Love On the Line: An Enemies to Lovers Standalone Read online

  Love On the Line

  An Enemies to Lovers Romance Standalone

  Adriana Peck

  Copyright © 2020 Adriana Peck

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Any models depicted on the cover of this work is only that: a model. They do not represent any of the characters in this work of fiction. Any semblance to any person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design by: Adriana Peck

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Love On the Line

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Books By This Author

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  Love On the Line

  An Enemies to Lovers Romance

  By Adriana Peck

  One

  I leave my third interview of the day feeling absolutely hopeless. Interview after interview after interview really takes a toll on one’s own sanity, especially after having to sell yourself to a total stranger only to get completely and utterly rejected. Nobody likes the interview process. No-one. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a psychopath.

  Today alone, three different high end restaurants have told me that I’m not a good fit: Big Momma’s Kitchen gave me a resounding ‘no’, The Place Down the Street said they’d ‘consider their options and call me back’, which is probably a no, and even Death by Chocolate said they’re not looking for any extra work right now, despite the ‘NOW HIRING’ sign just outside the door.

  Now, I’m starting to internalize the rejections. I don’t think I can be a good fit anywhere. This has all been one waking nightmare. As I swim around in my anxiousness, I feel pulled further and further away from reality until something yanks me back to reality.

  “Rosa? Rosa Bertolini?”

  I’m sitting in the lobby of another restaurant. Outside, it’s still fairly early in the morning. This one looks quaint enough. There’s fresco paintings adorning the wall. There are columns in every corner of the room, giving the whole place a very regal feeling. As I sit in the empty front house of Restaurante Porto, a lone figure stands in the doorway to the kitchen directly ahead of me, past the overturned chairs sitting on wiped down tables. The rest of the staff clearly isn’t in yet, it’s just me and the boss doing the interview. I stand up nervously, looking over at the figure in the doorway.

  “Yes?” I ask, my voice shaky with anxiety.

  The figure standing in the doorway says nothing, only waves me back, gesturing for me to come join him. I oblige.

  The man is Roberto Dello Gambio, the owner of the Restaurante Porto. He’s a stocky man, tanned by the harsh Sicilian landscape. I can tell he’s from the old country by the way he shakes my hand. Strong grip, but light enough to let me know I’m not in any danger. His hands are heavily scarred and calloused, probably after years of hard work in his own kitchen. His slicked back black hair tucked away under a hairnet tells me he’s got better things to do than blow-drying. And I agree—Restaurante Porto is one of the most popular spots in all of downtown, I know it’s one of the busiest restaurants in the city. Of course the boss doesn’t have time to do his hair before coming in. Look at me, though. I’m a hot mess after three interviews this morning. My dyed black hair’s probably horribly messy from the wind outside. I’m shaking. I don’t really know what I’m doing standing here in the Restaurante Porto—I’m lucky just to be here and getting another shot to prove myself.

  After we shake hands, Roberto Dello Gambio tells me how he prefers to be addressed.

  “Call me Chef Gambio,” he says with his deep, gravelly voice. “I’ve owned this spot for ten years. I’m looking for a new head chef who can keep things in order back here. So, Rosa, you’re applying to be my head chef, then, correct?”

  I nod. “That’s correct.”

  “So I can safely assume that you can cook. That is fantastic.” I can hear Gambio’s Sicilian accent peek through his voice as he speaks. “Polenta, do you know?”

  I nod.

  “Make some for me. However you would like. We serve it grilled here, but I just want to see how you fare in my kitchen.”

  Chef Gambio shows me to a fully-stocked countertop. Waiting for me are mixing bowls, spoons, and a stovetop. There’s a bag of yellow grain sitting in between all of it. Polenta, an old-style Italian dish, can be cooked a million different ways; once you’ve cooked up the grits, polenta can be fried, grilled, baked, or served cold, even.

  I ponder the grains and consider my options. I pour the measurements, figure out how much water I’ll need. I’m going to grill the polenta, just so Chef Gambio knows I can work the menu here the way it’s supposed to.

  Chef Gambio watches me like a hawk as I mix the grits. It takes fifteen minutes for boiling water to cook polenta grains, and during this I tell the chef my work history. I go out on a limb and tell him that I haven’t gotten any job offers since graduating culinary school: the economy’s tough, after all, and new graduates are often pushed to the wayside in favor of those with hard experience.

  “And so, tell me: why come here?” He asks, and I look at the bubbling grits like they’re going to tell me whatever answer Gambio wants to hear. My mind goes blank for just a moment, and I worry that moment alone is going to cost me the interview.

  “You’re the most authentic Italian restaurant in town. The other spots don’t compare to you. Those interviews were just practice for here, really.”

  My answer works. Chef Gambio smiles as I look away, back to stirring the grits. They’re almost ready to pull from the heat, ready to be shaped and baked before being thrown onto a hot grill. I turn around, reach past Gambio and turn on the oven and grill I’ll need to use next.

