Skip to main content

Today's Reading

PROLOGUE

amuse-bouche

POPPY

For the record, I don't mean for the shrimp to hit Jack Hartman in the face.

It's just that Julia's stupidly perfect Hamptons wedding has been dragging on for hours, my dress is sticking to my skin like plastic wrap, and I've endured one too many conversations about what I'm doing with my life. The champagne I've been helping myself to all afternoon is starting to go to my head, and fine, okay, it still hurts that I'm only Julia's bridesmaid, not maid of honor, because she wasn't sure if I could handle it. Didn't want to stress you out, Pop Tart!

I can't say anything to my sister, or make my aunts understand what a brand deal is, so naturally, I've been hovering by the outdoor kitchen, listening to Jack Hartman bark out orders to his underlings while stealing bites of uneaten canapés. His voice is loud and grating. Whenever his gaze catches mine, he scowls like my presence personally offends him.

My parents love him. I've heard his name constantly in the two years since Dad outright stole him from one of the top restaurants in California for a position within the Winfield Group. Mom just did a feature on him for Salt & Savor, the food magazine where she's editor-in-chief. You'd think he was a Floridian Anthony Bourain, the way they fawn over him. My mother, famously hard to impress when it comes to food, called a meal she had at Pastiche last month "transcendent." Jack's signature lobster Thermidor.

Still, that doesn't mean he gets to be a curmudgeonly ass on Julia and Caroline's big day. There's no way that people aren't hearing his voice over the live music. I glare at him as I set down another empty champagne glass.

"Martinez, pick it up," he barks over his shoulder as he finishes off a plate with delicately placed caviar. His deep green eyes flick to mine. Flat. Bored.

"Stay out of my kitchen," he orders.

I cock my head to the side. "I'm not in your kitchen." Technically, my Jimmy Choo heels are just at the edge of the tent.

He looks up at the tent ceiling, as if gathering patience. This is delightful. Even better than nailing a tricky photoshoot on the first try. He drags his hand down his face. He has a set of tattoos on his knuckles that weren't there the last time I saw him, tiny knives lined up like soldiers.

"How charming," I say, gesturing to them. "I'm sure you have to beat off the ladies with a stick."

His glower deepens. "And I'm sure the only men interested in you want access to your trust fund, Princess."

Princess, that awful nickname he gave me last Thanksgiving, which Dad inexplicably invited him to. To eat with us, not even to cook. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. The next second, a cocktail shrimp is in my hand, and then before I can think better of it—or think, period—it's hurtling through the air with accuracy that can only be attributed to my years of beer pong victories. It bounces off his forehead and lands in a tureen of sauce with a wet plop.

Whoops.

I wobble in my heels, unsure whether to laugh or flee. Behind him, one of the other chefs gasps, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

Jack looks like he wants to flay me alive and add me to the menu.

Scratch that. He looks like he wants to flay me alive, add me to the menu, and save my bones for stock.

Running, then. Running would be good.

I don't manage one step before his calloused hand encircles my wrist.

Jack yanks me to his chest with all the gentleness of a rancher wrangling a stubborn bull. He smells like smoke and spice and sweat, no doubt a result of spending the day working in an outdoor kitchen. I raise my chin, looking into his flinty eyes. Black hair curls over his forehead. Bold tattoos peek out from the collar and rolled-up sleeves of his singed, stained chef 's jacket. We're in a corner of the large, outdoor tent nestled on the lawn of the Maidstone Club, just beyond the reach of the crowd.

What our readers think...

Yes, Chef: A Grumpy x Sunshine Kitchen Romance | Online Book Clubs Skip to main content

Today's Reading

PROLOGUE

amuse-bouche

POPPY

For the record, I don't mean for the shrimp to hit Jack Hartman in the face.

It's just that Julia's stupidly perfect Hamptons wedding has been dragging on for hours, my dress is sticking to my skin like plastic wrap, and I've endured one too many conversations about what I'm doing with my life. The champagne I've been helping myself to all afternoon is starting to go to my head, and fine, okay, it still hurts that I'm only Julia's bridesmaid, not maid of honor, because she wasn't sure if I could handle it. Didn't want to stress you out, Pop Tart!

I can't say anything to my sister, or make my aunts understand what a brand deal is, so naturally, I've been hovering by the outdoor kitchen, listening to Jack Hartman bark out orders to his underlings while stealing bites of uneaten canapés. His voice is loud and grating. Whenever his gaze catches mine, he scowls like my presence personally offends him.

My parents love him. I've heard his name constantly in the two years since Dad outright stole him from one of the top restaurants in California for a position within the Winfield Group. Mom just did a feature on him for Salt & Savor, the food magazine where she's editor-in-chief. You'd think he was a Floridian Anthony Bourain, the way they fawn over him. My mother, famously hard to impress when it comes to food, called a meal she had at Pastiche last month "transcendent." Jack's signature lobster Thermidor.

Still, that doesn't mean he gets to be a curmudgeonly ass on Julia and Caroline's big day. There's no way that people aren't hearing his voice over the live music. I glare at him as I set down another empty champagne glass.

"Martinez, pick it up," he barks over his shoulder as he finishes off a plate with delicately placed caviar. His deep green eyes flick to mine. Flat. Bored.

"Stay out of my kitchen," he orders.

I cock my head to the side. "I'm not in your kitchen." Technically, my Jimmy Choo heels are just at the edge of the tent.

He looks up at the tent ceiling, as if gathering patience. This is delightful. Even better than nailing a tricky photoshoot on the first try. He drags his hand down his face. He has a set of tattoos on his knuckles that weren't there the last time I saw him, tiny knives lined up like soldiers.

"How charming," I say, gesturing to them. "I'm sure you have to beat off the ladies with a stick."

His glower deepens. "And I'm sure the only men interested in you want access to your trust fund, Princess."

Princess, that awful nickname he gave me last Thanksgiving, which Dad inexplicably invited him to. To eat with us, not even to cook. Heat creeps up the back of my neck. The next second, a cocktail shrimp is in my hand, and then before I can think better of it—or think, period—it's hurtling through the air with accuracy that can only be attributed to my years of beer pong victories. It bounces off his forehead and lands in a tureen of sauce with a wet plop.

Whoops.

I wobble in my heels, unsure whether to laugh or flee. Behind him, one of the other chefs gasps, quickly covering her mouth with her hand.

Jack looks like he wants to flay me alive and add me to the menu.

Scratch that. He looks like he wants to flay me alive, add me to the menu, and save my bones for stock.

Running, then. Running would be good.

I don't manage one step before his calloused hand encircles my wrist.

Jack yanks me to his chest with all the gentleness of a rancher wrangling a stubborn bull. He smells like smoke and spice and sweat, no doubt a result of spending the day working in an outdoor kitchen. I raise my chin, looking into his flinty eyes. Black hair curls over his forehead. Bold tattoos peek out from the collar and rolled-up sleeves of his singed, stained chef 's jacket. We're in a corner of the large, outdoor tent nestled on the lawn of the Maidstone Club, just beyond the reach of the crowd.

What our readers think...