Chapter 103

* * * *

Ryan was dead on his feet by the time he plated the last order for the night. Between Damon, Damon’s wife, Georgina, and a few of the wait staff he managed to have a sous chef at all times, which helped make the frantic night at least bearable.

He’d found himself changing a few of the previous chef’s dishes, and according to Damon there had been no complaints and even a few compliments. Sounded like a win to him.

Ryan surveyed the kitchen and didn’t even know where to start to begin the cleanup. His legs were wobbly and his eyelids at half-mast. Hell, when he’d left home this morning he had not expected to start work and for this many hours. He needed to get home and feed poor Jonesy.

He leaned against the closest counter and closed his eyes, intending to rest them for just a moment.

“Who the hell are you?”

Ryan jumped at the intrusion, his eyelids flying open. Standing just inside the kitchen was a guy in his early to mid-thirties with short-cropped hair and hazel eyes. He looked like he’d recently tanned and had a slight five o’clock shadow. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, his arms were crossed in front of his chest and his expression was less than friendly.

“Huh?” Okay, that was real intelligent. But the guy was hot, pissed off or not.

“I said, who are you? Where’s Frank?”

“No clue who Frank is, but my name is Ryan. Ryan Callahan. And you are?”

“Chris Mabry. I own this place. Why are you in my kitchen, Ryan Callahan?”

“Well, your brother hired me to be your chef.”

“My…what? Where is Frank?” Chris Mabry asked.

“If that’s the chef, apparently he eloped with his sous chef or something. You’ll have to ask Damon.” Ryan shrugged.

Chris stared at him, his jaw clenched. “Where have you worked before?”

Ryan blinked and straightened. “Excuse me?”

“Where have you worked before as a chef?” he asked the question slowly like he thought Ryan might be a moron.

Ryan wasn’t going to lie. “Nowhere. First chef job.”

“Not even as a sous?”

“Nope.”

The guy sighed. “Where’d you go to school? When did you graduate?”

Ryan smiled. “Well, actually, I didn’t. I started chef school but never actually finished it. I knew all the rules and stuff anyway, so I figured I didn’t need their classes.”

“I don’t believe this,” Chris grumbled. “I’m so going to kick Damon’s ass. Look, uh, Ryan, no offense, and thanks for whatever work you did today, but I need someone who knows what they’re doing.”

He nodded. “I see. So, basically, I’m fired, right?”

“I wouldn’t put it exactly like that, just you’re services aren’t needed.”

Ryan removed his apron and tossed it aside. “Okay. But I’m pretty sure I remember reading that by California law you have to pay me when you fire me.” He stuck out his hand, palm up. “Worked eleven hours, no lunch break, which I think means you owe me extra for that.”

Chris sighed. “Fine.” He pulled out his wallet. “Here’s five hundred bucks. That should more than cover for your time today. And thanks again.”

“Yeah.” Ryan pocketed the money. Hot, yeah, but an asshole. He didn’t need another one of those in his life. Good riddance. “See you around.”

He walked out of the kitchen and almost ran straight into Damon.

“Hey, Ryan, where are you going?” Damon asked.

“Your brother’s back.” He gestured with his thumb to the kitchen.

Damon instantly smiled with relief. “Oh, thank God.”

“And he fired me. So, bye.”

“He-he fired you? But—”

Ryan shrugged. “Easy come, easy go. Bye, Damon. Good luck. I think you’ll need it.”

Without a backward glance, Ryan went outside to his motorcycle. He drove away from the restaurant, his gut twisted with disappointment. He knew it had been too fucking easy to get a job his first day, let alone a job like that.

And suddenly he had a need to get stinking drunk. Probably a really piss poor idea but one he had anyway. On the way home he spotted a liquor store still open, so he went in and got himself a big bottle of Jack.

Jonesy was about to split his gut in his excitement when Ryan made it home, so first he walked the dog and fed him. Then he sat on the floor of his living room, stretched out on his sleeping bag, and drank straight from the bottle.

There was a song or two about drinking alone and how pathetic it was. Ryan couldn’t really argue with that. Sure Jonesy lay next to him. But he had no boyfriend, no job, hell, no furniture. Maybe this was the stupidest idea he’d had yet. And he had a long list of stupid ideas.