  “Initiative. I like it.” And then I realize that I didn’t ask Chef if I could use either of the appliances. Oh, God. But Gambio is still smiling, still interested to see how I’m going to make the polenta appeal to restauranteurs and critics. I’ve still got a solid chance here.

  As the oven preheats, I shape the polenta, pouring the thickened creamy soup onto a tray which I lay flat and shape into a single large square. Once the oven’s ready, I throw the polenta in and set the timer for fifteen minutes to give the polenta a solid form, ready to grill. As it warms up in the oven, Chef Gambio shows me around the back of the kitchen some more. A
good sign, I know. He doesn’t strike me as the type to waste any time with an interview that’s bombing.

  “Here’s the dish station, of course. Three sinks you’ll never use. I have a kid nephew who does our dishes, I am sure you will like him. His name is Benicio. Good kid. Likes to talk. Don’t oblige him if you can help it.”

  I nod, then look back at the oven. The polenta has three minutes left before it’s ready to grill. It’s both terrifying and liberating to have a set timer on a job interview. It gives every potentially awkward moment an end in sight. I know the fear will be over eventually, but what scares me even more is the notion that I could really work here one day. Restaurante Porto starts to feel a little more welcoming as Chef Gambio continues to show me around the back of the house.

  He takes me over to a wooden cabinet with a door taller than me. It’s big enough for me to fit inside. Heck, I bet two people could fit inside if they really wanted to.

  “Here’s the pantry. Dry goods always stocked. Never hesitate to ask me to order something in. I know the grocers in this neighborhood very well.”

  I hear a door open somewhere in the front of the restaurant. Chef Gambio looks up, too, and smiles.

  “That’s probably Mason. He’s always in early. He’s…” Gambio trails off as a tall, lanky figure enters the kitchen. “He’s a character. I think you two will get along just fine.” But Chef Gambio doesn’t seem too convinced of his own statement, but that doesn’t matter. Mason stands in the doorway of the kitchen, and I look up at him.

  Immediately I forget all about the polenta. Mason is tall, handsome even, dressed in a loose-fitting but still professional purple button-down shirt with a tie and jacket. His tie is loosened, his jacket unbuttoned. His messy blonde hair looks wet, as if he didn’t have time to completely dry before getting dressed and sprinting to work early. His set jawline impresses me, and I can see tattoos peeking out from behind smock sleeves and his collar. I imagine him undressing in my mind before I shake the thought out. It’s unprofessional. I shoot Mason with a nervous ‘hello’ wrapped up in a sultry, yet unsure smile. He doesn’t smile back and instead looks over to Chef Gambio.

  “Oh god, you got a new girl already, then? Can’t wait to see how this one goes.”

  Gambio pauses, a neutral expression on his face. “Rosa’s going to be our new head chef, alright,” and my heart skips a beat just as the timer for the oven goes off.

  I’m going to be the new head chef! But what happened to the last one, I wonder?

  But I can’t let that distract me from my interview. My polenta is ready for the grill, so I dive back over to the oven, take the tray out and begin cutting different shapes for the polenta to take form. Circles, squares, and a couple of unmentionable lumps that I’m sure would get thrown out during a real dinner rush. I have a few good-sized polenta shapes, and the grill is hot enough, so I throw them on. The fire wooshes upwards, licking the underside of the golden-yellow polenta as it singes and chars.

  Mason doesn’t watch the polenta at all. He’s already prepping for the dinner rush, I can see. He’s taking his jacket off and hanging it up, washing his hands thoroughly, and I find myself distracted once I see Mason’s tattoos on his forearms. They’re faded, probably from years of work in a hot kitchen over a stove. Some band logos, I assume. I see a barbed wire that circles a veiny forearm. Some old-school flames as well. Very badass. Mason seems like a tough guy, alright. One with a dark side. I figure it’s best to stay away from him and his bad side until I’ve got a read on him. I figure I might as well make some small talk while my polenta grills.

  “So, Mason,” I ask, “do you work in the kitchen, too?”

  Mason just shakes his head no as he continues washing his hands. Chef Gambio chuckles and answers for him.

  “He used to, but not anymore. Now he’s our head waiter, just where I like him.”

  “Why?” I ask, but Mason shakes his head again, even more intently than the last time.

  “His ex-girlfriend worked back here,” Gambio says. “And him, too. When she left I put him in the front of the house to keep him busy. Distract him.”

  Oh. Well, then. Mason doesn’t react to Gambio’s testimony, so I assume it’s true.

  I look back at my polenta. The first side’s done, and I flip the pieces over so they can get grilled equally on both sides. The char lines are perfect on most of the shapes, and I am astounded at just how well this is going. I feel more confident with every second that I, Rosa Bertolini, might actually get this job at the Restaurante Porto as the new head chef. Chef Gambio seems to think I’ll get the job, anyways. Maybe I can start believing in myself.

