Pairing: Rockstar!Frankie Morales X Female Chef!Reader
Rating: T, but series is M
Words: 1300+
Warnings: Descriptions of food, some music heartbreak, let me know if I missed something?
Summary: This interlude doesn't feature Frankie apart from mentions, but it's a peek into Chef's head as she's planning the menu for Frankie's visit to Cassis and her connection to Frankie prior to her taking the job. It takes place during Chapter 2. These dishes were made up, so if you try this at home results may vary :P
A huge, soft thank you to @just-here-for-the-moment for reading this over and for convincing me that I should yeet this out there. Love you <3
Read the rest of the story here. Taglist
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Frankie was surprisingly evasive when it came to personal questions in interviews and when quizzed about what he enjoyed, the answer was simply "something sweet, definitely not good for you." It didn't help you at all.
That night you settled down to scribble some notes. With food, you found inspiration worked best when you teased out the threads as you worked - you just needed an anchor and your sense of intuition would guide you the rest of the way. The notes were initial suggestions to get your mind working, but your hands, eyes and taste buds would take over the moment the ingredients were laid out on the counter.
Your notes on food were always peppered with doodles, adjectives, rough little line drawings for plating suggestions and arrows as you plotted out preparation notes. To the untrained eye it looked like a crab scrawl, but this was the beginning of a three course meal that would change your life in ways that you couldn’t begin to imagine.
So, pencil gripped studiously between fingers (you loved the faint whiff of graphite and would not be swayed to ink) you jotted down flavours and ingredients as they came to you. Some, you crossed out again. Your ideas were not really flowing, and tapping the pencil on the lined paper impatiently, you stood up from your seat.
Music always helped you think, so you reached for your soundbar remote and played Saint-Saëns’ Carnival of the Animals, Aquarium. The notes tinkled through the space as you decided to lay down, prone on your back. Getting comfortable, you let the notes effortlessly fall over you like raindrops, the harmonies coaxing thoughts and memories from your mind like wind whipping up leaves on a sidewalk.
It felt like the air clearing and you breathed deeply, nestling your head even further back into the plush carpet.
You relaxed, letting the images and impressions come to you, and after a few long moments you sat back upright and knew what you wanted Frankie to know. How you wanted to show him the different textures and facets to you. The surprise and delight of a discovery in every mouthful, something that touched all the senses at once and left a fragment of knowledge behind in memory and heart.
You smiled as you jotted down a few more dish concepts. To share yourself through your craft was a deeply personal experience. It often revealed more about you than you intended. Like that you hoped in your heart of hearts that Frankie would find something familiar and comforting in your work as you did in his.
The music that soothed you when you were nervous about your interview at Cassis.
The night before the interview you had tossed and turned in your bed, the covers uncomfortably wrapped around your limbs like the anxiety was wrapped around your throat. Grabbing the phone off your nightstand, you searched for their second album, scrolling to a ballad that Frankie had written about missing home. Santi’s smooth voice crooned about the small things at home that seemed insignificant at the time but ended up being important. The harmonies and words slowly unspooled the tightness clawing at your throat and you fell into a dreamless sleep.
The music that eased the pain from being left for someone else.
Slumped over your kitchen table on your day off from work, tears unabashedly rolled off your cheeks onto the wood below. Turned up loudly, was a song from when Frankie had his heart broken. The woman had carved something out of him and he was struggling to recover. Santi’s emotive voice, with Frankie’s lower baritone as backing vocals, slowly smoothed over the jagged edges of your heart until it was smooth like sea glass.
The music that released endorphins into your bloodstream like a heady drug.
Empire was the supporting band for an outfit that was all the rage at the time. You were not here for them but they ended up leaving the biggest impression out of the whole festival experience.
These were the early days; Santi was still clean-shaven and a new guitarist had just joined, the previous guy having left after coming to blows with the band. You still had to whip out the festival leaflet to refresh your memory on the band lineup. 20 minutes into their set you had turned to your friend at least twice, screaming above the din “How the hell did I not know this band? Fuuuck they’re good!” while taking gulps of now-warm beer and moving in time to the music.
The tightly-packed crowd moved like a sea of bodies, one mass undulating to the loud music. In your little spot on the grass you felt the bass rip through your sternum and it was a pure unfiltered happiness that exploded in your veins like so much concentrated sunshine. You closed your eyes and focused on the feeling, and when they opened, they fell on the source of that feeling. Frankie leaned over the stage, a joyous open-mouthed smile shining into the crowd as his fingers expertly danced and flicked over the strings.
Frankie had shared his innermost self through his music, and you wanted to share yourself back. There was a strange familiarity about following an artist and their work, one you knew was only as deep as your own imagination. To you, right now, Frankie was someone who inspired you. After Thursday, you hoped you would find out what else Frankie was.
After an hour you felt satisfied with your notes. Then you wrote out the dishes, a life and temperament in three courses.
