserates. “But you left him for a reason. You told me, it would never have worked, right? And that was, what? Ten years ago?”

I nod, knowing how silly it must sound to be lamenting over something that happened so long ago, not to mention something that I chose. I could have tried to force my way into his fancy, wine-mogul family, but I had to be realistic. At least that’s what I’ve spent the last ten years telling myself.

“I know I’m a lot younger than you, so maybe my advice means nothing,” Jenna tells me gently. “But if you ask me, I think you need to look ahead. The past is done, and look at everything you’ve achieved since then!” She gestures around us with a grin. “So what if someone asked for a St. Clair? It’s just wine. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.”

I manage a smile. “You know, you’re pretty wise,” I tell her. “Are you sure you’re not, like, a reincarnation of some guru or something?”

Jenna laughs and with a gentle smile, I usher her back into the kitchen.

Another order docket prints just as we get there and soon I’m back to calling orders. My mind is once again filled with things other than Damien St. Clair, even if a dull ache still lingers in my chest.