  Mason starts rolling silverware in the front of the restaurant, preparing for the customers, while I finish preparing and plating the polenta for Chef Gambio. I do a smear of vegetable puree, lay out the polenta in an attractive fashion and garnish with some herbs I found on a spice rack. I take a deep breath, say a silent prayer, and look up at Chef Gambio.

  He smiles, nods.

  “You’re hired.”

  I look out to the front of the restaurant where Mason still sits, rolling silverware, his sleeves rolled up tight. He shoots me a handsomely sly wink, and my stomach drops with anxious optimism. I can’t get a read on this guy at all.

  Chef Gambio shakes my hand, tells me I can start tomorrow. I’ll be in at three-thirty on the dot, ready to start going over the menu before customers start to roll in at five.

  I lay awake in bed that night, unable to sleep a wink. Funny enough, it’s a wink keeping me from sleeping a wink. Mason’s wink. I can’t get it out of my head. Charming. Mysterious. I can’t wait to work with him, but I dread it all the same. What if I mess something up? What if Chef Gambio made a mistake in hiring me? Can I handle a real dinner rush at Restaurante Porto?

  All anxieties aside, I am at least ready to be the head chef I’ve always wanted to be. I know I’ll be ready.

  Two

  “You don't talk much, do you?” I ask Mason as he places an order card silently into my hand. On my first day, he’s been in and out of the kitchen all night, relaying orders from the front of the restaurant back to us, the kitchen staff.

  “No. Get back to work.”

  He frowns, turns around, and wheels back out to the front of the building. Pushing open the doors, I suddenly catch a wave of chatter and conversation that nearly drowns out my own thoughts. It’s amazing how someone practically silent like Mason can handle working in such a social setting. I know I couldn’t.

  It’s six-thirty in the evening. Customers have already come and gone, and earlier today Chef Gambio showed me the ropes, making sure I’m familiar enough with the menu to start cooking tonight. Chef Gambio’s just left on a business errand, and he says he won’t be back until way after close. I’m to lock up tonight on my own, on my first night, no less. But I’m totally ready. The Restaurante Porto has typical Italian dishes, such as pasta or prepared chicken; I’m one hundred per-cent in my element here. I think there’s even a few French dishes thrown in for good measure. Oh, well. My Ma taught me how to cook authentic home-style Italian dishes back home, and I’m not worried at all about messing anything up tonight on my first day.

  I look back at the dish I’m preparing. Pasta alla Norma, a standard Italian pasta with fried eggplant and tomato sauce. I’ve thrown the eggplant into a sizzling pan of oil, and my penne pasta noodles are ready to go whenever the eggplant’s ready. I’ve got another two minutes on the eggplant before I toss in the sauce and combine with the noodles before topping everything with cheese and basil leaves.

  Just before I finish topping the plate with cheese, I realize that I’m not making the dish to-order. I look back at Mason’s order card. His handwriting is messy but professional enough. I see the order now: ALLERGIES: NO CHEESE, NO BASIL.

  I can’t take the cheese off now. It’s sprinkled over, everything topped in a perfect white-powdery covering. I’ve already put basil into the dish, too, I know it’s in th
e sauce covering the penne. My gut sinks. I’m halfway through a dish and I’ve gone and messed up the whole order. I look around in a panic and I see the other staff don’t seem to notice anything wrong yet. I take one look over each shoulder, just to make sure nobody’s watching me closely. When I see that Chef Gambio is nowhere to be found, I scape the dish into a trash can and start anew.

  There are two other chefs here besides me: Chef Robby, and Chef Julia. They seem to work in tandem, each one performing half a task. They’ve been putting out plate after plate perfectly, and Mason stops by each time to say hello to them. He stops by the dishwashing station too, where Gambio’s nephew Benicio works hard at keeping the dirty dish pile at an absolute minimum. I know Mason used to work in the kitchen with everyone here, and seeing him talk with Chefs Robby and Julia just makes it all the more clear that he’s more at home back here than me. But why does Gambio keep Mason on the waitstaff? I still don’t know the full answer, and I’m afraid to ask this early on.

  I keep working on starting the Pasta alla Norma again, making sure nobody’s seen me trashing the entire dish. I figure my first day can’t get much worse than that.

  Mason comes back in, slamming open the kitchen door. In half a second, he’s in front of me, and I look down to my plate and act as busy as possible. He knows I started over. I can feel his eyes gazing down at me condescendingly.

  “What’s up?” he asks, almost too casually for the dinner rush he’s been facing outside. I feel anxious with him standing over me, and I cower and try to make myself smaller.

  “Sorry. I messed the Norma up. Had to start over, I didn’t see the note about the cheese and basil. It’ll be done soon, I promise.”

  Mason raises his voice sternly. “Make sure it’s right this time. I can’t tell the customers there’ll be another delay. They’re already pissed at me. You want to go tell them you boned up their order? Because I don’t.”