Halibut with oyster and yuzu espuma and radish.
Perfectly flaky, soft cubes of halibut on a gossamer oyster and yuzu foam, tasting of summer, citrus and surf. Crisp curls of shaved watermelon radish add a crunch and blush in a nod to the vivid colours of the season.
I love swimming in the sea. Feeling the warm breeze whip around me when I emerge from the briny ocean. This is when I feel lightest, when the summer sun warms me, and when the sea leaves salt tracks on me like imprints.
Seared beef rib-eye with marrow compound butter on creamy mashed potato, herbed porcini mushrooms and lemon garlic asparagus.
A beautifully marbled round of rib-eye, baby-cheek pink in the centre with an expertly seared crust, nestled into golden, buttery mashed potato. A dash of umami comes from mushrooms pan-fried in butter, thyme and garlic. The pearly fattiness of the marrow melts into the meat, infusing it with even more of its own flavour. The lemon on the verdant, just-crunchy asparagus lifts the flavours on the rich plateful.
I am down to earth. I understand the meat and bones of the world and I work with the fire that transforms us under harsh circumstances.
Madagascan vanilla baked pudding with jasmine blossom ice cream.
Warm, spongy baked pudding with a fine crumb and smelling richly of fresh vanilla pods, cosying up to a light floral ice cream, white as first snow with the texture of pure, creamy silk. Crowned with a delicate spun sugar heart.
I want softness. The kindness and reassurance that comes from holding someone's hand and it being enough.
You set the pencil and paper down and looked it over again. The following day you would buy these ingredients and give it a proper go in the kitchen, with Empire on full blast.
A/N: So this one has been stewing for a while. It's completely self-indulgent and built around things I love irl. A huge thank you to @just-here-for-the-moment who kindly read a first draft of this - without her encouragement I probably wouldn't have worked on it again. Not beta'd mistakes are mine.
Rating: M - brief mention of smut in this but will get much spicier in subsequent parts.
Characters: Frankie Morales x f!reader - Chef AU
Warnings (let me know if I missed any): In-depth descriptions of food, cooking and feeding. Cursing, some flirting, R-rated things. Mention of receiving a noogie.
You smoothed your Henley down and peered out of your kitchen window. It really was a perfect day to make something different. Not a cloud in sight, and sunlight was streaming in the large bay windows, bathing the counter in a soft glow.
Even though you were excited to get started, you carefully placed all your utensils out one by one, a ritual you learnt in culinary school that just became habit. Only once you had your own kitchen, your items became a little less..utilitarian. Your pastel green mixing bowl and measuring spoons stood to the side, and you ticked off the necessary items in a neat little mise en place.
You reveled in the quiet moments before you started a new dish. Taking a deep breath. It was a quiet moment with a blank canvas before it exploded in colour, and this anticipation before letting go was cathartic in a way.
You were not an expert baker, preferring to spend your time on the savoury side of the spectrum. Now that you had everything set up, you were missing one more thing.
Ah, yes.
You reached over and turned up your stereo. When you were used to the chaos and cacophony of a professional kitchen the quiet was disquieting in its own way. With this in the background, you could avoid thinking and just focus on what was in front of you.
I know you wanted me to stay
But I can't ignore the crazy visions of me in LA
And I heard that there's a special place
Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day
I'm having wicked dreams
Of leaving Tennessee
Oh, Santa Monica
I swear it's calling me
As you got into the song and your stand mixer whirred to life, you spun in the kitchen, holding the wooden spoon up like a mic, singing along loudly and tunelessly.
I'm gonna keep on dancing at the
Pink Pony Club
I'm gonna keep on dancing down in
West Hollywood
For a brief second you considered whether to take your pants off and attempt a slide into the kitchen like Tom Cruise in Risky Business. You decided against it as you heard the oven ding.
It pulled you back into your kitchen and the deliciously sweet mixture waiting to be baked.
You were excited as the cake came together bit by bit. Your best friend Hannah was celebrating her birthday so you were heading over to her house later. She was hosting what sounded like the party of the century and you volunteered to bring something sweet. You slipped the cake into the oven and turned back to the counter. Eyeing the box in the corner, you couldn’t help but feel a little smug.
A Captain Crunch cake for your friend’s 30th was going to be a hit.
At 5pm you knocked.
“Baby Cakes! You missed the unicorn tequila shot round! ” Hannah squealed as she opened the door further and grabbed your arm to reel you in.
“HannaaaHHAAAA I’m carrying a cake you dumbass! Watch out!”
You tried to counterbalance and keep the massive cake upright in one hand, while flinging your dominant arm around her. Your friend’s name always grew by several syllables when you were yelling at her or drunk or both. You kissed her on the cheek.
“Happy birthday sweets, I hope this year is a wonderful one.”
“Thanks my friend, I can already feel my joints cracking.” she laughed.
