We Have Till Monday Cara Dee (ebook reader for pc TXT) 📖

Chicago hot dog, and everyone knew those bastards were fucking crazy with their toppings.

Tomatoes on a hot dog…

“Are you thinkin’ about me?” August’s low voice tickled my ear and caused me to flinch sideways. Thank Christ, the other participants had scattered to their stations.

August smirked lazily, and I chuckled and willed my heart to calm the fuck down.

Then I had to give him a once-over because someone had changed clothes. He wore a white chef’s jacket and black pants now, an upgrade because it beat the Yankees hoodie he’d worn earlier.

“Lookin’ good, Chef.” I stuck my hands down into my pockets and smiled. “Bethany wants to know if we’re making hot chicken.”

“She asked me twice at the barbecue,” he laughed. “In a few minutes, she’ll find out that, yeah, we are.” He nodded toward the tent he must’ve come from. “My staff is makin’ final prep on the chicken right now, because Bethany ain’t goin’ home with the recipe for the brine or the seasoning.”

Man, I was a shitty fan. I had no expectations whatsoever, partly because I barely knew anything that went beyond what August posted on social media. And it wasn’t even August who did it, was it? It was Clara. This ballsy chick who knew about us.

“I haven’t even been to your restaurant,” I admitted. “I’ll have to rectify that while I’m in town—unless it’s one of those joints you gotta make reservations a year in advance.”

He shook his head in amusement. “A week might be tight, but if you know the owner, he might ask to take you to dinner there. I hear he can make things happen.”

I failed miserably to hide my grin, even as I rubbed a hand over my mouth and tried to come off as if I hadn’t already been fucked and thoroughly seduced by this man.

“I hope he asks,” I settled for saying.

This was ridiculous. We just stood there and smiled at each other, and it probably wasn’t helping us remain discreet.

It was the moment Clara chose to rush by us on her way to wherever. “You two are not being subtle. For fuck’s sake! August, you need to get cracking.” Then she was gone again.

I cleared my throat and took a step back, and August shook himself out of the moment too, a bit of sheepishness tugging at his lips.

“By the way, how does she know that I was at the ranch last night?” I asked, keeping my voice down.

“Oh. Did she say—never mind.” He frowned for a beat before letting out a resigned chuckle. “Most likely Camden. They’re close. She’s the only one who knows about our lifestyle, and he talks to her a lot.”

Got it.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “Camden and I are new at this. Hell, we haven’t had the time to discuss what’s already happened—aside from… Actually, that’s part of a much longer discussion. But let me know if you want me to tell Camden to keep everything under the radar, even to Clara.”

“I don’t mind at all.” I felt like I couldn’t get the words out of me quickly enough. “It’s your marriage. I just assumed it would be private.”

He furrowed his brow and opened his mouth to say something, only to shut it promptly and look over at the podium where Clara was waiting.

“We’ll talk later,” I said.

He nodded once and hesitated for a beat, then walked away to join Clara.

Don’t curse. Don’t fucking curse.

Much to Bethany’s disappointment, the chicken we’d be using arrived at our workstations already brined and marinated. Apparently it was something they’d done at August’s restaurant thirty-six hours in advance.

August wasn’t a social speaker, that much was clear, but he had Clara with him. She prodded him along and asked some questions, and then he was happy to take things from there. So he spoke about the brining period to us as well as the hundred or so people watching us, and I spotted a whole lot of attendees taking notes.

In the meantime, August interjected with instructions for us who were cooking, and I was currently doing my damnedest not to fuck up the hot sauce we were making from scratch.

Don’t curse.

It seemed like an awful lot of cayenne.

Good thing I liked spicy food.

“It’s a bit crowded here, Chef,” Bethany said. “Can I put the lettuce somewhere?”

August faced the audience. “If you’ve been to MAT in Nashville, maybe you’ve seen the sign that hangs above the hostess desk. I have the original at home, which used to belong to my nana. It says, ‘You Don’t Have to Eat the Vegetables.’” He got some laughs for that, and I smirked to myself. August turned to Bethany next. “Leave the crate on the floor. The lettuce is just gonna be a decoration.”

With that out of the way, it looked like August was about to make another round to see what we were up to, so I hurriedly swiped the trash into the bin on the floor before I placed the onion I’d sliced on a small plate. He’d said he liked a tidy kitchen. Tidy kitchen, tidy mind. Then I moved on to the latest instructions we’d been given: boil pasta and shred the block of cheese.

I wiped some sweat off my forehead and adjusted my ball cap, and I glanced around me to see how the others were managing. I hadn’t been told how much water to use for the pot. I didn’t know how much one cup of macaroni required.

Fuck it. I poured maybe four or five cups of water into a pot and set it on the stove. Then I threw in the pasta and turned up the heat.

August reached my station and cleared his throat. “Anthony Fender here is new at cooking, y’all.” Damn the fucking microphones too! “He happens to be an extraordinary musician and teacher, and maybe that’s kept him too busy to know that you don’t add the pasta until the water is boiling.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The bastard was trying