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| Photo credit: Brandon Witt |
I'm back from GRL 2015 and the usual post-con slump has hit. It's hard coming back to reality after spending a week with so many amazing people. I loved catching up with old friends and making a bunch of new ones, too. There's really nothing like getting to be among your tribe, and that's exactly what GRL is for me. A week where no one looks at me askance when I say I write gay romance, and no one asks me when I'm going to write "real" books. (I usually tell them that my imaginary ones keep me more than busy enough on their own.*g*)
My reading from
King of the Kitchen went really well. The audience was amazing and laughed in all the right places, which made me a lot more confident. And the
King of the Kitchen T-shirts I made to give away were a big hit, too.
I'm sharing an excerpt from
King of the Kitchen with you today because it's finally up for preorder everywhere. Yay! The book will be out on Nov. 6, and I'll be guest blogging during release week. You can find me on Joyfully Jay Nov. 3, GayList Book Reviews on Nov. 5, the Dreamspinner Press Facebook page on Nov. 7 (stay tuned for my chat time), Prism Book Alliance on Nov. 9, and the Novel Approach on Nov. 10.
King of the Kitchen, Dreamspinner Press, release date Nov. 6
Preorder links:
Dreamspinner Press,
Amazon,
Barnes and Noble, ARe,
Kobo,
Google Play
The
kitchen was as hot as a sauna, and the bandanna Duncan had tied
around his head had lost its ability to keep his forehead dry hours
ago. His feet ached, his hands were chapped, and despite being
surrounded by food, he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. It was long
past the dinner hour, but the flurry of frenetic activity hadn’t
slowed much at all. People were underfoot everywhere in the small
space, bustling around with hot pans and large pots, and no matter
which way he turned, Duncan ran the risk of toppling a precariously
placed container.
It
was perfect.
“Order
in! Rancher’s omelet, no onions, no peppers, no potatoes, no meat.”
Duncan
rolled his eyes, yanking the ticket out of John’s hand. “So
basically they want a cheese omelet? You don’t think you could make
it easier on us in here and just write down what they actually
ordered?”
John
grinned. “She ordered the rancher’s omelet, dude.”
“Without
three quarters of what makes it the rancher’s omelet? Did you tell
her she could order a cheese omelet and save $3.75?”
“I
did, but she’s not the one paying, and she wanted to stick it to
him.”
That
startled a laugh out of Duncan. John motioned over his shoulder,
toward a table, and Duncan leaned through the pass-through, trying to
see the couple without being too obvious. He knocked over a battered
pot in the process, making most of the diner’s customers look up.
So much for subtle.
“Them,”
John said, pointing toward a small table in front of the plate-glass
windows near the entrance to the diner. The woman was tall and
slender, with dark wavy hair cascading down her back. Her clothing
and the purse hanging off the back of her chair screamed money, as
did the suit on the man she was with. They weren’t the diner’s
typical patrons by a long shot, but Duncan did have to concede she
looked like the type of person who’d be a special order. When
business was slow, he and some of the other kitchen staff passed the
time by betting on whether the customers who walked in the door would
be complicated. He was almost always right.
“What
about him?” Duncan asked, jutting his chin toward the man she was
with. He could only see him from behind, but from his immaculately
cut hair and his ramrod straight posture—difficult in the rickety
diner chairs, Duncan knew from personal experience—he looked like a
special order as well.
Duncan
looked down at the ticket, frowning as he tried to decipher John’s
chicken scratch. No matter how many times the kitchen complained,
John’s handwriting never improved. Duncan had worked at the
restaurant on and off for more than ten years, and the only constant
had been John and his atrocious handwriting. It was kind of
comforting, in an extremely exasperating way.
“Seriously?
Two eggs over easy, bacon, and whole wheat toast?”
Duncan
looked from the ticket to the man, surprised. He peered at him,
studying his shoulders and finding himself wishing he could see the
mystery man’s face. Duncan’s culinary profiling rarely went
astray. Intriguing.
“They’re
cousins. It was his week to pick where they had dinner. I’m getting
the feeling she’s less than pleased,” John said.
“Which
is why she special-ordered something guaranteed to piss him off?”
“That’s
just it, though. He didn’t get angry. He laughed and told her if
she really wanted to pull one over on him, she should have ordered
the eggs Benedict, since that’s the highest profit margin dish on
the menu.”
Duncan
furrowed his brow. It was true the eggs Benedict was the most
expensive breakfast item on the menu, aside from the steak and eggs,
but the dish was hardly ridiculously priced. None of the regulars
ordered it, but that was more because they had traditional
meat-and-potatoes palates.
Francie,
the other waitstaff on duty at the moment, broke Duncan’s view of
the man as she walked up to grab an order off the warmer, and Duncan
shot John a mischievous grin before ducking back through the
pass-through into the kitchen.
“Duncan,”
John said, his voice holding a note of warning.
“Order
in!” Duncan yelled, ignoring him completely.
Ten
minutes later, Duncan got his wish when a plate clanked noisily on
the pass-through. He looked up absently, about to scold John or
Francie for being so harsh with the dishes, when he realized it
wasn’t either of them. It was the man in the suit, and even
scrunched up in irritation, his face was beautiful. He had a strong,
straight nose and full lips—currently thinned in annoyance—and
eyes the most interesting shade of blue Duncan had ever seen. He
absolutely looked like someone who would special order, and Duncan
found himself wishing even harder that he could puzzle him out.