She followed you to the kitchen. The party was already in full swing so maneuvering between the bodies was like an obstacle course. Music floated through the house, and groups of people stood around, leisurely chatting and laughing.
“What’s unicorn tequila? I’ve never heard of that.”
“Oh it’s just tequila that we pour pink and blue food colouring into” she sniggered.
Ben sidled up to you, bumping your hip before grabbing you in a warm embrace.
“Glad you could make it kiddo, how’ve you been?”
Benny and Hannah had been together for almost two years, and in that time the two of you had grown close. It was easy to see what your friend saw in him, he was easygoing, fun and very soft on the eye. And, as an ex-guitar player, he had excellent music taste too.
“You know how it goes Benny. I’m running on fumes - Cassis is pumping. It’s now what is commonly referred to as hot” you quipped, making air quotes.
He held you at arms’ length and fixed you with a serious look.
“Listen, don’t let this job take too much from you. All you do is work, and you barely have time to do anything else. I don’t want you to wake up one day and your whole life has been sunk into this. Just….take it easy ok?” He rubbed your upper arms warmly.
You couldn’t help but smile.
“You calling me old, Benjamin?.”
His face turned solemn.
“You’re never too old for a noogie, Baby Cakes”
With that he bent you down and vigorously rubbed his knuckles on your head like you were a little kid getting roughhoused.
“Jesus Benny get off me! We’re at a party and you're not 9!.”
He was laughing raucously until you heard an unfamiliar baritone interject.
“Hey”
Benny stopped abruptly and you swung up to face your inadvertent rescuer.
“Frankie! I thought you were still touring man, I’m glad your ugly ass came to say hello.”
The stranger scoffed and leant over to hug Benny, clapping his shoulder blade.
You stole a few moments to look at him while he was exchanging pleasantries with your friend. He was so handsome. Curled chestnut hair, lending a softness to a strong jaw, heavy set eyes and a curved nose. A few days of patchy scruff framed plush lips which were now pulled up in a smile, accentuating the deep laugh lines.
The face felt familiar, and your mind was whirring through memories to find a match. He looked more familiar when he looked down, the curls at the side of his face framing it like a scruffy halo, but where...
He turned to you and stuck a hand out to take yours gently.
For one horrifying moment, Benny rolled his eyes, before he schooled his face and introduced you, and then said:
“This is Frankie Morales, he’s a buddy of mine and in...”
“...a band...yeah I know,” you finished lamely. The penny had dropped.
Empire had been on your regular rotation a few years ago.
Frankie looked down and scratched the back of his neck lightly in an effort to tamp down the bewildering unease he was suddenly feeling.
“I had some time off, so I had to see that Ben wasn’t creating too much chaos.”
“Too late, sorry.” you side-eyed and punched Benny playfully in the arm.
Frankie laughed. “He was always the wild card in the band, didn’t he tell you?”
You rounded on your friend, barely able to contain your shock. “You were in EMPIRE? Ben? What the hell? I knew you played guitar but you didn’t say you were part of EMPIRE!?”
Ben laughed raucously, like it was the best joke in the world. Frankie chuckled under his breath at the two of you. He would have been lying if he said that your recognition and obvious appreciation for the band wasn’t a nice surprise.
“Well, I need a drink, especially after that bombshell. I’ll see you guys later.” you made a quick exit and exhaled deeply. The casual tone belied the twinge of excitement in your belly at how gorgeous this guy was up close. You had seen the album covers in his slightly younger days, but he seemed to have filled out in the most masculine and gorgeous way, some lines softer, others retaining their strong outlines.
Frankie rotated slightly on his heel as you slipped past him, his head seemingly following you of its own accord. He had made his way through the bustling house to find his former bandmate and just as he spoke, you lifted your head. Eyes bright and brimming with unspent laughter and an elated smile like sunlight breaking through the clouds. A beautiful woman caught in a moment of unadulterated joy.
The sight had wrenched his heart into a heavy, unexpected throb.
It unnerved him that you were able to draw such a strong reaction from him. For the last few weeks he had been comfortably numb. He was struggling to write anything substantial and when he put the pencil down, he often reached for something to bring him back up and out of his writing stupor. It filled the empty spaces and made it easier to ignore the pending deadlines. And expectations. And changes. And band politics.
The boys normally had their pick of poisons, and management made sure that they were taken care of as long as the money kept rolling in. When substances didn’t provide the sense of escape he craved, a warm cunt came close enough.
But the endless array of women became like white noise after a while. Tired variations of the same flirtatious lines, too much skin on nearly perfect bodies that wasn’t tempting anymore. Sex that wasn’t fun. Or meaningful.
He thought back to Crystal (Christy? Candice?) who was splayed out in his bed a few months ago.
“You wanna go again baby?” came her breathy whisper as she looked up at him through her long lashes. She was lying between his outstretched legs, lazily stroking his cock to get him hard again. He despondently stared at the ceiling, wondering when this became just another thing he did out of habit.
