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Authors: Lila Moore
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lonely.
I started to talk myself into calling him. I told myself I was being foolish trying to teach him a lesson. What did Moreau have to learn from me? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I was being prideful. It was silly really. We were both adults. If our relationship turned out to be nothing but sex, so what? At least I’d have fun in the process. Loneliness could take a backseat for a while.
I took out my cell phone and dialed Moreau’s number. It rang and rang. The longer I listened, the more convinced I became that I was making a mistake. I should have stuck to my original plan. It was best to make Moreau come to me.
I started to hang up when there was a sound from the other end of the line. There was a shuffling noise as if the phone had been dropped. I heard a woman giggle in the background.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
I recognized the voice as Gwen. What was she doing with Moreau’s phone?
“Hello?” she said again in a singsong voice.
“Hi, I’m looking for Moreau.”
“He’s indisposed right now.”
Again she giggled, as if someone was tickling her.
“Okay. Tell him I called,” I replied lamely.
“Sure,” she said, sounding as if she wasn’t paying attention.
The line went dead. I suddenly lost my appetite.
The next day I walked into the kitchen expecting a scene. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because I spent all night obsessing over Moreau like a crazy person. I’d been foolish to think that after being rejected by me he would go home alone and suffer in silence. Moreau was famous. Women practically lined up to sleep with him. He would have no trouble replacing me with another girl.
Most guys don’t understand that you want them to earn your attention. He probably took my rejection at face value. He assumed I wasn’t interested then decided to go find a girl that was. In this case, the girl turned out to be Gwen. Why her of all people? He swore there was nothing between them. Why would he run straight into her arms? He must have lied. I bet they were dating. At the very least, they had a history.
Not that it mattered. Moreau and I had only slept together once. It was no big deal. He could do whatever he wanted and so could I. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself as I walked into the kitchen.
I was fifteen minutes early, but the kitchen was packed. It looked like I was the last one to arrive. Everyone was getting ready for the day. Everything looked normal. I scanned the room for Gwen. I don’t know why I expected her to be there that morning. Thankfully, she was nowhere in sight.
Moreau was arguing with a deliveryman. Apparently they’d shorted us on the order. I threw my things down on my station, attracting the attention of the new entrée preparer. He smiled at me brightly. I recognized him as one of the line cooks.
“The first week is the hardest,” he said.
“It gets easier?”
“Moreau doesn’t get any easier, but you’ll get tougher. You have to have thick skin to survive in Moreau’s kitchen.”
I looked down at my hands. I had a wound across my palm from where I’d cut myself a week ago. It was almost healed, but it would leave a pink scar. What if I wasn’t cut out for this life? Were my dreams of opening my own restaurant a foolish fantasy?
“You’ll do fine,” he said, as if reading my mind.
“What?” His words startled me.
“Don’t worry about Moreau. Just focus on doing what you do best: cooking. I’ve tasted your food. It’s amazing. As long as you focus on your strengths you’ll do fine.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “My name’s Bea.”
“I’m Tyson.”
I shook his hand. It was warm and rough. The way he was looking at me made me blush. I turned back to my work to find Moreau standing a few feet away. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he was watching us. He looked pissed. What had I done wrong now?
“Making friends?” he asked snidely.
“Just introducing myself,” Tyson
I started to talk myself into calling him. I told myself I was being foolish trying to teach him a lesson. What did Moreau have to learn from me? You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I was being prideful. It was silly really. We were both adults. If our relationship turned out to be nothing but sex, so what? At least I’d have fun in the process. Loneliness could take a backseat for a while.
I took out my cell phone and dialed Moreau’s number. It rang and rang. The longer I listened, the more convinced I became that I was making a mistake. I should have stuck to my original plan. It was best to make Moreau come to me.
I started to hang up when there was a sound from the other end of the line. There was a shuffling noise as if the phone had been dropped. I heard a woman giggle in the background.
“Hello?” she said breathlessly.
I recognized the voice as Gwen. What was she doing with Moreau’s phone?
“Hello?” she said again in a singsong voice.
“Hi, I’m looking for Moreau.”
“He’s indisposed right now.”
Again she giggled, as if someone was tickling her.
“Okay. Tell him I called,” I replied lamely.
“Sure,” she said, sounding as if she wasn’t paying attention.
The line went dead. I suddenly lost my appetite.
The next day I walked into the kitchen expecting a scene. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because I spent all night obsessing over Moreau like a crazy person. I’d been foolish to think that after being rejected by me he would go home alone and suffer in silence. Moreau was famous. Women practically lined up to sleep with him. He would have no trouble replacing me with another girl.
Most guys don’t understand that you want them to earn your attention. He probably took my rejection at face value. He assumed I wasn’t interested then decided to go find a girl that was. In this case, the girl turned out to be Gwen. Why her of all people? He swore there was nothing between them. Why would he run straight into her arms? He must have lied. I bet they were dating. At the very least, they had a history.
Not that it mattered. Moreau and I had only slept together once. It was no big deal. He could do whatever he wanted and so could I. At least that’s what I tried to tell myself as I walked into the kitchen.
I was fifteen minutes early, but the kitchen was packed. It looked like I was the last one to arrive. Everyone was getting ready for the day. Everything looked normal. I scanned the room for Gwen. I don’t know why I expected her to be there that morning. Thankfully, she was nowhere in sight.
Moreau was arguing with a deliveryman. Apparently they’d shorted us on the order. I threw my things down on my station, attracting the attention of the new entrée preparer. He smiled at me brightly. I recognized him as one of the line cooks.
“The first week is the hardest,” he said.
“It gets easier?”
“Moreau doesn’t get any easier, but you’ll get tougher. You have to have thick skin to survive in Moreau’s kitchen.”
I looked down at my hands. I had a wound across my palm from where I’d cut myself a week ago. It was almost healed, but it would leave a pink scar. What if I wasn’t cut out for this life? Were my dreams of opening my own restaurant a foolish fantasy?
“You’ll do fine,” he said, as if reading my mind.
“What?” His words startled me.
“Don’t worry about Moreau. Just focus on doing what you do best: cooking. I’ve tasted your food. It’s amazing. As long as you focus on your strengths you’ll do fine.”
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “My name’s Bea.”
“I’m Tyson.”
I shook his hand. It was warm and rough. The way he was looking at me made me blush. I turned back to my work to find Moreau standing a few feet away. His arms were crossed in front of his chest and he was watching us. He looked pissed. What had I done wrong now?
“Making friends?” he asked snidely.
“Just introducing myself,” Tyson
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