Curvy Nanny for the Nerd

Prologue

Prologue

P ippa ~ 2 Months Ago

“Thank you for visiting Graze today. I hope you had a wonderful meal.” I flashed my most dazzling smile at the clearly less than impressed couple, waiting patiently for them to speak.

The couple stared at each other with a worried expression before the woman turned to me. “The asparagus was delicious, buttery and perfectly firm. The mashed potatoes were a little bland, and the steak was just okay. But we didn’t want to complain.”

That would be a first for the crowd Graze drew on a daily basis. “Feedback is always welcome,” I assured them with a friendly grin.

“That’s not a goddamn julienne! Open your eyes or get the hell out of my kitchen.”

I kept my smile tight while the couple listened in clear horror as Chef Rodrick unleashed yet another tirade on a kitchen employee. “He has high standards.” It was the best I could do to attempt a defense of the chef’s unacceptable behavior, but the couple’s eyes went wide, and they hurried out of the restaurant. Probably never to return.

Oh well.

Chef Rodrick had been on a tirade all shift, verbally abusing the kitchen staff, barking angrily at the waitstaff as if they were the reason his food was coming out of the kitchen in substandard quality. He had the temperamental and egotistical parts of being a professional chef down to a science. It was just too bad that his food fell flat if everything didn’t go perfectly, which it never ever did in a professional kitchen. He’d been hired at Graze almost a year ago, and frankly, I didn’t know how he still had a job except for he could be charming when reporters were around and he was easy on the eyes.

Too bad he’s not easy on the ears.

I was the front of house manager for Graze, had been for the past three years, but it was only the past twelve months that had been a hellish nightmare. But Rodrick was a star, allegedly anyway, which meant the rest of us had to grin and pretend as if the kitchen wasn’t run by a complete psychopath.

“Excuse me, miss?”

I let out a sigh at the one title no woman over the age of forty wanted to hear. Miss. It just felt like a commentary on my sadly single-in-the-city status. Chicago was a city of almost nine million people, and I couldn’t find one solid, single man to date. But that wasn’t the customer’s fault, so I turned with a mostly professional grin and headed to table three, located near the front windows with a view of Michigan Avenue. “What can I do for you folks today?” I glanced around the table and did a double take at the man with the silver goatee who I was pretty sure was the famed restaurant critic Paul Renault. He could make or break a restaurant with a few taps of his keyboard.

“How was the leg of lamb?”

The woman with a short black bob and a pinched expression answered for the table. “Not good, sweetie.”

I gave my obligatory frown and nodded. “I’m so sorry to hear that, what can I do to make your dining experience better?”

“We’d like a new lamb, cooked properly this time. Please.”

“Absolutely, I’ll let the chef know. Would you like a complimentary glass of champagne while you wait?”

“Absolutely,” the man I was pretty sure was Paul Renault replied with a relieved groan.

With a polite nod, I turned away from the table and headed towards the kitchen. Before I pushed through the swinging doors, I sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching for a calm I didn’t feel knowing that an interaction with Rodrick was imminent.

You got this. Even if you don’t, it’s your job.

My little pep talk did nothing to stop my racing heart, so I did what I always did when times got tough, I stood a little taller, pushed my shoulders back before I balanced the platter of lamb in my hands, and forged ahead. The kitchen was a beautiful sort of chaos, the way all pro kitchens were. It was that song and dance that had drew me to the world of fine dining, this craziness that produced the most delicious, beautiful, artistic edible creations known to man. I loved it.

Usually.

“Get the hell out of my kitchen! Now!” Chef Rodrick’s roared words didn’t intimidate me in the least, but the rest of the kitchen fell mute.

This will be a lot easier since he shouted at me first, I told myself as I fixed a bland expression on my face, the platter resting on my palms. Being nice to Rodrick never paid off anyway.

“Gladly. As soon as I let you know that this leg of lamb is dry.”

If possible, the kitchen fell even quieter as the chef whirled around, his whites still pristine after hours of working, and sucked in a breath.

“Excuse me?” The disbelief that he could have possibly cooked a dish imperfectly was laughable given the complaints I fielded this shift.

Instead of using the diplomacy I always tried for when dealing with sensitive and temperamental chefs, I smiled. “As dry as the Sahara.”

Rodrick laughed. “I don’t have time for your silly games, Pippa. Go back to the front of the house and worry about doing your job.”

Dear Lord help me find my calm. I let out an exhausted sigh and stared at him in those deep green eyes. “Table three wants another lamb because this one is dry. So dry they couldn’t eat but a few bites each.” I put extra emphasis on the word dry because that vein in the middle of his forehead was already pulsing and that amused me. “Just fix it because-,”

He cut me off before I could tell him who the lamb was meant for. “My lamb is not fucking dry. I don’t cook anything dry, so go back out there and tell your precious customers that’s how the lamb is cooked.” Rodrick shook his head and swiped a dismissive hand in my direction. “Just stay in your own damn lane, Pippa.”