“I gotta go.” He started, but she doubled down on her efforts. “Let me suck your cock baby, I’ll take good care of you. You like fucking my throat don’t you?”
The irritation bubbled over and he frowned, pushing her off him.
“Just go please, I wanna be alone.”
Pouting, she pulled on her clothes that were still strewn about the room. She murmured something about this never happening with Will and then walked out, slamming the door.
He stalked to the bathroom and splashed his face with cold water. They were all just a parade of different faces and crushing guilt afterwards because it was a momentary release but didn’t begin to satiate a deep-seated need.
It was drinking seawater when you were thirsty.
He had withdrawn and focused on the music. He was getting a reputation for not being fun, not being down to do things. He didn’t give a shit. Frankie was the songwriter for the band, successfully avoiding the lead singer limelight and instead pushing his talent into lyrics and ridiculous bass licks. He felt deeply but often had to dig hard to unearth anything. When he did though, it was incredible. At least that’s the story their awards and album downloads told.
Frankie just felt older each year. Older and more lost.
Simple things were slipping through the cracks and he let it. When the band wasn’t in the studio or touring, it wasn’t unusual to find Frankie asleep,sprawled on the couch, Netflix casting bright, animated shadows against his living room wall.
When he wasn’t out with friends or management (trips which he increasingly started canceling) the easiest thing was to throw a ready-made pizza into the oven and eat while watching a movie. Takeout would taste better but delivery people were always keen for a selfie so in time he started avoiding that too.
So here he was, standing in Benny and Hannah’s living room.
He had written absolute shit this week. He couldn’t stand it or himself and the self-loathing drove him out of the house. The party was a great distraction, especially as Ben was going around introducing him to some of his friends, most of whom knew the band.
After about an hour of drinks, Hannah brought out the cake, the candles were blown out and the cake cut with everyone digging into their own slice.
Eventually the party started winding down, and you retreated to your comfort zone, the kitchen. By that time, the tequila and whisky had done its job of social lubrication, and you were feeling relaxed and chatty.
He was standing with his back to you, hunched over slightly, his hip balancing against the counter.
"Oh hello Frankie"
He guiltily spun around, Captain Crunch crumbs speckled through his mustache like evidence at a crime scene. His eyes widened comically.
"Mhi, sowwy" he mumbled with a mouth full of cake, crumbs spraying a delicate shower onto the counter. One hand went up in defeat while the other tried to hide his mouth.
You were trying. You were really trying not to laugh but he looked like a four year old caught with his hand in the very literal cookie jar.
"It's Capn Cwhunch, my favwhouite" he mumbled by way of explanation, the cake muffling his speech so that it sounded like he was talking through a pillow.
“Yours too? I thought Han was the only person who loved this shit.”
His eyes lit up. The idea of a grown ass man being this excited over breakfast cereal cake made your heart turn to butter. He swallowed.
"Capn Crunch is the best thing in the world, it’s….it’s….like…”
He swirled a finger in the air, searching for the right words.
“Like butter, caramel, a dog in the backyard, a summer’s day.”
You chuckled.
“You think? Then you’ve never had roast lamb and truffled potato confitted in duck fat. It’s starchy, salty happiness. You toss some smoked Maldon flakes on there? Ohhh god.”
You closed your eyes and a moan escaped your lips at the memory of one of your favourite roast meals that you made when you had time on your hands.
“Smoked salt? What, you some kind of Instagram foodie?” He scoffed, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You eyed him.
“First of all, that’s fucking insulting, I’m a real chef…you will never hear bullshit like kale smoothie or lemon water for breakfast pass my lips.”
At your last words, his eyes flitted down to your mouth, a seemingly unconscious tick that he wanted to kick himself for.
“That sounds good, I don’t remember the last time I had a meal like that.”
You were confused. This was someone who had money and access to anything he could want.
“How so? Don’t you have dinners at the best restaurants?”
He scoffed, ran his thumb over his bottom lip. His voice came out softer than it had been earlier.
“I just mean if you don’t go out….I….I can’t make that stuff. Frozen pizza’s easy you know?”
You grew quiet. The admission stuck in your craw for many reasons. Food was the language you spoke, the way you navigated the world. All meaning that you gleaned from the world moved through a filter of ingredients, being fed, the art and delight of a sumptuous meal. Love carved and flamed and transformed into something tangible and necessary for survival. For joy.
The man in front of you with the rueful look in his eyes had to be starved of that particular fullness.
Despite the heavy realization, you pitched your next comment lightly, a playful ribbing meant to disguise the sadness that you suddenly felt.
“Oh Frankie whyyyyyy” you breezed, a curious smile playing on your lips.
“I’m usually busy writing, I just…I never really learned to cook I guess.”
An impulse suddenly struck you and you felt a shiver run down your back. That sensation was from someone walking over your grave, your grandma used to say. Now that you were a grown up, you understood that this little frisson usually meant that you were about to do something very stupid.
