The Live Ins - BWWM Interracial Billionaire Romance

The Live Ins

The sun breaks through the window and I instantly hate myself for not shutting the blinds before falling asleep. I can’t be too hard on myself—after what Dominic did to me last light I’m honestly surprised I’m awake at a reasonable hour. I roll over in his scratchy sheets and he’s still asleep—he probably will be for the next few hours. He closed Harvest Bar last night and now I’ve got to go open.

I run around Dominic’s apartment searching for my white double-breasted jacket and toque with no luck. He’s the one who tore everything off me—he’s the one who will know. I have no choice but to wake him.

"Dommmminnnnic," I play, whispering into his ear. He swats at his nose like there’s a fly buzzing around him. Too cute.

Dominic, I repeat louder. I need to find my uniform for work and I need to be there in twenty-minutes, including ten minutes in line at Coffee Train. Exhaling ever so cutely, he ignores me, rolls over, and pulls the blanket over his head.

Wear mine, he mumbles from underneath. In closet. Need sleep.

He gets like this anytime he closes, but I’ve never had to go into work in his uniform before. I go to the closet, open the door quietly, and look through the clothes hanging up. There is nothing white, let alone anything that resembles our uniform. Looking down, I see his white jacket, black pants and toque jumbled in a wrinkly ball. Great. I pick them up, shake them off, and not only are they a size too big for me but they’re also covered in spicy marinara sauce. Even better.

Dom, you don’t have another pair? I ask. These are all sauced up.

Drycleaner, he warbles.

Ugh! Think, Tara, where the hell did Dominic strip you last night? I check the bathroom—behind the shower curtain, the living room—behind the couch, the kitchen—under the table. Nothing, nada. I can either keep searching and possibly come up with nothing or leave now in tomato sauce-stained clothes and still enjoy a dirty chai latte. I choose to put on Dominic’s baggy, stinky uniform. At least my shoes are still by the door.

Life after Le Cordon Bleu is not as extravagant as I’d envisioned it. I’m 26 and a sous-chef at one of Century City’s finest wine bars. It’s not Beverly Hills but Harvest Bar is huge step up from the burger joint where I worked before school. Although I graduated toward the top of my class the only reason I was hired here is because Dominic has been my closest friend for years and just so happens to be the head chef at Harvest Bar. As it turns out, it doesn’t matter where you went to school—Los Angeles is a tough place to find good work in the culinary arts.

Curse these Century City apartments without elevators! I take the stairs five floors down and step out of the complex. It’s a warm February day—definitely beats the winter they’re having back home. I wouldn’t be caught dead in Cleveland right now.

Dominic’s building is a five-minute walk from the mall, which is most of the reason I consistently crash at his place. I live in Burbank, and with traffic it takes me an hour and twenty minutes to get to Century City on the 405 if I’m lucky. My rent is also a quarter the amount of Dominic’s, but there is no way I could afford to live this close to the city.

It’s too damn hot to wear the chef jacket so I fold it, throw it over my shoulder, and walk to the mall in the black tank-top I wear underneath. My hair is extra frizzy today but I can probably braid it quick and shove it into the toque—one of the small perks of being a female chef—I don’t have to think too much about my hair.

I love crossing Santa Monica Boulevard because I get a view of palm trees, buildings, mountains, and good-looking men. L.A. is the biggest melting pot I’ve lived in—Cleveland was primarily African American and Caucasian. Here, however, I get a variety of any kind of man I could want. Walking across the four-lane boulevard in my black slacks and black tank top, I don’t get as many look-backs as I’d prefer. My number one insecurity is that to these big businessmen and agents I look like some kind of hood rat, so I just keep my eyes on the scenery and enjoy the warmth on my skin.

ONCE I STEP INTO THE prep area I’m instantly pissed by what I find—all of last night’s closing work has been left for me. Damn you, Dominic, I think. I don’t care how busy they were last night; I’m tired of picking up his slack. After all, he does make ten thousand dollars a year more than I do. 

By the time Tim, my general manager, comes in, I’m only halfway where I need to be for the restaurant to open on time.

I’m sorry, Tim, I was left with a mess this morning, I say, loading the dishwasher because the stewards don’t come in for another hour.

You know we have the Phillips P.D.B. today, right? Tim asks. Oh, my God, I realize. Today is the day that we’re booked for Denver D. Phillips, billionaire and owner of PaeroTech—a conglomerate in the software industry. Do I know anything about software? No. But I know that P.D.B. stands for Private Dining Buyout, and that this company has rented the entire restaurant to serve five people.

"That would be today," I say, sprinting to the walk-in freezer. The whole time I’ve been here I should have been preparing the special courses instead of our standard menu.

Tim follows me to the freezer and holds the door open while I gather ingredients that I know will take some magic to thaw before they arrive. Do you want me to help, Tara? he asks. I see the worry in his eyes, and if the general manager starts to freak out then everybody is going to start freaking out.

No, I got this, I say assuredly, even though I’m shaking all over. Solid bags of frozen sauces fall out of my arms and I scramble to pick up the dozen slippery rogue ones.

Are you sure you’re okay? Tim asks. You look kind of like you’re having an off day.

What makes you say that? I ask, grabbing the gallon container of herb mustard. I’ve started to organize everything I need on a cart so I only have to make one trip.

Because you’re wearing Dominic’s clothes from last night, he says.

I freeze, look down at the sauce-stained attire, glance back up to him and say as seriously as I possibly can, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

If Tim finds out that Dominic and I have a relationship outside of work both of us can get fired. Not that we really have a ‘relationship’ outside of work, per se—we’re just really close friends who happen to sleep together often.

Last night I watched Fredrico spill an order of mussels all over Dom, Tim says. That’s his chef coat and pants, Tara. Don’t treat me like an idiot.

I don’t stop stocking the cart, although I give him a single glance to acknowledge the fact that he’s got something on me. What can I say?

"I just need this Phillips buyout to be perfect," Tim says, straightening his tie. Maybe it would go a little smoother if you would just let me get to work, Tim.

I’ll do my best, I answer.

Do better, he says, letting the freezer door slam shut.

WITH MOST OF THE CORE cooking utensils unusable in the pile of dirty dishes, I take the only logical route and prepare something both practical and simple.

In total it takes me about thirty-five minutes to prepare brunch for five, leaving just enough time to help Tim set the chef’s table. The five men enter together. The first four are all old enough to be my father, but the man bringing up the rear is a shade under 35 judging by the flecks of grey in his brown hair. As he passes me he turns and penetrates me with his blue eyes—a glance that stirs me to my core.

Tim does all the talking and introduces me as Chef Tara. The young one doesn’t take his eyes off me and I don’t even catch a word of what Tim is saying.

Isn’t that right, Chef? he says, breaking me from my embarrassing stare.

I’m sorry, Tim, can you repeat that? I say hoping my shiny smile will omit the blunder. I haven’t had my caffeine this morning, gentlemen. I apologize.

I was saying how you prepared a seasonal specialty for them this morning. One of your rare delicacies. He clears his throat, trying to signify the fact that he’s improvising due to our late start.

Right, a seasonal specialty, I say, taking his cue. Guiding the men over to the chef’s table I stand at the head while they take their seats. It’s the tradition for the Chef on Duty to present all dining experiences personally and introduce the meal before the guests enjoy it.

The key is to not take up too much