I nodded, not at all unaccustomed to chef’s belittling my work, as if dealing with the customers wasn’t as important as the food they ate. “Whatever. You do what you want Rodrick, but the customers who paid for this leg of lamb says it’s too dry to eat.” I held up the platter and the sous chef moved to relieve me of the heavy piece of meat, until Rodrick held up a hand to stop him.

“Tell them to try it again.”

I shook my head. “Maybe you should try it, because they did, and it was, quote, not good .”

“That’s not possible.”

“That’s funny, because to those three customers it’s more than possible, it’s reality.” Reality that they overpaid for what amounted to lamb jerky, from their perspective.

Another bark of laughter sounded, this time derisive, and I knew another tirade was coming. “This coming from some backwoods hillbilly who’s spent a little time in fine dining establishments? Excuse me if I don’t bow down to your culinary expertise.”

“No, excuse me for thinking a chef might pull out a meat thermometer when all the customers say their steaks are too dry, or too rare. It’s not my culinary expertise they come for, it’s yours, and lately that is in serious question.” I was done arguing with this idiot who clearly didn’t have the sense the good lord gave him.

“Yeah?” Rodrick stood at six-foot-four and decided to use his considerable height advantage against me, looming above me as if I was supposed to be scared.

My heart raced, but I ignored it, too fired up to worry that today might be the day he lost it completely. “Yeah. Everything tonight has been overcooked as hell, but you’re incapable of taking any kind of criticism, so no one tells you, and the waitstaff gets stiffed on good tips. Because of you. Not some backwoods hillbilly, but the allegedly classically trained man-child dressed in his chef’s costume.”

“Take it back,” he growled.

“Get out of my face, Rodrick.”

He smiled because he knew he had me at a disadvantage with the cumbersome platter of meat in my hands. “If I don’t?”

I set the platter down on the expediting strip and turned to face him. “I’m not one of your kitchen slaves, I bite back.” I shook my head and took a step away, not in defeat, but retreat.

Rodrick’s hand reached out and grabbed my arm, causing a collective gasp among the kitchen staff. “Get your hands off me, Rodrick.” My heart thudded against my chest as my flight or fight instinct kicked in. “Let. Me. Go.”

“Don’t walk away from me.”

“Get your damn hands off me. I won’t tell you again.” He laughed and gave my arm a tight squeeze, a look of utter glee in his green eyes. He was getting off on hurting me and the yelp I let out when he squeezed even tighter, pushed me into action. “Ow!”

“Right,” he snorted. “Or what?”

What happened next, in hindsight, was ill-advised at best, but I was a southern girl at heart, and no one got to lay hands on me without paying the consequences. I grabbed the leg of lamb and swung it at Rodrick, hitting him right in his stupid, smug face. He hit the ground with a grunt. “Or you’ll regret it.”

He smiled up at me. “I regret nothing. You’re done here. Pack up your shit and get out.”

I smiled down at him and shook my head. “Maybe so, but that lamb you refused to make again? Was ordered by Paul Renault. Good luck getting your next job.” Without another word, I turned on my bright red heels and returned to the dining room.

At the end of my shift, I finished up my responsibilities and called my best friend, Valona, who still lived in our hometown of Carson Creek, Tennessee. “Hey Val, it’s me.

There was a moment of silence before she spoke. “Pippa. What’s wrong?”

“Other than the fact that my chef is the world’s biggest jackass? Not much.” I gave her an abbreviated version of the shift from hell and sighed with exhaustion. “He actually said, you’re done here .”

“Pippa, what if he’s serious?” Valona was a natural worrier, about anything and everyone in her orbit. As a single mother to my adorable goddaughters, she didn’t stop worrying even when she was asleep.

“Oh he was, but Rodrick doesn’t have the power to fire me. That doesn’t mean I won’t get fired, just that I’m not yet.”

“What are you going to do if you get fired?”

I let out a frustrated sigh. “What do you want me to do, Val? He grabbed my arm and squeezed it. Hard. Twice.”

“You did the right thing, but what will you do if you lose this job?”

“I’ll figure it out.” The same way I figured out my life when I was eighteen and the future I thought I would have, vanished right before my eyes. “Hang on, another call’s coming in. Wish me luck.”

“Good luck, honey. Love you.”

“Thanks.” A deep breath and I switched to what I was sure was The Call. “Hello?”

“Pippa.” I recognized Josh Wiseman’s nasally voice immediately. “You hit Rodrick with a leg of lamb.”

“He grabbed my arm and hurt me, Josh. He had no right to put his hands on me.”

“I agree, Pippa, but I can’t keep you on. You understand?”

I nodded, nostrils flaring as my anger built. “Yeah, you think he’s the next big celebrity chef. But let me tell you, Paul Renault might disagree with you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out when the rest of Chicago does.”

Josh sighed. “Let’s not make this ugly.”

“Oh, I won’t make it ugly, honey. Trust me.” I let out a sigh and flashed a smile at myself in the rearview mirror. “But my lawyer might.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Yeah? Well I wouldn’t keep an abusive prick on staff who is a lawsuit waiting to happen. Talk soon, Josh.”

“Valona, you there?”

“I’m here. Are you fired?”

“Yep. And I’m suing. Wish me luck.” Lord knows I’m gonna need it.