“I could just cook for you.”
It slipped out, seemingly of its own volition. As the words formed in the air in front of you, you regarded them curiously. Wait, what?
Frankie mirrored your response.
“Huh?”
Dumbly, you threw caution to the wind and just…went for it. In for a penny, in for a pound.
“Yeah, I mean….I’m a chef…I could just cook for you.”
You marveled at your astounding inability to elaborate. You felt like Ralph Wiggum trying to explain theoretical physics. You blamed that fourth whisky.
Frankie just looked at you.
“You’d do that?”
“Yeah” you smiled.
The very simple conversation belied some internal warring. If Frankie was confused as hell he didn’t show much of it. You thought you saw a sliver of hopeful curiosity flit across his features.
You, on the other hand, had not thought this through….at all. You literally just offered to up your entire established life and move hundreds of miles away to the great unknown. You were desperately searching for an anchor.
“If you’re afraid my food is inedible, come to Cassis on Thursday night. It’s not too busy and you can see if you can handle the uhm…food.”
Frankie was still just looking at you, and it was making you goddamned nervous.
A slow smile unraveled on his face.
“Okay.”
A long beat. He continued.
“Can you just…turn your back for a sec and pretend you didn’t see me take some cake home?”
You laughed. The notion of this…rockstar…sneaking cake out of a little home in the burbs was just adorable.
A/N: Sorry if this chapter makes you hungry (hehe not sorry). Also, I was listening to The Blue Danube when I wrote that kitchen scene. Don't @ me, you'll know it when you read it.
On a lighter note, this chapter is low-key a tribute to @oonajaeadira who hauled me ass-first, kicking and screaming onto the yearning wagon and will not stop torturing me with her particular brand of soft, bone-achingly beautiful work. It's an inspiration. So I hope I didn't fuck this up.
Read Chapter 1
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Every time you stepped into the restaurant kitchen, you felt like you were stepping into the entrance of a grand ballroom. The push and pull of service was a dance that started off slow with prep, and crescendoed with each dinner rush. It was busy but you could always see patterns in the ebb and flow throughout the night. A professional kitchen, to you, had an intrinsic rhythm that encompassed every sight, scent and sound and demanded your focus wholeheartedly.
Hot ovens, spitting grills, glowing charcoal, the cool puffs of air every time the walk-in fridge opened and closed. Multiple chefs meting out precise steps, performed at triple the speed, and with a frenetic energy that hummed and spat. Turn, step, swing. Sizzle, drizzle, plate. Swing, call, step, step, turn, lift.
You were engrossed in a dish when the host, Kieran coughed and announced -
“Table 8…Kingdom”
He looked at you meaningfully as he pegged the slip to the metal header over the counter, his eyebrows lifting.
You had briefed him before opening to look out for Frankie and his party, and to use the code name once they were seated.
You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders. You were ready, your fingertips tingling, feeling like magic was sparking from them. Skill and dumb luck could only take you so far, so you had hedged your bets on good prep.
Four days earlier
On Sunday night you had already started to think about Frankie’s visit, and what you could serve him. You might or might not have Googled him. He was surprisingly evasive when it came to personal questions in interviews and when quizzed about what he enjoyed, the answer was simply "something sweet, definitely not good for you." It didn't help you at all.
Lying on your back on the couch, legs slung against the backrest, you were not making any progress. You couldn't make his favourite foods, because you didn't know what they were.
But.
You could show him yours. You rolled over and excitedly scribbled some notes for dishes that you needed to discuss with Charles on Monday. The owner of Cassis would be pleased.
Back at the restaurant.
Every time Frankie's server walked in with more empty plates from their table, he slipped you a sidelong glance, as if he knew you wanted to ask how it went, but would never broach the topic.
As he brought back the dessert bowl, scraped to within an inch of its life, he winked, nodding at you. You lost the hard fought battle at keeping your composure and brought the dishcloth up to your face to hide the helplessly big smile. Your upper teeth bit into your lip to try and stifle it beneath the material, to no avail.
You were vaguely aware that the only thing that was now making its way over to the table was well aged wine.
The rest of the night went quickly, and at the end of service, you grabbed a bottle of water, gulping it down.
Finished for the night, your team cleaned up their stations and drifted off one by one to grab a post-shift drink.
Untying your chef's cap, you swung the kitchen rag that was permanently perched on your shoulder down and onto a hook. It was impossible to really look good at the end of a tough shift, but this would have to do.
Rounding the large kitchen island, you pushed through the swing doors.
The rush of cool air from the dining room blanketed you as you slowly walked through. The cream banquettes were mostly abandoned, your patrons sated for the night and no longer under your care. You hoped they left with full bellies and great memories.
In the far corner, at a long table, was Frankie and a few friends.
Engrossed in conversation in the nearly empty restaurant, they didn't notice you until you swung a chair around and sat down, both legs to the side, with your arms perched on the backrest.
