The Arrogant Architect (9 page)

“I’m surprised you don’t have any staff,” I tell him as we
raid his refrigerator.

“See? There you go, letting Google make your mind up about
me.”

“That’s not true.” I dig through the bag of shooters he
bought me that is on his kitchen island and he says, “Yes, it is. Think about
the man that you now know, would I have staff?”

“I guess not,” I say, opening a tiny bottle of watermelon
vodka.

“You thought that because of the way the Internet portrayed
me. That was our problem from the beginning– you wouldn’t even give me a
chance.”

I take a swig and wish he would get drunk with me. But kinda
like how responsible he is at the same time. “No, you were a cocky asshole.”

“I was not, I was caught off guard when you came flying out
of your house with that mane of long blonde hair, perky nipples getting me
hard, and then your mouth. I wanted to fuck it before you even opened it.”

“I’m not sure that’s even sweet, but thank you.”

“It’s a compliment; you’re gorgeous.”

“And so are you and arrogant and fucking frustrating.”

“Am I now?” he asks kissing the side of my arm.

“Yes, you are.”

“I like to get a rise out of you, what can I say?”

“Nothing, that’s the problem…you say too much,” I tease him
and hop off the stool, grabbing more olives from the fridge.

But before I can open the jar, he’s dragging me away and
down a set of spiral stairs. “Where are we going?” I ask.

“I totally forgot to bring you down here earlier.”

Once we reach the bottom, directly in front of us is a huge
vault door that is propped open, and as we walk inside the room, it is filled
from floor to ceiling with old classic safe deposit boxes.

“Holy shit! Are they all empty?”

“The ones without the locks in the doors are.” My eyes scan
the wall of boxes. There are so many that are still locked, probably more than
half.

“What’s in them?” I ask him.

“You got me.”

“Can you open them?”

“I can open it by drilling out the lock.”

“Why haven’t you?” I shriek, so excited to see something
like this.

“I have some. But I don’t do it often. Thinking of them
being empty is like that feeling you get on Christmas morning after you open
all your presents…then what? At least this way, there is always one waiting for
me.”

“When you open one, you’ve gotta let me be here.”

“Let’s do it now,” he says, and I slam the rest of the
shooter, so excited for what we are about to do. 

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” he exclaims and kisses me before jogging off.

“Where are you going?” I yell after him.

“To get my drill. Pick the one you want to open.”

I turn back towards the wall, completely flabbergasted at
this piece of American history. These boxes belonged to people; they contain
their most prized possessions. 

Trying to decide on one is so hard. He comes back in with a
drill, safety glasses, and a pry bar. “Did you decide?” he asks me, as I look
down at all of the tools in his hands.

“How do you choose?”

“I just pick one.”

“Are you even allowed to open them?”

“Yes, they are mine. I acquired them with the house. It had
been abandoned for so long and these things are like a hundred years old, no
one is coming back to claim anything.”

“What about their families?”

“Ever, I have all the legal documents, why are you so
worried?”

“I don’t know, I feel bad.”

“Don’t! Think if it was your stuff in there, would you want
it trapped forever or able to live on and tell a story for someone else?”

He knows exactly what to say and I point to the box that
caught my eye from the beginning. It’s dead center. “You sure this is the one?”

“If it’s empty, will you let me open another?”

“I have yet to open one and it be empty…but sure.”

He puts the goggles on and sets a pair on my face. Then he
places the drill over the keyhole and presses down, sparks flying from the
metal against metal. And I can’t help but look at his flexed muscles as he
pushes against the drill. Every detail in his forearm is tense, straining and
showing his tattoos that much more. His eyes are squinted and finally he stops.
“Hand me the pry bar, my assistant?”

“Please?” I tell him.

“Now!” he orders and snatches it out of my hand.

“Have you always lacked manners?” I ask him as sweat beads
his forehead and he fights to open the box.

“No, but I grew up in a house with strict ass rules. I
couldn’t do a thing without being scrutinized. I had to say ‘yes, ma’am’ or
‘no, sir,’ to my parents. They weren’t Mom and Dad, like the rest of my
friends. So when I left the cage I lived in, I left my manners there too.”

His explanation makes sense, but…a simple “please” and
“thank you” might make his life a lot easier.

“Here.” He passes the pry bar back to me and starts to drill
again, and it’s not long until the lock gives. My heart flutters, I honestly
was starting to think he wouldn’t be able to get it open. He sticks the tip of
the drill into the hole pulling the door open. And asks me, “Do you want to
take it out?”

