Local Flavour (Book 1, the Local Flavour Series)

Part 2: Eviscerated

Quinn Allen was trying. He was sitting in London's hottest restaurant — his restaurant — with a gorgeous blonde; he should have been on top of the world. He had oysters and the monkfish, Natasha ordered the mixed green salad, champagne truffle dressing on the side. She chewed each leaf slowly, pausing only to sip from her water. He sighed.

"I could come to Nova Scotia with you. It's supposed to be beautiful," she ventured.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Aren't you filming that dumb engagement show soon?" He and Natasha had been dating on and off for six months. His heart sank at the thought of travelling with her. In fact, he felt quite nauseous, unsure if it was her suggestion or the fish.

"We start filming in Milan next week."

He was visibly relieved. "Well, that won't work. You'd just be bored anyway; I'll be working night and day. It's the last episode of the contest in Canada and then we wrap up. When are you going to be done with that shit show anyway? Maybe we can take a trip then," he offered. It was the last thing he wanted.

She slammed her phone down. "Shit show? You're the one who got me that gig in the first place, remember? This can be very good for my career. All I have to do is outsmart those bitches and get Brody to propose!"

Quinn was well aware that his connections landed her a spot on the ridiculous engagement contest masquerading as must-see TV. "Then what'll you do? Marry the guy?"

She laughed. "Maybe," she said, looking away. The smile left her eyes.

She was young and pretty, no doubt. But he was tired of the whole thing. Tired of her. Dating someone younger was always a better idea in theory than in practice. He just wanted to keep things light, but it never worked out that way. Why did he never learn?

He grimaced and signaled for the waiter. "There's too much saffron in the sauce. Lemon, butter, capers: those work best with this cut. Tell Andre to get his head out of his ass. He's supposed to be the best chef in London besides me, right? Or do I have to go in there and cook it for him? Should I bus the tables too?"

The waiter's head snapped back as if struck. "I'm so sorry you weren't pleased, Mr. Allen," he said. "I'll be back at once with a new meal." He disappeared into the kitchen.

"Not pleased is an understatement," he grumbled. Natasha rolled her eyes, a habit that he hated. "Do you have to do that?" she said.

"Do what?"

"Eviscerate every chef you come across who isn't you?"

He didn't know what was more shocking, that she didn't know him better after months of dating, or that she knew the word 'eviscerate.' He smiled.

"Yes, I do. Overcooked, over-seasoned fish is an offence punishable by death."

"No it isn't."

"Well, it should be," he muttered, grabbing a menu from a nearby table. He had changed it up a month before and needed to refresh his memory.

She threw her napkin on the table. "That's it. I'm done." She walked out the door. Just like that.

He stared after her. Done with dinner? Or done with him?

He called the waiter over. "Listen Tom, cancel dinner. Tell Andre it wasn't totally a disaster. Saffron should be used with a much lighter touch. Tell him the oysters were prepared beautifully."

"Very good, Mr. Allen. Thank you, sir."

Quinn went after Natasha, but she was already climbing into a cab.