Page 28 of Chef
“You know you’re getting married tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he replies and my mom pulls her “ew” face. She hates being called ma’am.
“Don’t ma’am me, yuck. What do you think I am? 80 years old?”
“How could he think that when you still look twenty?” Tav asks, kissing mom on the temple, then turning me to and wagging his brows.
These two are ridiculous.
“Sorry, yes Blanche, I know we’re getting married tomorrow.”
“Then how come Sage didn't know?” Mom’s brow kicks up in question.
Chef turns his dark eyes to mine, questioning.
“I guess I just got sidetracked.” I shrug. I mean, I’m not lying. I was not focused on getting married.
After the initial shock of having to marry Chef, and then moving in together, for the plot, as Mira would say, we kinda slipped into a rhythm. Clearly one so good that I mighta kinda forgot there was a wedding to be had. Whoops.
“Chef!” Mom says, backhanding him in the stomach. I lurch forward to check he’s OK, but he just rolls his eyes and smiles down at my mom instead. “There are things you need to decide on! The food -”
“-Taken care of. TumTum and Damian have this all under control.”
“What about the groomsmen’s outfits? What about the bridesmaids?” Mom continues.
“Ugh, I haven’t actually thought about that,” I murmur, starting to feel unsettled at what appears to be the badass Blanche Landry panicking over wedding planning.
“Yeah, you have,” Chef rumbles. “Remember the other night I asked who you would trust to have your back? You said -”
“Loyal, Joe and Damian,” I whisper. I remember him asking the question and how little thought I put into the answer because I meant it. We’ve become really close friends since I’ve been here. Closer than anyone I’ve had at the DRMC.
Chef nods, his lush lips tipping up. “That’s right. And you wanted the Big Littles and Little Littles to all have jobs.” He turns back to my mom. “All the outfits have been arranged Blanche, no need to worry.”
Mom’s eyes narrow. “What about the dress?”
Chef clears his throat and shuffles a little. He rolls his shoulders inward, eyes on the floor.
“Oh this is good stuff,” Mira whispers, and it’s then I notice the rest of the DRMC, all standing staring in our direction.
“Well, spit it out!” Pops hollers from where he's bellied up to the bar.
“I know Sage doesn't want this wedding. I know it’s all fake so we can make Nathaniel Mercy all pissy and draw him out.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes on the floor. “I know she doesn't want the big poofy dress and shit,” he mutters, “but, well, I might have kinda bought a dress.”
My eyes bug out of my head as Mira, Kaia and Ana make swooning noises.
“Why are you making that noise? The dress could be hideous.” Trust Chewy to bring everyone down to earth.
I don’t mind though, I barely hear her. My mind is full of Chef’s words and for the first time in a long time, I see him. Him. The uncertainty that he’s somehow done something wrong. The way he averts his gaze, or more often than not, hides in the shadow of his ever present baseball cap. He may seem like all the other badass bikers in the DRMC, but he’s not. Deep down he’s still that little boy trying not to disappoint anyone.
“Chef?” He avoids my gaze until I step up to him, searching for him under the peak of his cap. His chocolate brown gaze meets mine and I can’t help the soft smile that slips out of me. “Can I see it?”
His eyes widen in shock, and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thickly. “Yeah, it’s ah, in my room here.”
Chef turns toward the hall of the clubhouse, waiting for me to move with him. As per usual his hand hovers at my lower back as we walk together. The warmth of that hand grounds me as we weave through the clubhouse through the smiling faces of our family and friends, and my cheeks heat at the attention we’re getting. This is no big deal. Just a friend who knows me better than I thought he did.
He stops at the room he lived in before we moved to the little cottage next to Vex and Loyal. He hesitates a moment before turning the doorknob and swinging the door open. He flicks the lights on in the room, near empty save for a bed and a desk. And a dress carefully wrapped in plastic and hanging from a hook on the wardrobe door.
“I would have gone for white, but I know that you’d worry you’d spill something,” he mutters, looking at his scuffed up boots.
