The Taste of You
Jack Abbot x fem!Chef!Reader
Summary You are a pastry chef, and after a nasty incident in the kitchen, find yourself in the ER, with Dr, Jack Abbot patching you up. As a thank you, you invite him to your restaurant, and so the story begins.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6
Tags No use of Y/N for reader insert, mentioned injuries with a knife, fluff, flirting, eventual smut, slow burn (not that slow just not yet lol), reader is tough but also a lover yk, irritating kitchen dynamics, age gap (late 20s/late 40s)
Author's Note Okay yeah I listened to Shawn's Quinn audio and yeah I was a little triggered and conflicted because I am a chef and it did awaken something in me like a sleeper agent. I don't know shit about shit in the medical field but I know how to write food!! So consider this a Grant Riley/Jack Abbot mishmash. This is a multipart series as I have already written like four chapters. Self indulgent. Enjoy.
xoxo
“Hey Chef?” Trina, the young server rounds the pass and peeks her head down the line.
“Hm?” you barely look up from the dish you're plating. Carefully unmolding the mousse over the caramel sauce, and grabbing the right spoon for a quenelle of Chantilly cream.
“There’s a guy at the bar asking for you.” Trina’s eyebrows raise slightly, treading lightly, like she’s not sure how this is going to be taken.
You let out a breath, pulling the perfect quenelle and laying it on the plate. “I’m a little busy at the moment. Service,” you set the plate up on the pass before grabbing another.
“And I did tell him that. But he says he knows you and that you invited him here.” Trina says, the edges of her words lifting. “Very hot, intense eyes.”
This is what makes you finally stop. There’s only one person you invited to the restaurant at all recently. And it was a joke, almost. In the way that if he didn’t want to come, you wouldn’t take it personally. But you would really want him to come. And now he’s here.
You take stock of the tickets on the board, dwindling after a slight rush, and recalibrates. “Just, uhm, give me a minute. Tell him he’ll have to wait.”
Trina’s eyes widen. “Holy shit you do know him.”
“Trina, please,” you bristle.
Trina backs away, her eyes not leaving you reddening cheeks. “Oh, we are totally talking about this after.”
“Bye Trina.”
The young server bounces away, an extra swing in her ponytail after learning something that you didn’t want to share.
It takes a second, but you regain your composure. The heat coming up your neck is surely due to the heat of the kitchen. It takes just a few minutes for you to knock out the next few tickets before starting on the last one. The dish you will deliver yourself. You take stock of your prep, what you have left over and what you can put together. You barely know the man, and now your trying to put a dish together that you think he may possibly like. But after a deep breath, you're in it again. This is your world. And you're good at your job.
A slice of vanilla bean Basque Cheesecake, plated with cherry compote and crushed salted almond brittle. Simple, but elegant. Something he could dig his fork into.
“Taking fifteen,” you nod to the Garde-Manger chef. He’ll watch your station while you step away. You remove your spare towel and apron, smoothing down the flyaways that have surely formed. On your way out, you catch your reflection in the metal door. You wipe under your eyes, trying not to look totally exhausted, and step out into the dining room.
There are eyes on you immediately. Hard not to notice the whites, pristine and folded at your elbow, and sticking out in the dim lighting and lively chatter. You make your way to the bar, and it takes all of about three seconds to see him. Broad shoulders, cinnamon sugar curls. He’s chatting with the bartender, who is completely enamored in their discussion.
You slip the plate in front of him and take the stool next to him. “I hope you didn’t already order dessert. This seat taken?” you ask.
Jack Abbott’s eyes drop to the dessert in front of him, but quickly find your face. His eyes find yours immediately, and his smile softens, “All yours.” You can feel your ears redden. Thank God for the dim dining room lighting.
“Thank you, Louis,” you nod at the bartender, “I hope this gentleman didn’t take up too much of your time.”
“Nah,” Louis shakes his head, “this guy has some crazy stories.”
“I’m sure he does,” you reply, but your eyes don’t leave Jack’s.
You wait for Louis to step away, taking care of someone else down the bar. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?” you lean back in the stool.
“I think I should be asking that,” Jack nods down at the plate. “What do I have here?”
You tell him about the dessert. “Not on the menu, by the way. Chef special.”
A smile pulls at the corner of Jack’s mouth. “I’m honored.”
“I’m surprised to see you here, what with you working nights and all.” you shrug.
“I do get days off, you know,” Jack raises an eyebrow. “And I’m not one to turn down an offer for a great meal.”
“Well, it is because of you that I can even still make any desserts,” you wiggle your fingers at Jack.
On your left hand are two scars that make a perfect line across your middle and ring fingers. A late night and an intense argument in the kitchen, because when are they ever not intense, and a careless mistake with your best knife landed you in the ER in the middle of service. It wasn’t deep enough to nick the bone, but enough for you to have to sit out of service for almost a week, saddled with limited prep, and your Executive chef still won’t let you live it down.
