When you cross an award winning chef with overwhelming imposter syndrome with a charismatic YouTube who lives to make the arrogant humble, it will either end in disaster, or with one of them bent over a table. Enzo isn't quite sure which one he wants to happen after agreeing to appear on Tristian's show for a Valentine's special, but he knows once he's met the enthusiastic blind man who wants to prove Enzo's unworth in his own kitchen, his life will never be the same.
EM Lindsey is a new-to-me author and I can say without a doubt this will not be my only EM Lindsey story to cross my reading radar. Just Say When is a lovely Valentine short that is full of sweet, sass, and heat. The idea of a popular chef humbling himself on a YouTube channel show to try an appease his restaurant fans after sticking his foot in is immensely pleasing. But there is so much more to Enzo than first impressions. As for Tristan, the YouTube channel host, well he too is more than what Enzo expects. On the surface their only shared interest is food and their apparent hatred for Valentine's Day but once Enzo lets Tristan in, the obvious sexual attraction is only the beginning. The epilogue gives us a look at the men's future and if we're real super uber nice maybe the author will let us see one of their future Christmases too😉😉. As I said, Just Say When is my first EM Lindsey story and what a short but perfect introduction. Definitely going on my authors-to-watch list.
RATING:
Chapter One
“… and a fifteen top who wants to come in at seven. They’re requesting to order the pre fixe menu but they’d like a couple of changes because one of the members of the party has…”
“No.” It had been years since Enzo bothered with tact in his kitchen. He was always a control freak, set in his ways, a bit of an asshole. But that was why he did what he did for a living. “I’m not serving it early. It’s bad enough I’m serving it at all.”
Paul, his long-time kitchen manager— a man who would absolutely be sanctified upon his death— let out only the smallest sigh. “You have to work with me here. You knew that people were going to push it. I warned you, limiting this event to one night…”
Setting his knife down, Enzo turned and fixed Paul with a level stare. “It’s Valentine’s Day. You know how I feel about this god-forsaken holiday.”
“I do,” Paul said tiredly.
“The fact that I got talked into it in the first place is bad enough, but if you think I’m going to serve a themed menu more than one single night for this joke of a…”
“I know,” Paul interrupted. “I do. But you’re the one who always loses his shit when bad press comes in the following week. We were only able to book two critics…”
“Yeah well, I asked for none,” Enzo muttered.
Paul rolled his eyes. “Please work with me here, man. I love you, but please don’t make me protect your own restaurant from your self-destructive spiral.”
Enzo felt his insides clench a bit, because Paul was one of the few people in the entire world brave enough to utter those words. Paul was also one of the few people left in the world who knew Enzo before he became a local celebrity with tables booked three years out. Once upon a time, Cherry Creek was their sanctuary— now, it felt like a prison. He was going stir-crazy and he knew Paul really was trying to soften the blow of what would rain down on him because of his own stubborn nature.
“You have two options,” Paul said after a beat.
Enzo leaned back against the counter and rubbed at his eyes. “If you’re going to say extend the menu…”
“Extend the menu, let me invite the rest of the critics trying to get on the list, and do the two interviews after,” Paul said slowly.
“No,” Enzo ground out.
“Or,” Paul went on, like Enzo hadn’t said anything, “do that puff piece video with that YouTuber whose been calling you out on twitter.”
Enzo instantly bristled. Taste with Tristian was a YouTube channel Enzo had been blissfully unaware of until three months prior when the vlogger caught wind of one of Enzo’s interviews. He’d thoughtlessly made a comment about being able to cook any dish with his hands behind his back, or blindfolded. It was an innocuous comment, only Tristian’s entire channel was dedicated to getting both local and celebrity chefs to cook in his kitchen blindfolded.
It was less a kitchy sort of trend and more because Tristian was an amateur cook who was also born blind. His channel was popular— something Enzo learned after only five minutes of research after his restaurant’s Twitter had blown up— and it had been a non-stop barrage of people daring him to put his money where his mouth is.
Once a week now, at the end of each video, Tristian had been calling on the owner of Mangia E Zitto to answer the challenge. Enzo had every intention of ignoring it until Tristian got bored and set his sights on another unsuspecting victim, but he knew he was reaching a crossroads. If he did this, it would soften his image a little. He’d fallen down the rabbit hole of videos one night during a fit of insomnia and watched almost everything Tristian had ever uploaded. Most of the chefs who filmed with Tristian were gently humiliated in their inability to function in their own kitchens without sight, but the thought of putting himself out there like that for public mockery made his stomach twist.