I shake my head, too afraid as we both look in at the long,
orange, tin insert. He pulls it out, the flap of the lid still covering its
contents. “Let’s open it out here,” he says, and we walk out of the room taking
a seat on a tiny antique sofa. He sets the box in front of us and says,
“Whatever is inside is yours.”

“What if it’s something rare and worth a million dollars?”

“Then it’s yours,” he tells me with a straight face and then
waits for me to open the box.

Slowly, I lift the lid and see a bunch of paperwork.
Unfolding the papers, they smell musty and look like old letters. I pass them
to King and he glances over them then sets them down. Reaching further in,
there is a stack of old bonds. Pulling them out, they date back to 1912. King
and I look at them together. “This stuff is old,” I tell him.

“It is. I found some coins once from 1792.”

“Where are they?” I ask him.

“I gave them to Galinda. Anything else in there?” he asks
me.

Reaching my arm all the way back, I pull out a small
envelope. Excited to see what’s inside, I untwist the cord that is connected to
the back closure and open it. As I look at it’s contents, I am shocked when a
huge garnet pendant stares back at me. It is the same as my mom’s birthstone,
so I can’t help but feel she is with me right now. Removing the necklace from
the box, I study it closely. Around the outside of the stone are a ton of small
diamonds. King is watching me as I observe it, and I can’t help the tears that
glaze over my eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I tell him as he wraps me securely in his arms,
holding me so close to his chest. “It’s perfect.”

“You like it?” he asks as I hold onto the stone as if it was
part of
my
past.

“Yeah, it’s my mom’s birthstone.”

He lets me go and I hand it to him. Carefully he examines
the gold and I’m so surprised at how great the condition is. Then, catching me
by surprise, he slips it over my head. It falls down my chest, landing between
my breasts and he says, “I like it on you.”

I look down, trying to see it myself. The dark red glimmers
in the low light of this surreal area. I don’t wear jewelry often, being a chef
and all– it can get in the way. But the comfort of this piece around my neck
feels so right that I never want to take it off. King leans down and kisses the
stone, then my lips. The gesture is so sweet, but that is who he is. Under all
those layers lives a very generous and sweet man.

“Can I at least have a hint?” I ask King about dinner,
needing to know where we are going.

“No way!”   

“Do you have any idea as a chef how hard it is to eat out?”

“Oh, save it. You took me to that hell hole of a diner and
gorged on their ninety-nine cent breakfast.”

“That’s different, I’ve been eating there since I was a
kid.”

“Well, I can promise you this– where we are going is way
better than that diner.”

I look down at the black gown I am wearing, happy that I
actually got to use it for a purpose other than getting drunk and passing out.

“What if I hate the food?”

“Then you can tell the chef.”

“King!” I scold him. “That’s not the answer I was looking
for.”

“What do you want me to say?” he asks looking
mouthwateringly hot in another one of his suits.

“I don’t know,” I grumble, my attention diverted to my
necklace as the weight of it is still something that I am adjusting too.

“Would you have a little faith in me?”

“I do.”

He wraps his hand in mine as we wait in a line of cars. “You
can go around them,” I say as I look out my window.

“No, I can’t, this is the valet line.”

Excitedly my eyes scan the area in search of our
destination, and when I spot it, my heart flurries. “Are we going to Chef
Lorenzo Dellagio’s new restaurant?”

“Yup!”

“How did you get us in?”

“He’s a friend; I designed one of his houses.”

“Shut up!”

“Is that a question?” he asks me, and I sit, dumbfounded.
Completely astonished by what we are about to do.

“Who else have you worked with?”

“A lot of people, too many to name.”

“Does he know we’re coming and what I do?”

“Uh huh,” he says like it’s no big thing, and I feel like I
could crawl out of my skin. Chef Dellagio is my idol. I’ve looked up to him for
as long as I can remember. Pulling down the mirror, I check my hair and makeup.
King closes it before I finish and says, “You look perfect.”

Then my door opens and the valet says, “Welcome to
Dellagio’s.”

“Thank you,” I say and reach for King’s hand as he comes
around the car to help me stand, buttoning his suit coat as he looks around
before we walk inside.

My palms are sweaty walking in with King. The hostess greets
us and he says, “Two, under Lennox.”

“Right this way, Mr. Lennox.”

We follow the hostess and she takes us to our table, which
is close to the kitchen and I love that. “I’ll let the Chef know that you’ve
arrived.”

“Thank you,” he says, his eyes on me while he speaks,
reading my reaction. “Is this okay?”

“King, this is incredible.”

“Good.” He opens his menu, a satisfied grin smeared across
his face, and I can’t help but gawk at the inside of this glorious restaurant.
The noise and clatter from the kitchen ring through my ears, and I close my
eyes, praying that one day I’ll have a place of my very own…as popular as this
restaurant.

