Jasper reached into the dish of herbs at his side. As he pinched into the dry texture he knew so well, his heart did too. Small pieces rubbed against his fingertips as he sprinkled the rough textures over the plated fish in front of him. Then his heart plummeted.
It used to feel so good to do that, and now the sheer act of flavoring the food he loved to make filled him with dread.
“You didn’t even look!” his sous chef, Chloe, accused him.
She wasn’t wrong. He should have looked, even if he did work by feel. The skills he possessed made it difficult for anyone to replace him on days he was out. Chloe often stood over his shoulder doing her best to record exactly how much he added and at what steps in the process. She noted the setting on the gas stove and the length of time he’d seared each side of the salmon, but no amount of exact replication could make it the same. Jasper Velasco simply had a gift.
And he was about to pay dearly for it.
The patrons at his restaurant hadn’t complained when he wasn’t behind the counter, but the few who were true foodies had started calling to check. The hostess reported people asking, “Is Jasper in tonight?” The staff found if they said no, their true blue superfans simply weren’t found among the white tablecloths and low lighting that evening. The waiters reported being asked if Jasper had made the dishes.
Jasper’s was the place in Charlottesville to see and be seen, to bring your most important guests, to look out across the city, and maybe the thing he was most proud of, to propose. He was grateful his parents gave him a name that looked good in lights and that they’d always welcomed him in the kitchen when he was a kid. He hadn’t been this good back then. In fact, Jasper knew the exact day and time he’d become sensational. He might need to regret that here soon.
As he shoved his attention back to the real world, he pushed the plate to one side and called for the next. The chorus of voices yelling, “Yes, chef,” as he gave his orders made his heart squeeze down tight. This time for an entirely different reason.
Still, fear seeped through the marrow of his bones and walked chilled fingers up his spine, reaching into the back of his brain. This was his dream: This place, his name on the sign, and this food. Jasper Velasco was born to feed people, or so he’d always believed. It was why he’d done what he did. And why he’d never told a soul. It might cost him all of this. And soon.
Everyone told him how amazing he was. His first job was as a line cook, where he’d quickly been promoted to the lead position. His mother grew worried once she found out the kind of stress that line cooks endured, but to Jasper it was exactly where he belonged. The pieces made sense as they went together. He didn’t flip out or burn out or become anxiety ridden. The line suited him with its sizzling foods and high pressure.
He’d always had a feel for the perfect consistency for a pumpkin soup. The absolute right tenderness for a lobster tail. The perfect amount of nuts for the right crunch and flavor in a salad.
But he hadn’t been as good as he believed, and he’d been rejected from the Le Cordon Bleu school in Paris. That one lone piece of printed paper, the blue ink, the international postmarking, had nearly killed him. He hadn’t opened the letter for five hours—it was standard size, thin, nothing that screamed of a welcome packet for a new student. Once he’d had his worst fears confirmed, he’d slid like oiled sauce into depression. He hadn’t spoken for five days. Barely left the house or answered the knocks at his bedroom door.
He’d been young enough that his ennui had been chalked up to standard emotions. On the fifth day, his parents had been pleased that he was heading out to ride his bike. Jasper simply couldn’t stare at the same four walls anymore, no matter how nice they were. The bike had been to burn off his anger. He’d ridden right out of Belle Hollow, deep into the Virginia mountains. Passing little clusters of homes and lone farms, he’d just kept going with no thought of how he would make it back. But then he’d seen the house and the little sign on the mailbox.
Next, the Cordon Bleu had changed their minds. They’d mailed and said they made a mistake, they waitlisted him, then they informed him there was a position. Though he’d found a way in, something had already happened. He’d leveled up. His small town cooking in his family’s kitchen upbringing had started to become innate. The kind of work he didn’t have to work at, he just knew.
The little restaurant he plated meals on white melamine plates slowly started attracting praise. Then he left and attended school. He came back, and the banks all wanted to lend him money. Gastronauts from nearby towns came to test out Jasper’s in Charlottesville. He landed on lists and brought in travelers through word of mouth.
And he’d loved every single minute of it.
Until last week.
Until he’d gotten the message that his note was due.
“You okay, chef?” Chloe’s voice cut through the clutter of his brain.
“Wool gathering,” he said, an old term his mother used and his grandmother had before her. It always seemed stupid, and he hated it, but it was exactly what he was doing now. Or at least it was a better excuse than what he was really doing now.
As he looked around at his kitchen staff, he wondered what would happen to them and their jobs if he couldn’t pay the note. He watched as Chloe walked away shaking her head. He hadn’t convinced her everything was okay. Maybe because it wasn’t.
He didn’t know why he looked up just then, or maybe he did. He felt the shift in the air, or maybe in his bloodstream. He always did when she was near. But why would she be here, forty minutes from home, in his restaurant?
Glancing through the large window that showed the restaurant to the kitchen staff and the kitchen and the cooking process to the patrons, his hand paused. Sure enough, there she was, auburn hair falling in perfect waves as she leaned forward at the hostess station, hands on the edge of the lectern. Plump lips widened in a smile as she turned her head and checked over her shoulder, looking at the man behind her.
Jasper felt his gut twist and his jaw clench, and it was the dumbest, stupidest thing ever. She wasn’t his. He was just attracted to her. She was just someone he’d known since middle school, when she was cute with her hair in braids and her occasional scraped knee and her irritation with it. Her magic could find her all the right rocks or the perfect fabric for whatever she was making that day. She could mend anything to perfection but do nothing for the scrape to her own skin.
Something had changed the last week, and he didn’t know what it was. Probably because the note was due. Maybe it was just his nerves reacting. As another plate was pushed in front of him, he picked up the nearby bottle and added the perfect design of dark plum balsamic vinegar glaze around the wide edge of the plate and in a dash over the top of the side dish.
Dipping his fingers back into the herb bowl, he grabbed another pinch and tossed it on top, forcing his eyes away from the hostess station, and—as Chloe had accused him of—still not looking at the food in front of him. He didn’t need to. He hadn’t, not since the day he’d agreed to everything he ever wanted.
He realized now it was stupid. It wasn’t everything he’d ever wanted. Sure, it was most of it, but—
He glanced up again, watching as the hostess in her black dress and heels led Delanie in between the tables and through the dimly lit restaurant. Delanie’s skirt swished as she passed by, and Jasper told himself he didn’t notice. Moving a hand, she brushed her long hair back over her shoulder, as the man who’d been standing at the hostess station behind her followed along.
Definitely a date.
Damn it. The spell hadn’t included everything he’d wanted.
