That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(101)

It’s kind of a disaster.

“Where the fuck are the eggs?” Eric whisper-shouts to the staff. “Don’t tell me we’re out of eggs.” Just as he asks, a new wave of orders comes rushing in on the printer, announcing that there’s no end in sight. I don’t think we were prepared for this level of activity, and it’s showing.

“Here,” Alex, one of the sous-chefs, says, bringing Eric a carton of eggs.

I tried telling him a few times to chill, but every time I said anything, he just got more irritated. I stopped trying to handle him an hour ago and have stuck to what I do best: cooking.

Eve has popped into the kitchen a few times, looking frantic, delivering some plates herself and helping out wherever she can, even at the bar, but she hasn’t spared a glance in my direction. Last time she came in, I stared for far too long and burned one of the baked bean sandwiches.

My head is not in it tonight, and it’s one of the reasons I keep making mistakes, those little mistakes that add up to a subpar experience, like at the Lighthouse Restaurant. Missed salt here, bread on the grill for a little too long, caramel sauce not quite buttery enough. I’m producing, but it’s not food I’m particularly proud of, and I know why: my entire world has been tilted on its axis.

Eric isn’t talking to me.

Eve won’t look at me.

And every time my dad checks in to see how things are going, I can feel his dream slowly slip from my fingers.

“Did you hear?” Alex asks, stepping up next to me with a bundle of veggies in his arms. “Terryn Bowers, the Foodie Fangirl, and Sir Wine-a-Lot were here.”

My spatula pauses midflip at the mention of the three top food bloggers in the New England area. They were here? In Knight and Port? Eating our food?

Oh. Fuck.

I’m about to question Alex when Eric appears beside me. “What did you just say?” he asks.

“Uh . . .” Alex looks terrified. “Eve got the three best bloggers to review us for the soft opening.”

“And she didn’t fucking tell us? What did they order?”

Alex swallows hard. “I . . . I’m not sure.”

“Dude, lay off,” I say, pressing my hand to Eric’s rapidly rising and falling chest. “Alex is just the messenger.”

Eric swats my hand away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Before I can reply, he heads back to his grill and tends to his food, his presence like a ball of tension, while all of our new employees scramble around, trying to make sure they don’t piss off the temperamental bosses.

Fucking great.



For the first time in five hours, I let out a long, pent-up breath and lean against the wall of the kitchen.

Holy fuck. That was a shit show.

Everyone is gone, staff and patrons, Eric is over by the grill, making himself something to eat, and I’m resisting the urge to walk up behind him and return the punch he landed on me last night.

He was a prick the entire night. He made the working environment unbearable and snapped at everyone who tried to help—even snapped at my dad once. Yeah, the entire night was stressful, and I don’t think it was our best work, but it didn’t call for this level of rage.

Knowing I need to confront him, I push off the wall and start to unbutton my chef jacket. “Congratulations on being the epitome of an asshole tonight,” I say.

“Point that finger right back at yourself,” he says, his back still turned to me. “You hold the title for asshole.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Flipping the grill off, he faces me, arms crossed over his chest. “How do you think tonight went, Reid? Do you think it was a success? Because from my point of view it was a complete disaster.”

“Yeah, you made that crystal clear,” I shoot back.

“Because we were ill prepared. You fucked up so many times, burned so many dishes, that we ran out of food.” Eve chooses this moment to step into the kitchen, but that doesn’t stop Eric from shooting off, “We ran out of drinks, the waitstaff confused dishes, our ceiling fans stopped working at one point for God knows what reason, and we didn’t have a quick enough turnaround, which meant that the line stretched out the door and down the street. And why do you think all those things happened?” He doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Because you two”—he gestures to me and Eve—“decided to distract each other rather than preparing for tonight. Sneaking behind my back, making me look like a goddamn fool.” He rips off his chef jacket and tosses it to the ground. “We could have been so much goddamn better than this, but you chose sex over the restaurant.”

“You’re way off base,” I say, stepping forward. “I did what you asked me to do—I broke up with Eve, and it fucking hurt—but I listened because I didn’t want to fuck up the restaurant or our friendship, if you could call it that. Despite how much it hurt, I powered through and put together this restaurant—”

“Tonight was a joke. You’re telling me you weren’t distracted? That your head was fully in Knight and Port?” He turns to Eve. “And can you tell me you did everything you could to make this night a success? If you were more on top of things, Eve, you would have told us about the bloggers, we wouldn’t have run out of food, we—”