“King,” Chef Dellagio bellows exiting the kitchen.

King stands and shakes his hand, and then the two guys look
down at me. “Lorenzo, this is my girlfriend, Ever. Ever, this is Lorenzo.”

I reach for his hand, mine trembling as he takes it and
kisses the top. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Chef,” I barely choke out, and he
smiles looking at King.

“I like her.”

“So do I.”

“Let’s sit, sit.” the Chef says and I’m not sure how to
address him.

“So what are you guys eating tonight?” he asks us and I look
down at my untouched menu.

“What would you recommend?” King asks him.

“I can make you anything. Ever, what would you like me to
make you?”

I blink a few times, flabbergasted. My biggest idol is
sitting across from me, offering to cook me anything. “Unless you’d rather help
me? King says you are the best chef he’s ever tasted.”

I look at King who is licking his lips and lifts his chin at
me. I blush so unbelievably red, knowing the kind of tasting King is referring
to. “I’m sorry,” I blurt out, “This is a dream come true.”

“Don’t be sorry. Come on back, Ever,” the Chef says and
stands, reaching for my hand. I look at King and he insinuates that I go.
Standing up, Lorenzo wraps his hand around mine and leads me into the heaven of
all kitchens, a true masterpiece in the culinary world.

“Attention everyone!” All eyes are on the Chef and he says,
“We have a guest tonight. Please welcome, Chef Ever.”

“Welcome Chef!” his staff chants and then keeps working,
acting as though we don’t exist.

“What’s your favorite meal?”

“Oh, I’m not picky. I’ll eat anything you make.”

“All right,” he claps his hands together and walks off to
the sink. “Come on, you are helping me.”

I follow, thankful that my dress doesn’t touch the ground,
but nervous that I might slip in the heels I’m wearing. “First, you must try
our steamed cockles. We got them in fresh this morning and are pairing them
with a beautiful red chili brodetto. It’s my new favorite menu item. My team
will send those out. But we’re going to make a mixed grill of sorts, maybe lamb
chop, sweetbreads, and beef tongue? We’ll add a simple cipolline jam with aceto
reduction, and I recommend the baby beet salad with sweet summer corn and
castelagno. How does that sound?”

“Amazing,” I affirm, my heart pounding with every beautiful
syllable coming out of his mouth.

I glance up and catch King standing to the side of the
kitchen watching us. He’s got that look in his eyes, making my heart thud even
louder, and the Chef asks him, “Are you okay eating that?”

“Of course, it sounds incredible,” he responds and then we
get to work. I listen to his instructions, taking in every detail of what he’s
telling me as if my life depends on it. The chef throws down a rack of lamb, I
jump from the sound and he laughs. “Sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m not startled.”

“Good,” he sets a knife down and I don’t hesitate as he
gestures me to prepare the chops. I cut into the lamb as he heats the oil and
he asks me, “How long would you sear those chops for?”

“No more than a minute on each side, Chef.”

“Good, then do it.” I add them to a pan of hot oil, watching
the clock closely as King’s stare eats me up. The Chef sets a baking sheet in
front of me so we can finish them off in the oven.

He looks over at King as I work, not needing his direction
and says, “She’s good.”

“The best.” King responds and I smile, knowing his dirty
mind is
not
referring to my cooking.

Taking the chops, I add them to the oven and listen to the
instructions from the Chef as I make the reduction. He’s so enthusiastic and
positive and patient. Which is way different than what I’m used to. I’m used to
getting yelled at, faster, quicker, it’s never good enough.

Looking at King briefly, he kisses at me and I smile,
staying focused. My heart is pounding, as an intense adrenaline rush races
through me.

“Plating our food,” the Chef says, “Well done, Chef.” As I
wipe the sides of the plates clean.

“Thank you,” I tell him.

“Now, should we try this one, before you guys go eat?”

I nod, excited to watch him cut into the meat. As a chef,
the inside of your meat says so much about your skill level. If it’s overcooked
or undercooked, you’re lacking a very important skill that really can’t be
taught; it’s almost a sixth sense. As the Chef slices open the lamb and nudges
his shoulder against mine, King walks over and looks inside. “See? I told
you…perfect.”

We all take a bite and the minute that I hear Chef Lorenzo
moan chewing the food I made, my culinary life hits a pinnacle. There is not
another moment in my life that could top this.

“I want you to come and work for me, Ever.”

I blink…not sure that I heard him correctly. King puts his
arm around my back and I look up into his eyes, waiting to wake up, because
this all has to be a dream.