“How are you holding up?” Jack asks, reaching for you. “No lingering pain, I hope.”
You let him take your hand and turn it over in his, inspecting his handywork. His hands are warm and calloused, and his grip is gentle, as if the already healed scars will burst open again at any moment.
“No pain,” you muse, watching him, “thank you.” Jack releases his grip, much to your dismay. You prop your head up with your other hand.
You open your mouth to say something, but there’s a hand at your back before you can start. “Chef, I’m sorry to interrupt.” It’s Casey, a long-standing server. He nods at Jack and gives a strained smile. “There’s a really big table with a birthday, and no one in the kitchen will write on the desserts.”
You deflate a little, your head sagging in your hand. You groan. It took less than 5 minutes for your 15 minute break to be cut short for something that you know the guys in the back are capable of. Writing “Happy birthday” with melted chocolate in a squeeze bottle is not rocket science, they just don’t want to do it. So they sent Casey- sweet, kind Casey, who would never be on the receiving end of your ire- to fetch you.
“Okay, Case, I’ll be right there,” you nod and the server is gone as quickly as he appeared, muttering a small ‘thank you’ as he leaves.
“Duty calls?” Jack asks.
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” you groan, sliding off the stool.
“No, don’t be,” Jack assures you. “You’re working. I have no doubt if you came to visit me during a shift at the hospital, it wouldn’t look much different.”
You chew on your bottom lip, contemplating. It’s not terribly late, and he did come all the way out to see you. “Tell you what,” you start, leaning against the bar, “service is going to end in like an hour. It’ll take me a little bit to clean up my station after that. If you want to wait, I’ll make sure you’re taken care of. If you don’t want to, no harm. Leave your number with Louis and I’ll be sure to make it up to you.”
“Deal,” Jack smiles, and you notice a dimple on one of his cheeks. Your stomach flips. “Besides, I’ll be busy here for a minute, dessert’s just been served.” He pulls the plate closer to him.
“Right, I’ll make sure to get your feedback after.” you smirk. You flag down the bartender, “Louis! Make sure Dr. Abbot is taken care of over here, as long as he’d like. On me.”
“Heard,” Louis gives you a knowing grin, that you promptly ignore.
With one last look, you push away from the bar and head back into the kitchen. It wasn’t a particularly busy night, even for a Wednesday. You continue to push out the last few tickets, while half of them don’t even have dessert, motivated by just the possibility of ending the night with Jack.
Thirty minutes later, Trina comes bouncing back to your station, a grin plastered on her face. “The hottie at the bar would like to send his compliments on the dessert.”
Without looking up from your plate, you nod, “Thank you, Trina.”
“So, like, who is he?” Trina leans in.
“Thank you, Trina,” you say, firmer.
“Boo, you’re no fun.” Trina pouts and turns away.
But the compliment sends heat up your neck, and you fight back a smile, instead chewing on the inside of your cheek. You hope you don't have to explain yourself to the guys who definitely all heard that exchange.
It doesn’t take you long to clear the tickets, and you start cleaning your station immediately, cater-wrapping leftovers and storing sauces and garnishes. You wipe down the stainless steel surfaces, trying not to think about Jack, and if he stayed, which ultimately ends with you thinking about him anyway.
“Damn,” the Sous Chef stops by your station with a sanitation bucket, not caring how it sloshes everywhere, “you got some place to be?”
“Get lost, Miller,” you deadpan.
Scottie leans his hip on your station, crossing his arms. “I’m just wondering if your incredible speed and attention to detail tonight has anything to do with the guy waiting around at the bar for you.”
You try not to give anything away, but you stiffen, just slightly. Jack waited. He stayed at the bar for over an hour, just waiting for you.
Scottie notices. “Gentlemen!” He hollers to the rest of the kitchen, “We've got a hot date over here tonight!” The kitchen erupts in hoots and laughter, and completely inappropriate questions ranging from who is he to have you fucked yet.
You remove your spare towel and apron, throwing them in Scottie’s face. “Just because you are in a bout of involuntary celibacy, doesn’t mean the rest of us have to be.”
Scottie tosses the linens on the floor. “Hey, if you’d bother to bring any of your lady friends around-”
“Sorry, my friends like to orgasm when they have sex,” you scrunch your nose and push passed him, and the rest of the kitchen lets out a string of ‘ooohs,’ laughing and shoving Scottie back to his station.
It’s jokes, mostly. You have grown accustomed to the inappropriate and invasive atmosphere of the kitchens you've worked in. There’s another woman on the crew, Rose, but your shifts hardly ever line up, with one of you on prep during the day and the other on service at night. So you try to blend in in the ways you can, and be better in every other way. Wittier, smarter, faster. Don’t give them a reason to think you're the weak link.