"So did I pass my auditon?" you whispered to Frankie, leaning closer to him.
A beatific smile spilled over his face and he beamed.
"Oh my god. Please. Yes."
"There are a few things we have to discuss first, come find me when your friends have left.”
After an hour, you heard the doors gently swing open.
You were perched on the long metal table, the mis en place long gone for the night. The empty restaurant kitchen was quiet, a lone buzzing ringing in the back. Gleaming surfaces and neatly packed utensils were beaming at you, ready for another round, but they would have to wait until tomorrow night.
Patting the space next to you, you held out a bottle of Glenfiddich 12y.o. Your voice rang out clearly in the empty space.
“So…here’s what we’re going to do.”
Frankie hoisted himself up next to you.
“I will keep you fed, but I’m not your housekeeper or your mama. You take care of your own shit or hire someone to do it. You don’t need to pay me, but I will need a place to live, so if you have a west or an east wing in your mansion, that’s ideal, but being the humble guest that I am, I will settle for a guest room with an en suite.”
His eyes crinkled in amusement at your deadpan humour, but said nothing. Taking the bottle from you, he knocked back a generous swig and held it out to you again.
“I value my independence, and I don’t want to police you either, so if you want anything specific to eat that day, let me know. Also let me know if you’re not going to be in for supper. Lunch is flexible.”
“I will take care of the food shopping and meals, and keep a linked credit card for said shopping. You can leave all the girly shopping-emptying-your-credit-card jokes at the door.”
His hands went up defensively.
“I haven’t said a word!”
“Good.”
You smiled despite trying to muster up a strict frown.
“I need time to resign and pack up my life.” You paused for a beat, your eyes searching the ceiling for something and nothing all at once.
“That’s actually quite scary, saying it out loud.”
‘You don’t have to do this. Your food is amazing, they might not let you go” he said wistfully.
“I do. I have to…do something. I’m going to get stuck here.”
You turned back to him.
“I’m just..,frustrated. It feels like I’ve sunk so much of myself into this place and all it’s given me is bad posture and hands which need constant TLC.”
He held out his hand. “Lemme see.”
Awkwardly, you extracted your hand from inside your pocket and placed it in his palm. His calloused fingertips brushed over your knuckles gently before he let you go.
“You feel….creatively drained?” Frankie asked after a beat.
You considered his words for a moment, turning it over in your mind, trying to see if it was a fit with what you were feeling.
“Uhm…not quite. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. I think the hardest thing is that I’m doing this in an environment where I don’t see people really enjoying it.”
You angled your body to him and launched into a rambling explanation.
“Like…the restaurant is praised by critics, has made several top 10 and “best of” lists in the state and I have pretty much free reign to do as I please. But…as much as I love the pressure and high level of cuisine we’re creating, I’m missing…like…the love, you know? If you create something that is correct, that is….effective…and….excellent, but it isn’t loved and…understood…. what’s the point really?”
“I’m explaining this really badly, sorry.” you chuckled.
Frankie looked at you intently, like he was trying to look through you. He had seemingly forgotten that he was required to participate in the conversation.
“You’re very quiet, it’s weirding me out.” you mumbled.
“Sorry. Maybe doing something different will help, like you said.”
He fidgeted with the webbing between his thumb and forefinger for a moment, like he was contemplating something.
“I spoke to my manager and he’s going to ask a team to get the guest quarters ready tomorrow.”
The revelation hit you mid-chug, making the normally velvety whisky punch a choke out of you. You turned to him, wide-eyed. He was opening up his home to a complete stranger, who would see everything he did, how he lived.
“That’s so…soon Frankie. Are you sure?”
He smiled shyly, suddenly self-conscious at running out of the starting blocks before the pistol had fired. A slight blush climbed up his cheeks.
“Yeah, is that ok?”
“Sure, it’s just…you know? It’s a big move, I’m surprised you’re so keen to let a complete stranger into your life just like that.”
“Seems simple to me.” he shrugged.
“Why?”
“I dunno. I think we’ll get along well. You’re nice. You cook nice things.”
You searched his face for a trace of humour or guile and found none. Just a little smile curled around his beautifully plush lips.
Having your entire identity summed up in two words, both being ‘nice’, seemed like a gross oversimplification. And while it made you bristle underneath the surface, you understood what he was trying to say. That he feels okay around you. That you might make things more okay back home. That he isn’t as freaked out with change as you are. That you weren’t ready to uproot your life, even though you hadn’t even dusted off your moving boxes.
“Besides” Frankie interrupted your train of thought that had now completely derailed and threatened to overwhelm you.
“You’d be letting a complete stranger into your life too.”
He was right. As much as you were going to see the intricacies of his life, he would be seeing yours as well. But you were happy being a self-contained unit, keeping people at arm’s length. If you only cooked for him and had your own space, well, that wouldn’t be too hard. Right?
