The Billionaire’s Bun In Her Oven - Ellie Rowe Page 0,1

Joseph from the club, but this is reliable information! When have I steered you wrong?” He has a point, which only makes me feel worse.

“Hang on, I didn’t see her name on the reservation list at all —”

Paulie shakes his head. “She’s got an alias. Mark my words, she’ll be here tonight.”

Nadia Quint is a major pain in my ass. She’s an excellent chef, to her credit, but she’s the biggest bitch I’ve ever met. And she’s always had it in for me. It’s not my fault I always come out on top; I work hard, too!

Even through school, she was one step behind. If you ask me, it’s because of her shit attitude. You can’t be that much of a hateful asshole and make good food. It gets soaked into the ingredients or something. Of course, she doesn’t agree.

In fact, she blames me for not catching a break of her own. There was an incident at my last place where she tried to tear me down, and she’s been after me ever since.

“Just keep your periscope up, okay? I don’t want her fucking this up for me.”

“Aye, aye!” Paulie gives me a periscope routine with his hand that ends in a limp wrist joke. Cute. “Although I have to say, my periscope will be up a little higher for our bad boy celebrity chef if you know what I mean.”

I push him and he laughs. “What! He’s beyond hot, don’t you think?”

“He could look like a lump of potatoes; I don’t really care. What I do care about is whether or not he likes my food, so... best behavior! Besides, he’s not on your team.”

Paulie clicks his tongue at me and strolls back to the kitchen to take his post and holler at the rest of the crew.

I said I didn’t care, but Paulie’s got good taste. Stephen Longvale is exceptionally handsome. One of those made-for-TV types. Gorgeous black hair, bright eyes and one of those physiques that’s so toned, you can hardly believe he deals with food at all.

I wave my hands in front of my face as if to clear him from my mind.

I’ve got to focus.

I stride through the kitchen, beaming at my chefs before I head to the front doors. Taking a deep breath, I fling them wide open to the growing line of customers.

I can’t wait to see what this night will bring.

Two

Stephen

“Ugh. Oh my – yech!”

I try to get my tongue away from the foul flavors assaulting it. Unfortunately, I’ve taken a big bite. There is nowhere for my tastebuds to take refuge.

I spit the offensive food into my napkin. Which, to add insult to injury, isn’t even a real cloth napkin - just some shitty polyester blend.

Some more noises of disgust leak out of me as I try to spit out every last, little piece of the so-called ‘stuffed crab’ I’ve just sampled. Finally, with one last blech, I purge my mouth completely.

“Cut!”

Still wiping, I squint past the lights to see Kenny coming toward me. He ducks under the boom mic, his afro barely clearing the long pole, and says to me, “Stephen, we need to take it again.”

“Again?” I exclaim, reaching for some water. “Are you kidding me? Not for another billion dollars, Kenny.”

“It’s just that we didn’t have a great angle of you spitting the food out.”

Kenny, a lean black man who always seems to be wearing a new trendy pair of glasses, is my director. He’s helmed almost every episode of my TV show, Hard Opening, since we premiered four years ago. He’s as much responsible for the stratospheric success of it as I am. And, normally, I’d do anything he asked.

Normally.

“Sorry, Kenny.”

“Let me get a good angle. It’ll become a meme overnight.”

“You take a bite,” I say, edging the plate toward him.

“I’m allergic to shellfish.”

“After trying that, I wish I was, too!” I gargle some water.

“It’s really that bad?” Kenny asks, learning closer to inspect it.

I rattle the plate to get the stuffed crab on it to shake a little and say, in a low, mournful voice, “I shall haunt your dreams, Kenny… forget the iodine… fear the wrath of my aftertaste!”

Kenny chuckles and holds up his hands. “OK, OK…” He stands up and calls to a stage manager, “Bring the chef.”

A moment later, the poor chef/owner sits across me, looking woefully at the barely-touched meal in front of me. I somberly fold my hands on the table and lean forward, like a doctor about to share a