“I’m out,” you call, walking towards the locker room. “See you losers tomorrow!”
In the locker room, you hang up your whites, and slip a crewneck on over your tank top. It’s not sexy, but it beats the dingy, worn straps of the camisole. You slide off your bandana and try to tame the flyaways it produces.
There’s a fine line between looking like a complete slob, and looking like you're trying way too hard, and you aren't sure how to stay on it. After fiddling with your appearance for way too long, you grab your bag and push yourself out into the dining room.
Sure enough, Jack Abbot is still waiting for you. He’s scrolling through something on his phone when you approach. Louis is nowhere to be found, probably refilling syrups.
“You waited,” you smile, coming up next to him.
Jack’s gaze immediately snaps to you, and his shoulders drop, like he’d been nervous about something. “Hey, yeah,” he smiles. “I’m a night owl, obviously. Had I gone home, I probably wouldn’t have gone to sleep, anyway.”
“Well, this place is just about closed,” you nod to the lingering guests, the servers gathered around a table, rolling silverware for the next day. “Would you want to head to a bar and grab a drink?”
“Yeah, I’d love to,” Jack slides off the stool.
The cool breeze is a balm to your flushed cheeks and nervous energy. It’s late August, so the nights are finally becoming cooler in Pittsburgh. The two of you walk to a bar that’s less than a block away. Your arms bump together as they walk, but neither of you overcorrects to stop it from happening again.
It’s not a bar that you have been to often, but whenever you need a drink without the watchful eye of your own staff, you head here. The bartenders are to the point, not bothering you with stories and questions when you clearly just want to zone out, and you tip well, so it’s mutually beneficial. You and Jack slip into an empty booth, each with a cold beer.
“So, Dr. Abbot, if I may call you that-” you settle into the booth, dropping your bag on the worn vinyl.
“Jack, please,” he interrupts, with a grin on his face.
“Jack,” you roll his name around in your mouth. “Have you been a doctor long? And always in the ER?”
Jack takes a long sip of his beer before answering. “I’ve been an attending for about 20 years, give or take.”
“Wow,” you raise your eyebrows slightly, “20 years. Long time.”
“Alright, alright,” Jack laughs, raises his palms towards you in surrender, “get the age jokes out now.”
Even though you are doing the mental math to try to figure out his age, you shake your head. “No, not in like, an age way. I just can’t imagine having the same job for that long. I’ve never stayed anywhere longer than 3 or 4 years. I was starting to think I was cursed.”
“What’s the matter? Commitment issues?” Jack eyes you, teasing.
“Ha, no.” you deadpan. After a moment, you shrug, “I don’t know, it’s the nature of the industry, I guess. There’s not a high overhead in restaurants, and a pastry chef is often let go first when things start to go south. They decide that they’ll just start getting shitty cakes from the restaurant service groups instead. And then there’s the egos, the tempers…”
You hate explaining this part, it always comes out wrong. You try to find the right way to explain that it’s not a lack of loyalty, but the never ending search for something better. “I’ve learned something in every kitchen I’ve ever worked. But when I feel like I’ve absorbed all I can, I move on.”
“All in Pittsburgh?” Jack asks.
“Oh, no,” you shake your head. “I’m not from here. I’ve, uh, moved around a lot. Been that way since I was a kid, so I guess it carried into adulthood.”
“Military brat?”
You purse your lips, “Yeah.”
Jack nods, considering. “I was a combat medic. Before. I understand the lifestyle.”
“But,” you try to save yourself, “I’ve been here for like 8 months, and I really like Pittsburgh. I like working at Brindle Bay. I’m hoping this is it, at least for a while.”
“Me too,” Jack smiles. “Otherwise, Pittsburgh would be woefully deprived of your creations. And that is a crime.”
“You’ve tried one of my desserts, Jack. I don’t know that you have a good frame of reference. Besides, it’s not like I’m saving lives, if anything I’m sending people to an early, sugary grave,” you let out a chuckle.
“Oh, I beg to differ. The cheesecake had me seeing God. In a good way. That is life saving,” Jack shoots back.
“You liked it?” you scrunch your nose. You can’t help yourself.
“Loved it. I sent compliments back, didn’t I?” Jack replies. He’s having fun watching you squirm, clearly.
“You did, but- ugh. You’d think I’d be better at hearing people talk about my food by now, but it’s still hard to do face-to-face.” You could go on about how a cheesecake is totally not hard to make, especially a Basque cheesecake, or how a child could make a cherry compote. But fighting that self-deprecating urge is what got you here in the first place. Owning your talent is how you made it this far.
“I’m usually a very downhome guy,” Jack presses his palm to his chest. “Give me a slice of chocolate cake, I’m good. But that cheesecake was incredible. You clearly love what you do, and you’re very talented.”