You smiled at him, taking a breath in an attempt to tamp down the wild thoughts tugging at your nerves.
“I suppose so.”
Frankie left with your number so you could coordinate the move that was happening the next week.
Standing outside in the cold, you set the alarm and locked the doors. You suddenly felt a pang of melancholy that this would be one of the last times that you would close up. But Cassis would go on and grow. The icy wind stung your eyes. It was the wind, not actual tears, you convinced yourself as you trudged to your car.
You felt heavy and weary as you settled into the driver’s seat. New opportunities shouldn’t feel this hard.
—-------------------------
You had a difficult time packing, much more than you would have imagined. Charles had raged at this perceived slight, flinging your resignation letter off his desk. In his mind, he found you, gave you a platform and influence, and this is how you repaid him. He had a proper go at you, his fury crashing against you like storm-whipped waves.
“Have fun cooking steamed chicken and couscous, because you’ll never amount to anything playing housekeeper to spoiled twats.” he spat.
“Charles, I’m not a houseke..”
“I don’t give a fuck, just get out of my sight. I have a fucking head chef to find who will appreciate opportunities.”
And with that he picked up the phone and dialled his assistant. You trudged out of his office like a scolded child.
That evening as you were packing, you tried to wipe his abrasive words from your mind. Maybe this was the wrong move. You still had a ways to go in your career to reach the top.
Every trinket and award made your eyes swell with big fat tears, which made the entire packing process not only long but draining. Several times you took deep breaths and reminded yourself that this was good, it was necessary and that you’ll be ok. You’ll be great. Then the tears would start again.
Although you slept fitfully, your life had been completely packed up by midnight. Your car was loaded and ready to go. If only you were too.
—----------------------
You left around 8am, a bit worse for wear but feeling cautiously optimistic. It felt like the tears had cleared away some emotional debris.
You arrived at Frankie’s doorstep in LA a little over two hours later. As you were driving you marveled at the beautiful neighbourhood with its huge mansions and driveways, wondering what Frankie’s style was. Did he like the sleek modern look or perhaps the Spanish villa style with the wrought iron staircases?
Google Maps directed you up a winding path that climbed a steep hill, and you were starting to wonder how much longer it was, when Maps pinged and declared you had arrived at your destination.
With some difficulty you managed to reach the gate intercom and when a crackling “Hello?” came through, you tried to channel your cheeriest self into the answer. “Hey! It’s me!” As the words you left your mouth you cringed. He wouldn’t know who “me” was.
“Hey!” the voice called back, and you could catch a hint of a smile this time, even through the poor sound quality.”
The gate swung open.
As you parked, you had a few moments to survey the house that would be your home for the foreseeable future. It wasn’t what you were expecting.
Frankie’s place had a large, but very unassuming exterior - the tan paint and clean lines didn’t scream “celebrity” and the only hint of real largesse was the beautiful view from the driveway and the multi-car garage to the right of the house.
Flinging the door open, Frankie bounded out in loose-fitting jeans and a dark grey t-shirt. The bottom ends of the jeans were frayed, like he had been walking on them for years.
He came to a stop next to your car, giving you an excited smile. You could see that he was trying to contain himself.
“How was the drive?” he asked.
“It was alright, I just need to get unpacked and take a shower.” you chuckled.
Frankie frowned. “You can’t unpack these, they’re heavy. I’ll get the guys to help, hang on.”
Before you could stop him and ask who he thinks packed everything in the first place, he trotted back inside. You busied yourself getting your things from the car; your handbag, some gum and a bottle of water, making sure nothing was left behind.
When Frankie came back outside, you were fully expecting some assistants to be on his heels. Not the other members of Empire.
The lead singer, Santiago, made a beeline for you and reached for your hand, holding it between both of his as he shook it. His perfect white teeth contrasted sharply with his neat salt and pepper beard as he smiled at you wolfishly.
“Nice to meet you, chiquita. I apologise in advance for what a handful this pendejo is going to be.” He winked at Frankie, who lowered his hand to his hip and flipped Santi the bird from there, in an attempt to hide the rude gesture from you.
Besides turning several degrees hotter, you couldn’t help but laugh at the exchange. You knew about his naughty reputation from being a fan of the band, and you could see he was going to be trouble in the best possible way.
The drummer, Will, greeted you and picked up some of the heavier boxes like they weighed nothing. They refused to let you help as they carried all the boxes to your new living space. It was a pretty little adjoining apartment that shared a door with the living room of the main house, and had a separate entrance to boot.
You thanked them all once everything had been set down, and you were left to yourself to freshen up and start unpacking. The apartment was tastefully decorated, cozy but modern. As you didn’t know how long you would be here, you opted to store your furniture instead of moving it down. Frankie had made sure that you had everything you needed here.
You sat down for a moment, just taking it all in. Looking around, feeling the space out. You could be happy here.
