Savor You (Fusion #5)(14)

“It’ll be a hit. I promise.”

“Should we make a sign saying that you’re the guest chef today?” She smirks, but then her eyes widen. “Oh, there could be something to that.”

“This is your kitchen, Mia.”

“Fucking right it is, but if we put on the outside chalkboard that Camden Sawyer is here as a guest chef, it’ll pull some people in. Riley would agree with me.” She nods decisively.

“I don’t give even one shit about my name being anywhere. I’m just trying to take something off your list.”

“That’s nice of you,” she says and gestures to her right. “There are extra aprons and hats in there. You can use that workstation,” she nods to the right, “and if you need anything, just ask. I tend to move fast, and I get cranky if people get in my way, but I’ll try to rein that in since you’re doing me a solid.”

God, she’s remarkable.

“Sounds good.”

She stops and props her hands on her hips. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this.”

“It’ll be like the good ol’ days,” I reply, making her roll her eyes. “We always worked well together.”

“I guess we should see if that still sticks,” she says with a nod. “Okay, here’s what I need . . .”



It’s two thirty before we have a chance to take any kind of break. The lunch crowd was intense, but Mia moved through it all with complete confidence.

I glance her way and grin. She’s shaking her hips, the way she always does when she’s stirring something, and turns around to fetch her pepper grinder.

“What?” she asks.

“I’m just watching.”

“Why?” She looks at her own butt and then frowns at me. “Do I have something on my ass?”

“No.” I reach out and tuck a stray piece of hair behind her ear. “I always did like to watch you cook.”

“Well, you’re the only one. I’m usually grouchy, but it’s just because I want everything to be just perfect, and most of the people I’ve hired have the shittiest work ethic ever. You’re not bad, though.”

“Thanks.”

She laughs and suddenly wraps her arms around my middle in a hug. It’s over as quickly as it began and she’s back at the stovetop before I can say anything.

“I appreciate your help today,” she says at last.

“It’s been fun. I haven’t worked in a restaurant kitchen in about three years, and this reminds me that I miss it.”

“Being a big-shot celebrity chef can’t suck,” she says. Her red bow lips are pursed in a flirty smile and I want to kiss them so bad it hurts.

“You should know,” I reply, earning an eye-roll.

“I had one special on TV,” she reminds me. “I’m hardly a celebrity.”

“Cooking has been good to me,” I admit. “I’m doing what I love to do, and it compensates me well.”

“That’s all any of us wants,” she says. “Trevor said the other day that you have a new cookbook coming out?”

“Just before Christmas, yeah,” I reply. “They’re fun, but a lot of work.”

“I can only imagine,” she says. “Just coming up with ways to freshen up the menu a few times a year is tough. I can’t imagine doing a whole cookbook.”

“When does your dinner chef arrive?” I ask.

“You’re looking at her.”

She walks away from me, into the walk-in freezer this time and when she comes back out carrying five pounds of butter, I take it from her and set it on the countertop.

“Why don’t you have more help?” I ask.

“Honestly, it’s just easier to do it myself. No one knows my recipes like I do, and they don’t taste the same when someone else makes them. It’s like someone other than your mom making your favorite childhood dish. It’s never the same.”

“Mia, you need a day off now and then.”

“You sound like everyone else,” she says and unwraps the butter. “I’m fine.”

“Why did you sleep late today?”

“Camden, I don’t have time for your expert psychological analysis today. It may be slower right now, but in about two hours the dinner rush is going to hit, and I won’t be able to stop moving until we close the kitchen at ten. I overslept today because I was fucking tired.” She turns to me. “That’s the truth.”

But it’s not that simple.

“Okay.” I nod and turn back to what I was doing. “I’ll need more garlic. Do you have some in the fridge?”

“You don’t have to stay for dinner.”

“I’m not leaving you here to work by yourself for another eight fucking hours, Mia.” She turns to say something but I hold my hand up, stopping her. “The question was about garlic, not whether or not I’m staying.”

She glares at me and props her hands on her hips.

“Does that look usually intimidate your employees?”

“Yes.”

“I can see that.” I nod. “Garlic?”

“Fridge,” she says with a sigh. “I’m not paying you for today.”