“We
didn’t order this.”
Duncan
looked at the plate of eggs Benedict and smiled his dopiest grin, the
one that never failed to get him free refills and phone numbers
whenever he applied it. He’d sent the guy a free meal along with
the breakfasts he and the woman had ordered—could he seriously be
pissed about that?
“On
the house. I heard you had a particular interest in them.”
The
man blinked in confusion but seemed to recover quickly, anger
clouding his features.
“If
you wanted to impress me, you’d have to do a hell of a lot better
than a plate of fatty ham and congealing hollandaise. We don’t
serve eggs Benedict in our restaurants, Charlie,” he said,
eyeing the name on Duncan’s chef’s whites with disdain and
drawing it out like an insult, “and even if we did, I don’t
appreciate having you encroach on my personal time with your pathetic
attempt at a job interview.”
Duncan’s
mouth hung open, and he wavered between outraged and completely
confused. What was this guy talking about?
“Listen, buddy. I was only being friendly,” Duncan snapped,
choosing to go with outraged. He left the plate in the pass-through,
pointedly ignoring it—and the man—as he pulled a new ticket off
the carousel. “Order in! One deluxe hamburger, one order of chicken
tenders, one spinach frittata!”
He
turned toward the kitchen to get started on the eggs but was pulled
up short by a hand on his shoulder.
“You
can’t talk to me like that, buddy.”
Duncan
scowled. “Of course, sir. The customer is always right. Yes, the
eggs Benedict was part of a convoluted plan of mine to apply for a
job cooking for your, what?” He made a point of studying the
gorgeous guy’s suit. “Office building? Hotel, maybe? I admit,
it’s always been my life’s ambition to run a carving station at a
Marriott buffet. How could you tell?”
The
man gaped at him and would have responded, but the woman he was
with—his cousin, John had said?—walked up behind him and
unceremoniously placed her hand over his mouth.
“I
apologize for Beck’s behavior. Charlie, is it?” Duncan nodded,
figuring it was easier than correcting her. He was too busy watching
as the man fumed silently behind her hand. “He’s a bit on edge at
the moment, and he misread your intention in sending the plate. He’s
used to having dishes we didn’t order sent over to our table when
we go out, and it’s almost always a gesture followed by the chef
coming out to ask a favor or chat him up.”
She
leveled a look at Beck, her sculpted eyebrow arched in challenge as
she removed her hand. He huffed ungraciously but didn’t resume
yelling at Duncan, so Duncan was going to go ahead and call it a win.
“I
apologize,” Beck bit out, the words sounding forced. “Please add
the eggs Benedict to our check in recompense for the
misunderstanding.”
Duncan
was struck by a familiar pang of guilt. He could never hold a grudge
against anyone. It was well known among his friends—and often taken
advantage of. But he had sent the eggs over as a prank, and
now he felt bad because he’d obviously ruined their meal. As he
looked closer, he could see the designer suit was wrinkled, as if the
poor guy had been wearing it all day, and dark circles smudged the
skin under his brilliant blue eyes.
“No
need,” Duncan said, lifting the untouched plate down from the
pass-through and setting it aside. He and John were both off shift in
twenty minutes; the dish wouldn’t go uneaten. He looked over at
their table, noting that neither of them had touched their food. “I’d
be happy to remake your meals. I’m sure they’ve gone cold by
now.”
The
man stared at him with an unreadable expression, but the woman chimed
in.
“We’ve
had a long day, and I don’t think we were that hungry anyway,”
she said, smiling slightly. She slipped a business card on the
pass-through. “I’m Lindsay. I realize you’re not looking for a
job right now, but if you ever are, give me a call.”
Beck
looked a bit sour at her parting words, but he followed her silently
back to their table, pulled his wallet out, and dropped some cash on
the table. Duncan watched them leave, Beck’s posture stiff and
menacing until Lindsay wound an arm through his and leaned into him.
He seemed to melt against her, his shoulders relaxing and his gait
less abrupt as they walked down the sidewalk and out of sight.
Duncan
looked down at the card on the pass-through, his eyes widening when
he read it. Lindsay King, Assistant Producer, King of the Kitchen.
“Holy
shit,” he muttered, staring at the empty sidewalk. The Kings were
legends in the restaurant and culinary television worlds. Lindsay’s
father, Christian, hosted what was widely considered the most popular
cooking show on the air, and he had a huge stable of high-class
restaurants as well. Duncan had been forced to listen to rants about
the evil King empire practically every time he talked to his father.
Genre: Urban Fantasy Fairy Tale
Lex Chase once heard Stephen King say in a commercial, “We'’re all going to die, I'’m just trying to make it a little more interesting.” Now, she’'s on a mission to make the world a hell of a lot more interesting.
Weaving tales of cinematic, sweeping adventure—and depending on how she feels that day—, Lex sprinkles in high-speed chases, shower scenes, and more explosions than a Hollywood blockbuster. Her pride is in telling stories of men who kiss as much as they kick ass. If you’re going to march into the depths of hell, it better be beside the one you love.
Lex is a pop culture diva, her DVR is constantly backlogged, and unapologetically loved the ending of Lost. She wouldn’'t last five minutes without technology in the event of the apocalypse and has nightmares about refusing to leave her cats behind.
She is grateful for and humbled by all the readers. She knows very well she wouldn’'t be here if it wasn’'t for them and welcomes feedback.
