In high school, I preferred working at the family restaurant—when we used to have a family restaurant—rather than going to the mall with my friends. If I wasn’t working, I favored staying home to learn the recipes my mother learned from my grandmother during the first years of my parents’ marriage.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the Susie Homemaker type. My best friend Minka once callously referred to my bedroom as a “homeless encampment.” But to understand who I am, all anyone needs to know is this: I hate my big butt, but I live, breathe, eat, sleep, dream food.
Succulent seared scallops. Tender rabbit legs soaked in Chianti and pan-fried to a crisp. Dry-aged ribeye cooked to a perfect medium-rare and blanketed in a crackling peppercorn crust. A delicate, flaky branzino with a bright squeeze of lemon. A decadent chocolate marquise drizzled with a silky creme Anglaise.
Food is my safe haven. Other than great sex, good food is my favorite sensory experience. It’s also the source of my greatest weakness: Men who love food.
When I watch a man flip a sizzling steak, I don’t watch the meat. I watch the man-meat. The tendrils of muscle in his forearms as he turns his wrist are bewitching. The utter focus on a man’s face as he tastes a sauce makes my heart race. When I see a man carefully twisting a mound of pasta onto a clean plate, my mouth salivates.
Unfortunately, my blind spot for men who can cook is the reason I’m in my current situation.
Ollie and I pass through a pastry prep area, then another set of swinging doors, and into the main kitchen at Forked Restaurant. But as soon as we’re inside, I come to a dead stop.
A male chef is standing at a stainless steel table, rubbing and slapping spices all over a giant Tomahawk steak.
The man is gorgeous. Okay, beyond gorgeous. But it isn’t his good looks that make my breath catch in my throat.
It’s not what he is that surprises me. It’s who he is.
The man standing in the kitchen of the only restaurant in New York that may actually hire me after six months of unemployment is none other than my ex-boyfriend, Edward Thorne.
The ex who said something so horrible to me, I had no choice but to quit my hard-earned sous chef job on the spot six months ago, walking out on the most important service of my life. The ex who got me blacklisted from every reputable restaurant in New York by telling Food & Beverage magazine I cost him his second Michelin star. The ex who simultaneously ruined my career and my life.
If you get involved with your new boss, I’m sending you to live with your grandma. My father spoke these words when he told me he’d secured me an interview with his new client.
I’m almost thirty years old.
Sending me to live with my grandmother is a threat my father hasn’t used on me since I left home when I was eighteen. Living with your parents when you’re an unemployed adult should be considered adult-child abuse. At this point, I’m just waiting for child protective services to rescue me.
My beloved father works as an account manager at a venture capital firm, which specializes in hospitality projects. He thought I acted hastily when I quit my sous chef position six months ago. Of course, I haven’t shared with him the exact words my jerk ex-boyfriend said to me before I walked out on him that day.
When my dad made me promise I wouldn’t date my new boss, he knew the scenario he was setting into motion. I can’t determine if this is plain cruel, or it’s just my father’s way of forcing me to tackle my problems head-on instead of running away from them. Or maybe my father actually thinks he can force a reconciliation between Edward and me.
No. I’m pretty certain he hates Edward as much as I do, after the six months of job-rejection-hell he put me through.
Well, I’m not going to grovel at Edward’s feet for a job. And Daddy’s girl or not, I refuse to give my father the satisfaction of saying “I told you so” with respect to me quitting the last one. It seems I’m in for rejection number thirty-one.
I take a few steps into the kitchen and stop, my lip curling as I fix Edward with a piercing glare. Here we go.
Chapter 2
ALICE
I stare at Edward for a moment, taking in the confusing scene I’ve just walked in on. First, the guy standing next to him is plating a dish while Edward preps the meat. Edward is usually more of a finisher than a prepper. Second, the dish the other guy is working on appears to be some sort of Tomahawk steak topped with fried chicken. Third, Edward’s hairstyle seems shorter and messier than his usual neat quiff. And strangest of all, my ex-boyfriend, who claimed he would never defile his body temple with a tattoo, seems to have inked his entire left arm and part of his right arm.
Ollie clears her throat. “Ahem. Chef?”
Edward turns toward us and a huge, infuriatingly sexy grin spreads across his face. “Oh, hey. I didn’t see you there,” he says in his deeply rich British accent.
I fight like hell to keep from rolling my eyes at his greeting. It’s so typical of Edward to make everyone feel invisible.
His eyes lock on my face and there’s a strange—but brief—moment of recognition before he says, “You’re here for the interview, right?”
I can’t help but cock an eyebrow at his question. He’s acting as if this is our first time meeting. Like we haven’t seen each other naked about a hundred times?
He chuckles and begins saying something, but I barely catch every other word over the roar inside my head.
“I’m sorry… You must be… I do look a lot…”
He wipes his hands on his apron as he walks toward me.
I take a step back, and my voice climbs a couple octaves as he extends his hand toward me. “Are you seriously trying to shake my hand?”
Edward laughs again, and the sound both confuses me and puts me on edge. Why does his laugh sound…off? Everything about him seems different. But other than the tattoos and the hairstyle, I can’t quite put my finger on it.
Maybe it’s the mischievous glint in his dark eyes. Something that used to make him look sinister now makes him look devious, almost playful.
Or maybe it’s not Edward who’s changed. Maybe it’s me.
Just as this thought crosses my mind, he opens his mouth again. “I’m Ethan,” he says, one dark eyebrow flicking upward as he awaits my reaction.
For a moment, I wonder what on earth could have compelled Edward to change his name and get a bunch of tattoos. Did our breakup cause him to have some sort of mental breakdown? An identity crisis?
But just as I’m beginning to feel sorry for him, I remember a critical piece of information.
Edward mentioned once or twice that he had a brother who still lived in England. But did he ever mention his brother’s name? He certainly never mentioned they were identical twins.
“You’re… You’re…” I can’t seem to say the word.
He nods. “Edward and I are twins.”
My heart pounds like a meat mallet against my chest. “You… You knew who I was when you agreed to this interview?”
“You mean, do I know what a brilliant sous chef you are?” he says, then gives a cute little shrug. “Of course. Everyone knows,” he replies. “But you’re not interviewing for the sous chef position.”