Taste: A Bad Boy Chef Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Taste

  Natalie Knight

  Triumvirate Press

  Taste

  By Natalie Knight

  Copyright 2017 by Triumvirate Press

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work is intended for adults only.

  Get free books, new release emails, and bonus chapters -- sign up for my newsletter!

  To my mom, who always believed in me.

  Contents

  1. Palmer

  2. Nicole

  3. Palmer

  4. Nicole

  5. Nicole

  6. Palmer

  7. Nicole

  8. Nicole

  9. Palmer

  10. Nicole

  11. Palmer

  12. Nicole

  13. Nicole

  14. Palmer

  15. Nicole

  16. Nicole

  17. Palmer

  18. Nicole

  19. Palmer

  20. Nicole

  21. Palmer

  22. Nicole

  23. Nicole

  24. Palmer

  25. Nicole

  26. Nicole

  27. Palmer

  28. Nicole

  29. Palmer

  30. Palmer

  31. Nicole

  32. Palmer

  33. Nicole

  34. Palmer

  35. Nicole

  36. Nicole

  Thanks for Reading

  Chapter 1

  Palmer

  I finger the steak, tracing the marbled flecks of fat.

  I observe it with steady concentration and follow each streak as if it were a roadmap, pointing me home.

  A well-marbled steak is a beautiful thing.

  It's perfection.

  It's redemption.

  Is it also salvation?

  My mouth moistens as I think about the silky texture of melted fat.

  The depth of flavor. The tenderness. The way it transcends a moment in time.

  I grind salt and pepper over one side of the steak, and then flip it over to season the other side. Then I heat a cast iron skillet and when it's at the desired temperature, I drop a pad of butter into its center. I watch as the butter circles, spins, and sizzles around the pan until it's a melted puddle.

  Then I place the steak on top, listening to the hot skillet kiss the raw slab of red meat, slowly caramelizing it.

  I've made my fortune in the restaurant business.

  Flipping food. Perfecting my craft.

  Making a name for myself.

  But I want more.

  I want to elevate the culinary landscape of New York City … and the clock's ticking faster than Julia Childs chopping an onion.

  And this restaurant here—The Pearl on Park—is a longtime dream come true. I've made my fortune through high-end cuisine—you know, the kind of food that requires three spoons and three forks just to eat it? The kind of food accompanied by waiters in suits and white linens. I've become one of the most famous chefs in the world, running a chain of high-quality, extremely fancy restaurants.

  You've probably seen me profiled in publications like Bon Appetite, Saveur, Food and Wine, Cooks Illustrated, and The Art of Eating.

  I've made food that'll give you an orgasm as soon as it hits your tongue.

  Beautifully crusted baguettes, fresh meat that'll make you moan, and warm cakes gooier than a woman begging for more.

  But this restaurant is different.

  I'm still creating dishes that are good, orgasmic good, but now I'm pushing boundaries. Salty, fatty, sweet—the kind of food that makes you want to sink your face in and say fuck it, I'm eating this.

  Maybe I'm stubborn, or stupid, or both, but you have to be all of those things and more to make it in the restaurant business.

  You see all of these tools in this kitchen—the vacuum machines, pH meters, and liquid nitrogen? I'm debunking cooking myths. I don't care what any other chef in this city is doing. If it's working for me, just get out of my way.

  Let me run my restaurants the way I want to run them.

  And this place here—these stainless steel appliances, the swanky Park Ave vibe, the top of the line table linens and décor—it's a longtime dream come true.

  I have no interest in what the chef is doing next door, or across the street, or even across the fucking globe. Why? Because the only thing that matters is my kitchen.

  I look down at the steak and spoon brown butter over it, basting it. It's now crusted and cooked to perfection, and I remove it from the skillet. It's caramelized around the edges with a beautiful brown crunch I can't wait to place between my teeth.

  If you visit The Pearl on Park, this'll be one of the best steaks you've ever had; I promise. It's going to be one of the new dishes that I present.

  I plate the steak and carefully slice a chunk of meat off with a serrated knife. There's a crisp char on the outside and rareness in the middle that feels like butter on my tongue.

  "Fuck, that's good!" I can't help but yell out and slam my fist down on the countertop.

  "You made me jump!" I look over to see my sous chef, Brit, walk into the kitchen. She's working overtime with me to get a few dishes perfected before our soft opening.

  Any other day, and this late at night it wouldn’t be Brit here with me. Maybe some actress with one of these fake smiles, too eager to have a taste of the Chef, but not today.

  I can’t waste my time. Not now.

  "Taste this!" I say, looking at Brit over my shoulder.