The worst part, though— the most gutting part— was that a tiny piece of him wanted to do it. Deep down, he knew it wouldn’t hurt to make himself look a little foolish. He’d clung on to this infallible, untouchable chef image for far too long, and as the years went by, the harder it became to keep up that ruse. Tristian wouldn’t ruin him, he’d just… humanize him a little bit.
It didn’t hurt either that Tristian was possibly one of the hottest men Enzo had ever seen. He was tall— or, at least, he looked tall on his videos. Muscular, broad shoulders, sharply cut jaw. His eyelids were closed in a perpetual squint, nose often wrinkled, pouty mouth curved in a grin like the entire world existed for his own amusement.
And his hands— god, his hands. Long-fingered, soft-looking, constantly dragging over his marble counter tops and kitchen tools, and occasionally into his mop of dark blonde hair. He laughed all the time, and Enzo envied him with a ferocity he hadn’t expected to feel toward any stranger.
In truth, he was witty, and clever, and sweet, and Enzo knew it would be all over for him if he and Tristian were in the same room. Tristian would see him for the fraud he was— he would see all the fake it till you make it moments which carried him until he became this. Because Tristian had a way of picking chefs apart, of cutting them all down to the quick in every video. The other chefs seemed thankful, but Enzo felt a bit too fragile to allow himself to be flayed open like that.
He wasn’t like the other people in Cherry Creek. He wasn’t a quirky, middle-class local. He wasn’t some bougie tourist who stumbled into town after a long weekend on molly and then decided to stay. No, Enzo had come from the quiet little neighborhood no one talked about and everyone warned against. He was the scholarship kid in the secondhand clothes with dirty fingernails because he worked where the other kids had daddy’s credit cards.
Deep down, Enzo knew he didn’t belong with the elite. And it was easier when other people didn’t know that.
“Hey.” Paul’s voice was soft, carefully dragging him out of his head. His friend’s rough, calloused fingers closed around his wrist, and the touch grounded him. “You don’t actually have to do either, you know.”
Enzo licked his lips, allowed himself just the barest moment to bask in the touch of another person, then he pulled away. He was safer alone— stronger alone. “I know. But you’re right, I don’t need any more bad press.”
“So, extend the menu by…”
“Call Tristian’s people,” Enzo said just as Paul started to speak.
His friend was silent a long moment, then he swallowed hard and looked almost terrified. “You… want to do the video?”
Enzo dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling a surge of regret, though he knew he wasn’t going to take it back. Maybe he needed this— a step outside of his comfort zone, a moment to just face the thing he was terrified of most— being seen as the person he truly was.
“Lorenzo,” Paul breathed out quietly.
Enzo waved his hand. “Just… make the call, okay? Try to get something set up so it airs right after this stupid fucking weekend.” He couldn’t face Paul right then, couldn’t face himself, so he turned on his heel and marched toward of office. When he slammed the door hard enough to feel the vibration through the soles of his shoes, he allowed himself that moment of satisfaction.
“… and a fifteen top who wants to come in at seven. They’re requesting to order the pre fixe menu but they’d like a couple of changes because one of the members of the party has…”
“No.” It had been years since Enzo bothered with tact in his kitchen. He was always a control freak, set in his ways, a bit of an asshole. But that was why he did what he did for a living. “I’m not serving it early. It’s bad enough I’m serving it at all.”
Paul, his long-time kitchen manager— a man who would absolutely be sanctified upon his death— let out only the smallest sigh. “You have to work with me here. You knew that people were going to push it. I warned you, limiting this event to one night…”
Setting his knife down, Enzo turned and fixed Paul with a level stare. “It’s Valentine’s Day. You know how I feel about this god-forsaken holiday.”
“I do,” Paul said tiredly.
“The fact that I got talked into it in the first place is bad enough, but if you think I’m going to serve a themed menu more than one single night for this joke of a…”
“I know,” Paul interrupted. “I do. But you’re the one who always loses his shit when bad press comes in the following week. We were only able to book two critics…”
“Yeah well, I asked for none,” Enzo muttered.
Paul rolled his eyes. “Please work with me here, man. I love you, but please don’t make me protect your own restaurant from your self-destructive spiral.”
Enzo felt his insides clench a bit, because Paul was one of the few people in the entire world brave enough to utter those words. Paul was also one of the few people left in the world who knew Enzo before he became a local celebrity with tables booked three years out. Once upon a time, Cherry Creek was their sanctuary— now, it felt like a prison. He was going stir-crazy and he knew Paul really was trying to soften the blow of what would rain down on him because of his own stubborn nature.
“You have two options,” Paul said after a beat.
Enzo leaned back against the counter and rubbed at his eyes. “If you’re going to say extend the menu…”
“Extend the menu, let me invite the rest of the critics trying to get on the list, and do the two interviews after,” Paul said slowly.
