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Today's Reading

"Do you know," he says, his voice rough and disconcertingly pleasant, sending a scrape up my spine, "how long it took that sauce to come together?"

All my life, I've remained cheerfully ignorant about the family business; no one has wanted me in it in the first place. But even I know that from-scratch demi-glace is liquid gold. Someone else might fish out the shrimp and serve it anyway. Not Jack Hartman.

I smile sweetly. "It's one tiny little shrimp. A cooked shrimp."

"A shrimp you threw at my face."

"What can I say? I have terrible aim." I shrug, feigning innocence.

Somewhere behind us, the band stops playing. "Is this thing on?" Dad says, his voice amplified by a microphone. The crowd around us laughs, encouraging him to speak.

I tug my wrist, still held tightly in Jack's grip. "Has anyone ever told you that you have dead fish eyes? They're terrifying, really."

"Winfield," he drawls, which somehow stings more than Princess, "go back to the fucking party. They're missing their disco ball."

The insult hits me like a hammer, erasing whatever petty taunt I was about to fling at him next.

Jack Hartman is a lot of things.

Intense. Rude. Brilliant.

Brilliant in a way I'll never be. Brilliant enough to draw Mom and Dad's attention the way Julia does.

"Before the next course, put together, of course, by the talented sous chef of Pastiche, Jack Hartman, I would love to thank you all for coming, and say a few words about my wonderful, beautiful daughter, Julia," Dad is saying.

Someone sighs happily. Over Jack's shoulder, I see a woman hit her date's shoulder. "See?" she says. "That's why I don't want to elope."

Of course Dad is going to wax poetic about his favorite daughter. He'll probably mention the time she won the national mock trial title as a sophomore in high school. Or how she graduated from Penn State in three years and immediately went to Harvard Law. He loves that Julia is working with him at the Winfield Group as their internal counsel. He has plenty to say when it comes to Julia's accomplishments—marrying a world-renowned pastry chef included.

I grit my teeth, twisting myself out of Jack's grip.

Just as he releases me.

The momentum sends me careening into a cocktail table—and the tray of champagne glasses perched on the edge. I hit the parquet floor with a thud, wincing at the sound of breaking glass.

Dad stops talking. I stop breathing.

The tent is absolutely silent, and I know without looking that everyone's eyes are on me.

"Fuck." Jack sinks to his knees, grabbing my bare shoulders. His eyes, so vividly green they make me squirm, study me. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I grit out, "but you're about to be." I slap my palms against his chest, pushing with all my strength. He's so ridiculously muscular—I mean, heavy—that it's as if I'm fighting a brick wall.

"Let me just—"

"That's enough."

We freeze simultaneously.

My father stands over us. He's practically vibrating with intensity, his blue eyes colder than ice. My stomach sinks through the floor.

"Poppy," he snaps in a tone reserved for me and me alone, "what the hell did you do?"


CHAPTER ONE

tarragon

Jack
One Year Later

Five hours until service, and the kitchen is quiet.

I take a swig of tap water from a quart-size prep container, the chef's version of a water bottle. Eye the clock. I'm elbow-deep in herbs, my fingertips stained green. Tarragon—tricky to work with, because of its tendency to overpower any flavors you pair it with—fills my nose.

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Yes, Chef: A Grumpy x Sunshine Kitchen Romance | Online Book Clubs Skip to main content

Today's Reading

"Do you know," he says, his voice rough and disconcertingly pleasant, sending a scrape up my spine, "how long it took that sauce to come together?"

All my life, I've remained cheerfully ignorant about the family business; no one has wanted me in it in the first place. But even I know that from-scratch demi-glace is liquid gold. Someone else might fish out the shrimp and serve it anyway. Not Jack Hartman.

I smile sweetly. "It's one tiny little shrimp. A cooked shrimp."

"A shrimp you threw at my face."

"What can I say? I have terrible aim." I shrug, feigning innocence.

Somewhere behind us, the band stops playing. "Is this thing on?" Dad says, his voice amplified by a microphone. The crowd around us laughs, encouraging him to speak.

I tug my wrist, still held tightly in Jack's grip. "Has anyone ever told you that you have dead fish eyes? They're terrifying, really."

"Winfield," he drawls, which somehow stings more than Princess, "go back to the fucking party. They're missing their disco ball."

The insult hits me like a hammer, erasing whatever petty taunt I was about to fling at him next.

Jack Hartman is a lot of things.

Intense. Rude. Brilliant.

Brilliant in a way I'll never be. Brilliant enough to draw Mom and Dad's attention the way Julia does.

"Before the next course, put together, of course, by the talented sous chef of Pastiche, Jack Hartman, I would love to thank you all for coming, and say a few words about my wonderful, beautiful daughter, Julia," Dad is saying.

Someone sighs happily. Over Jack's shoulder, I see a woman hit her date's shoulder. "See?" she says. "That's why I don't want to elope."

Of course Dad is going to wax poetic about his favorite daughter. He'll probably mention the time she won the national mock trial title as a sophomore in high school. Or how she graduated from Penn State in three years and immediately went to Harvard Law. He loves that Julia is working with him at the Winfield Group as their internal counsel. He has plenty to say when it comes to Julia's accomplishments—marrying a world-renowned pastry chef included.

I grit my teeth, twisting myself out of Jack's grip.

Just as he releases me.

The momentum sends me careening into a cocktail table—and the tray of champagne glasses perched on the edge. I hit the parquet floor with a thud, wincing at the sound of breaking glass.

Dad stops talking. I stop breathing.

The tent is absolutely silent, and I know without looking that everyone's eyes are on me.

"Fuck." Jack sinks to his knees, grabbing my bare shoulders. His eyes, so vividly green they make me squirm, study me. "Are you hurt?"

"No," I grit out, "but you're about to be." I slap my palms against his chest, pushing with all my strength. He's so ridiculously muscular—I mean, heavy—that it's as if I'm fighting a brick wall.

"Let me just—"

"That's enough."

We freeze simultaneously.

My father stands over us. He's practically vibrating with intensity, his blue eyes colder than ice. My stomach sinks through the floor.

"Poppy," he snaps in a tone reserved for me and me alone, "what the hell did you do?"


CHAPTER ONE

tarragon

Jack
One Year Later

Five hours until service, and the kitchen is quiet.

I take a swig of tap water from a quart-size prep container, the chef's version of a water bottle. Eye the clock. I'm elbow-deep in herbs, my fingertips stained green. Tarragon—tricky to work with, because of its tendency to overpower any flavors you pair it with—fills my nose.

What our readers think...