“What about you?” you ask, looking at him from down the beer bottle as you take a sip. “You still enjoy being in a doctor after 20 years?”
Jack sighs. He has this look in his eyes, and for just a brief moment, you can tell that he’s a million miles away. “You know, it has its moments. There are times when I think I want to leave it behind, but I just can’t stay away. It calls me back.”
“I think I know what you mean,” you nod. “I’d probably go nuts if I slowed down enough to leave the restaurant. I already need a million hobbies to keep my mind busy.”
“I volunteer as a SWAT medic in my off hours, keeps me busy."
Your jaw drops. Literally. “Seriously? Fuck, you are a glutton for adrenaline.”
“I’m good at it,” Jack shrugs. But he’s grinning, because he knows exactly what it sounds like.
“No,” you shake your head. “People are good at knitting. People are good at gardening. You pick a hobby that could get you killed. Like a crazy person.”
“You and my therapist would get along very well,” Jack retorts, not unkindly. It’s your turn to watch him squirm.
The conversation continues, and when the beers run out, you order another round. You tell Jack about all the places you've lived in your life, and Jack shares some of his most interesting medical cases. His eyes light up when he talks about near misses and good saves, and you can see why Jack just can’t walk away. There’s a passion in him that could never be satisfied doing anything else. It’s really hot.
Eventually, you come back to yourself long enough to notice that the already sparse crowd in the bar has all but disappeared, leaving the two of them and the closing bartender. You check your phone, 12:30 am. You’ve been sitting, lost in conversation for two hours.
“Shit,” Jack mutters, noticing your phone and checking his watch. “It is late. You’re probably exhausted.”
Even after all of these years working in the kitchen, the shitty floor mats still do nothing for your feet, which feel like rocks at the end of your legs. The weight of the day catches up to you all at once, and as much as you want to keep the night going, you're not sure how much fun you'll be in another 20 minutes.
“Yeah, I should probably head home. Take a long shower, you know.” you grab your bag, slipping out of the booth.
Jack leaves some cash on the table, and the two of you receive an appreciative nod from the bartender. Jack’s hand hovers over your back, just at your waist, and they slip out into the crisp night air. Even though it’s barely a touch, you can feel the warmth of his hands through your crewneck, and you start to think about all the other places you'd like Jack to put his hands.
“Where’s your car?” Jack looks down the street, and you snap right back out of your head.
“Oh, it’s fine-”
“Nuh-uh,” Jack furrows his brow slightly, teasing. “There’s no way I’m letting you walk back alone in the middle of the night.”
You don’t argue, just lead the way. “Thank you again. For tonight. If I’m being honest, I wasn’t sure if you would take me up on it. Coming to the restaurant, I mean.”
“I told you,” Jack nudges your shoulder with his own. “I am not one to turn down a good meal from a beautiful woman.”
“Uh, no,” you smile. “You conveniently left out that last part.”
“Thought it was implied,” Jack shrugs, that stupid grin on his face. His eyes seek out your, and you tug your bag closer.
When you reach your car, you round to face him full on. “This is me,” you nod back.
“I can see that,” Jack shoves his hand in his pocket. He fishes his phone out and hands it to you. “Maybe we can see each other on a day that neither of us has to work.”
“I think that sounds great.” you enter your number in and when you hand his phone back, your fingers brush for longer than could be considered a coincidence.
You are not one to deny yourself. You indulge in your pleasures, and go for what you want. Which leads you to step just a hair closer to Jack. Almost too close for normal conversation. “I’m going to say something.”
Jack follows suit, stepping closer. Definitely too close for normal conversation. “I’m sure I’d love to hear it.”
You hesitate for a moment, giving yourself an out, and promptly deciding that you don't want it.
“I really want to kiss you, Jack,” you are a breath away, your gaze dropping down to Jack’s mouth, and back up to his hazel eyes.
“Thank God,” Jack smiles. His voice is low and thick. “I thought it was just me.”
Jack’s hands settle in a firm grip on your hips. When you kiss, you bring your hands up to his jaw, brushing your thumb over his cheek and stubble. It’s a grounding, full kiss, that spreads heat through your entire body. Jack’s hands move over your back, pressing you fully against him. When you pull back, he still doesn’t let go.
“You say goodnight to all of your patients like that?” you bite your bottom lip.
“Just the ones that make really good cheesecake,” Jack teases, brushing his nose against yours.
“Right, cheesecake.” you wink and step out of his grasp. You step off the curb and slide into your car. Jack watches you, his hands flexing at his sides. “Goodnight, Doctor.” you call.
“Goodnight, Chef,” Jack nods. He steps away from the curb just as you pull away.
You can see him in your rearview mirror, watching you drive away. You can’t help but giggle to yourself and press your fingers to your lips, still remembering the way his felt.