  She walks over, and leans against the counter and I place a forkful of steak into her mouth. I watch as she chews slowly, and then closes her eyes, throwing her head back.

  "My God," she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "You weren't joking. This is the best steak I've ever eaten."

  I'm glad she agrees, but I can't help but want to make sure.

  "Don't pull my leg—tell me the truth," I say.

  "I'm serious! It's that good," she says. "This'll put The Pearl on Park on the map."

  The way she drags her hand over her throat tells me that she means it.

  But I can no longer think about that perfectly caramelized steak.

  Instead, I close my eyes and remember the dr. appointment I had last week.

  It's an appointment that haunts me and drives me in equal measures.

  The sanitized talk. The fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of it all.

  Something showed up on the MRI, the Dr. said, as I sat back in the hard plastic chair. He pointed to a white, walnut-
shaped mass, and the rest of the appointment was a blur. I left, vaguely agreeing to a follow-up appointment, and ultimately making myself a promise to cook the best fucking food New York City's ever tasted.

  "This is the best steak the Big Apple's got," Brit says.

  That's exactly what I want to hear.

  It's true; I'm a multi-tasker. I can juggle a dozen restaurants, and even more women, and still find time to scuba dive my way through St. Thomas.

  It's what I do. And I'm good at it.

  I'm not interested in half-assing my way through life.

  Sure, I'm living large and I know it. But I'm just getting started.

  If you can handle the heat, go ahead … turn the page and jump into the fire.

  My name is Chef Palmer, and I'm going to gift the world with a pearl that they'll never forget.

  Chapter 2

  Nicole

  "Where are the vegetables?"

  WHACK! THWAP!

  Two line cooks look up at me. "We can't hear you, what?"

  "I said, where are the—" but my voice is again cut off by the overhead noise.

  WHACK!

  WHACK!

  THWAP!

  The noise of construction workers a floor above us has put me on edge. I can't think. I can't cook. I can't sear a piece of chicken without hearing what sounds like a dozen drag cars moving full throttle above my head.

  The line cooks shrug their shoulders.

  "THE PRODUCE—WHERE IS IT?" I say, struggling over the noise.

  Danny, one of the line cooks, finally understands what I'm asking. "Oh that. The driver mumbled something about a missed payment and took off."

  I look around the kitchen, and see that he's right. We haven't received our fresh produce this morning. Beyond a few stray onions, we have nothing. How am I supposed to cook today?

  I take a deep breath and run my fingers through my hair.

  Stay calm, I repeat to myself.

  "Okay, thanks. I'll give him a call."

  "Sorry, I figured you knew."

  "It's fine," I say, even though it doesn't feel fine at all. In fact, it's taking everything in me to not lose it today, but I have to keep my cool. "I'll get it sorted."

  I walk out of the kitchen and into the main dining room. I look around, at the tables, at the blue gingham table linens, at everything I've worked so hard to build.

  Blue.

  The color reminds me of my grandmother. I can almost hear her whispering into my ear, “A woman with no wrinkles is a woman without a story to tell." I remember sitting on top of her knees, looking into her pale blue eyes as she hummed some old song from the forgotten 50s; in my memories it’s always Doris Day and Dream a Little Dream of Me on her lips, and then she’d just wrap her arms tight around me and cradle me against her chest. I’d close my eyes, surrendering to the warmness of her embrace, and the world would feel like a dream—blurry at the edges, but bright and comforting all the same.

  She's the reason I started this restaurant. She instilled in me the love of food and the notion that anything is possible with enough hard work.

  And believe me; none of this was easy.

  In fact, it was the hardest thing I've ever done.

  I washed dishes, I waited tables. I worked double shifts, and I saved every single penny I could get my hands on. I once worked through a fever of 104º, and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it through the day.

  But there was that dream.

  A dream that burned hotter than any fever ever could. That unrelenting need to do something, as small as it may be.

  Then one day, I simply made it happen. All those pennies, and long hours, and exhaustion ... I just threw them all into the pan and stirred. I added a lease to the mix, a healthy dose of anxiety, and then I just closed my eyes and bet it all.

  It’s been a year now.

  That anxiety remains, along with all the penny counting. The dish washing, table-waiting, and frantic cooking are all part of the process as well. But now I do it all in a place I can call my own.

  The Old Tale is my restaurant, and it's huddled among New York's high rises, and you can almost feel the way time bends once you step inside. Thousands of people rush by the door every day, barely noticing this small bistro that seems to exist in a universe of its own; but for the few people that step inside, they have no choice but to leave the rush and frenzy of New York City outside.