“No,” Enzo ground out.
“Or,” Paul went on, like Enzo hadn’t said anything, “do that puff piece video with that YouTuber whose been calling you out on twitter.”
Enzo instantly bristled. Taste with Tristian was a YouTube channel Enzo had been blissfully unaware of until three months prior when the vlogger caught wind of one of Enzo’s interviews. He’d thoughtlessly made a comment about being able to cook any dish with his hands behind his back, or blindfolded. It was an innocuous comment, only Tristian’s entire channel was dedicated to getting both local and celebrity chefs to cook in his kitchen blindfolded.
It was less a kitchy sort of trend and more because Tristian was an amateur cook who was also born blind. His channel was popular— something Enzo learned after only five minutes of research after his restaurant’s Twitter had blown up— and it had been a non-stop barrage of people daring him to put his money where his mouth is.
Once a week now, at the end of each video, Tristian had been calling on the owner of Mangia E Zitto to answer the challenge. Enzo had every intention of ignoring it until Tristian got bored and set his sights on another unsuspecting victim, but he knew he was reaching a crossroads. If he did this, it would soften his image a little. He’d fallen down the rabbit hole of videos one night during a fit of insomnia and watched almost everything Tristian had ever uploaded. Most of the chefs who filmed with Tristian were gently humiliated in their inability to function in their own kitchens without sight, but the thought of putting himself out there like that for public mockery made his stomach twist.
The worst part, though— the most gutting part— was that a tiny piece of him wanted to do it. Deep down, he knew it wouldn’t hurt to make himself look a little foolish. He’d clung on to this infallible, untouchable chef image for far too long, and as the years went by, the harder it became to keep up that ruse. Tristian wouldn’t ruin him, he’d just… humanize him a little bit.
It didn’t hurt either that Tristian was possibly one of the hottest men Enzo had ever seen. He was tall— or, at least, he looked tall on his videos. Muscular, broad shoulders, sharply cut jaw. His eyelids were closed in a perpetual squint, nose often wrinkled, pouty mouth curved in a grin like the entire world existed for his own amusement.
And his hands— god, his hands. Long-fingered, soft-looking, constantly dragging over his marble counter tops and kitchen tools, and occasionally into his mop of dark blonde hair. He laughed all the time, and Enzo envied him with a ferocity he hadn’t expected to feel toward any stranger.
In truth, he was witty, and clever, and sweet, and Enzo knew it would be all over for him if he and Tristian were in the same room. Tristian would see him for the fraud he was— he would see all the fake it till you make it moments which carried him until he became this. Because Tristian had a way of picking chefs apart, of cutting them all down to the quick in every video. The other chefs seemed thankful, but Enzo felt a bit too fragile to allow himself to be flayed open like that.
He wasn’t like the other people in Cherry Creek. He wasn’t a quirky, middle-class local. He wasn’t some bougie tourist who stumbled into town after a long weekend on molly and then decided to stay. No, Enzo had come from the quiet little neighborhood no one talked about and everyone warned against. He was the scholarship kid in the secondhand clothes with dirty fingernails because he worked where the other kids had daddy’s credit cards.
Deep down, Enzo knew he didn’t belong with the elite. And it was easier when other people didn’t know that.
“Hey.” Paul’s voice was soft, carefully dragging him out of his head. His friend’s rough, calloused fingers closed around his wrist, and the touch grounded him. “You don’t actually have to do either, you know.”
Enzo licked his lips, allowed himself just the barest moment to bask in the touch of another person, then he pulled away. He was safer alone— stronger alone. “I know. But you’re right, I don’t need any more bad press.”
“So, extend the menu by…”
“Call Tristian’s people,” Enzo said just as Paul started to speak.
His friend was silent a long moment, then he swallowed hard and looked almost terrified. “You… want to do the video?”
Enzo dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling a surge of regret, though he knew he wasn’t going to take it back. Maybe he needed this— a step outside of his comfort zone, a moment to just face the thing he was terrified of most— being seen as the person he truly was.
“Lorenzo,” Paul breathed out quietly.
Enzo waved his hand. “Just… make the call, okay? Try to get something set up so it airs right after this stupid fucking weekend.” He couldn’t face Paul right then, couldn’t face himself, so he turned on his heel and marched toward of office. When he slammed the door hard enough to feel the vibration through the soles of his shoes, he allowed himself that moment of satisfaction.
E.M. Lindsey is currently living in the United States. In the very little free time she has, she reads, has Netflix binges, and writes-- in that order. E.M. Lindsey's works can be found exclusively published on amazon.