----—---------
The next morning, it was jarring waking up in a different bedroom, and it took you a moment to orient yourself again. You smoothed your hands across the light grey bed linens. You guessed they had ridiculously high thread counts and the crisp feel under your fingertips suggested that these were brand new. Laundered with jasmine-scented softener but new. You sunk down into it, letting it envelop you like a cloud. What a lovely welcome from Frankie.
After two cups of strong coffee, you bounded out of bed, showered and changed. You were ready to explore the market and whip up something spectacular for dinner. But first, you were dying of curiosity about what was on the other side of the adjoining door.
In case he was still asleep somewhere in the house, you gingerly turned the knob and went through. The living room and kitchen were open-plan and massive, joined together by a single wooden sliding door. You walked past the leather couches and into the kitchen. Bare brick wall leant a laid-back semi-industrial feel, offset with perfect white counters and American chestnut wood surfaces. An island in the middle of the kitchen housed a few chairs. Company while cooking was going to be marvelous.
You slipped out, heading to a fresh foods market you did some research on before your trip.
Frankie had a sizeable freezer and pantry and you loved picking out the plumpest vegetables, selected meats and enough spices and herbs to create any feast imaginable.
The brisk, fresh air and being surrounded by picture perfect produce seemed to push the last few days’ heartache out of you, making space for something different. Something new.
A few hours later you had everything you had set out to pick up, and you made your way to Frankie’s place. Home wasn’t a word you used for it yet, you were just a guest rendering a service. And that was fine.
In the coming days you settled in. Frankie was an easy touch, gladly accepting any and all suggestions for dinner and only now and then requesting something specific. His choices made your heart sing because they were simple. Simple and hearty comfort food. You could learn a lot about a person through their favourite food.
Frankie loved Pan de Queso. His face lit up when he tore the pillowy bread apart in his large, strong hands. The deep hmmm that he hummed as he savoured a mouthful, chewing slowly. Trying, but failing, not to smile while his mouth was full.
Frankie loved the deep, rich braised oxtail you made. A traditionally sinewy meat that was coaxed to tenderness over many hours in a dutch oven. He would methodically pull every last tangle of meat from the bones, mop up the generous helping of vegetable and marrow-infused broth with your homemade sourdough. His forehead would crinkle in concentration as he gently pressed the last drops into the bread before bringing it to his mouth.
These were the things he asked for.
Watching Frankie eat and enjoy your food made your heart swell. Sometimes it felt like your chest would expand beyond bearing, as he got completely lost in the business of being lovingly fed. The experience was nourishing to you both, just two people at a table enjoying a meal.
One evening, months later, when the weather had turned warmer, you were in the kitchen making line fish tacos. The salsa stood to one side, the leftover lime peels scenting the air with fresh citrus. As you cleaned your hands of the panko bread crumbs, you smiled to yourself. It was a point of pride for you to cook Frankie healthy, but delicious food.
Frankie sauntered into the kitchen, a soft t-shirt hugging his broad shoulders, and his jeans fitting a little less loose than before you moved in. He rounded the island and stood close to you.
“That smells amazing, what’s cooking?”
“Fish tacos, nosy. And I threw out that bottled and pre-breaded stuff, it’s disgusting.”
He laughed incredulously. “But I liked those! There was nothin' wrong with them”
“Frankie, you’ve got to feed this body good things. It deserves good things.”
Without thinking, your hand came up to his belly and you rubbed it softly.
He went rigid. The first thought that popped into his head was how had not attempted to touch you since you’ve moved in. Not even a hug. It made the gesture feel inordinately intimate. It was warm and comforting and…he wanted you to keep your hand there.
Your eyes met.
Something shifted.
The oven timer rang, tearing shrilly through the heavy air. Your eyes darted to the oven then back to him.
Distance and space was something that was in over supply now that you were done with your restaurant job. You had been grinding away for so long you felt a little lost, with more time than you knew what to do with. The guys were almost always locked into the in-house studio these days, and apart from meal times, your time was unstructured.
So you plonked yourself down on the roomy couch in the large living room and set your stack of cookbooks on the coffee table. They were well-worn, handled like old friends whose spines and pages you knew by feeling. You looked to them less for inspiration and more for comfort and memory. Tucking your legs under yourself, you reached for your favourite baking tome. It detailed some uncomplicated but lovely recipes - from breakfast to supper. You paged idly, running your fingers down the pages as if to summon the scents by touch.
I adore your Chef!Reader and Rockstar!Frankie fic "Real Sugar." The descriptions of the food had my mouth watering and I'm already loving the dynamic of their arrangement. PLEASE will there be more?!? 😍
Hi sweet Nonny, thanks so much for your message! There is definitely more coming, I've been a bit like a rabbit running between different series and one-shots and scribbling ideas for new ones so I'm going to try to focus and finish the next chapter!
Thank you for loving the little series, it means the world to me 💜💜💜