  There’s nothing fancy about The Old Tale. No glamorous logos, no overpriced menus or waiters wearing a suit and tie. The wooden tables in the small dining area proudly display their age, and even the dim glow of the lights is a throwback to a time when restaurants and cafés weren’t supposed to be a natural extension of a shopping mall. You could dig out this restaurant by its roots, slam it down in a crowded street from the 50s, and no one would bat an eye.

  It doesn’t feel like a restaurant—it feels like home, a shelter from the cold embrace of a city that doesn’t remember your name.

  But sometimes you can’t fight the city; a small restaurant is just a small restaurant, after all. And now there’s the sound of drills and hammers, the hoarse shouts of construction workers pacing back and forth. Sometimes it feels like I'm fighting against a rising tide that's whispering its warning—get out or we’ll drag you back with us.

  That tide has a name: The Pearl on Park.

  And it's going to completely change this neighborhood—bringing Park Ave into a working class corner. Its doors are still closed, but I can already feel the inevitable trot of progress. Soon enough these streets will belong to expensive European cars, and boots and jeans will give way to polished shoes and creased dress pants. Then the rents will go up, and The Old Tale will become a gnarled wreckage lying at the bottom of the ocean.

  "Someone looks deep in thought."

  A voice breaks my concentration and pulls me into the present.

  "I didn't see you come in. It's good to see you, Percy," I say, looking over to find a familiar face. "What are you doing here today?"

  "Just enjoying some of this city's best cooking, is what I'm doing," he says.

  I lean over and give him a hug. "You're too kind."

  "And you're too humble," he says, returning the smile.

  "Well, humble or not, I hope I can just survive The Pearl over there," I say, pointing across the street. "I mean, how can I compete with that?"

  Percy shakes his head. "Don't worry about that place. Fancy flagstone tiles, porcelain dishes, and silver cutlery don't make a good restaurant."

  "Maybe not ... but it seems to help," I say with a laugh.

  Percy Whitman is one of the biggest food critics in the city. He's known me ever since I opened The Old Tale, and if it weren't for his early, glowing reviews, I wouldn't be here today.

  I wouldn't worry about it," Percy says. He places both hands into his pockets and rocks on his heels as he says this, as if it's the most casual thing in the world. "Chef Palmer is a Grade-A asshole and even though I've never been to one of his restaurants, he's never impressed me much."

  "I've heard he has talent," I say, not willing to believe that his presence in this neighborhood isn't going to be disruptive. "He's become a huge celebrity."

  But Percy continues to shrug away my fears. "I doubt Palmer's all that."

  "I guess we'll find out," I say.

  "I plan to review every one of that asshole's restarurant's, including The Pearl on Park," Percy says, and his face flushes pink as soon as the words leave his mouth. "You'll see."

  Chapter 3

  Palmer

  I dip my finger into the sauce and press it against my tongue. It's bland and devoid of depth.

  "Are you fucking serious? This tastes like cardboard," I say. "Fix it."

  Everyone is on edge as I drag my finger against my chef's coat, wiping away the sauce. The rest of my staff scrambles.

  We're all working harder than we've ever worked in our lives. I smile, seeing my junior chefs work overtime to make tonight a succes
s, but my joy fades away as quickly as it comes when I peep through the window of the swinging kitchen door, and spy none other than Percy Whitman.

  The man.

  The myth.

  The dream maker and the career wrecker of this city.

  But that's all bullshit because he's just a grade-A asshole.

  He walks through the elegant glass doors of my restaurant and I watch as the hostess seats him. She's friendly and gracious.

  Shit. I can't remember a time when Percy showed up a restaurant on opening night.

  He takes a few steps in and smiles, showing off a row of teeth more crooked than a broken fence. That matches his review ethic, I think to myself.

  He removes his hat and tips it in an arrogant gesture. He combs his hand through his blonde hair and his eyes scan the crowded dining room.

  The only thing paler than his face is the table cloth in front of him, I think.

  Brit bumps into me. Her hair rivals the flames of any kitchen, and she has the personality to match. She trips and spills a bowl of tomato soup on the ground … and me.

  "I'm so sorry," she says, bringing her hands to her mouth. She's frazzled.

  I reach over and place a hand on her shoulder.

  "Take a deep breath, Brit," I say. "It could've been worse."

  She gives me a reluctant smile and scrambles off. I grab a towel, soaking up the red remnants of soup and then set it on the counter.

  I look around the kitchen … at the steaks drizzled with the finest brown butter sauces, and realize that even though it hasn't been the smoothest of nights, it hasn't been bad either.