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 toođđ. 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
â⊠and a fifteen top who wants to come in at seven. Theyâre requesting to order the pre fixe menu but theyâd like a couple of changes because one of the members of the party hasâŠâ
âNo.â 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. âIâm not serving it early. Itâs bad enough Iâm serving it at all.â
Paul, his long-time kitchen managerâ a man who would absolutely be sanctified upon his deathâ let out only the smallest sigh. âYou have to work with me here. You knew that people were going to push it. I warned you, limiting this event to one nightâŠâ
Setting his knife down, Enzo turned and fixed Paul with a level stare. âItâs Valentineâs Day. You know how I feel about this god-forsaken holiday.â
âI do,â Paul said tiredly.
âThe fact that I got talked into it in the first place is bad enough, but if you think Iâm going to serve a themed menu more than one single night for this joke of aâŠâ
âI know,â Paul interrupted. âI do. But youâre the one who always loses his shit when bad press comes in the following week. We were only able to book two criticsâŠâ
âYeah well, I asked for none,â Enzo muttered.
Paul rolled his eyes. âPlease work with me here, man. I love you, but please donât make me protect your own restaurant from your self-destructive spiral.â
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 sanctuaryâ 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.
âYou have two options,â Paul said after a beat.
Enzo leaned back against the counter and rubbed at his eyes. âIf youâre going to say extend the menuâŠâ
âExtend the menu, let me invite the rest of the critics trying to get on the list, and do the two interviews after,â Paul said slowly.
âNo,â Enzo ground out.
âOr,â Paul went on, like Enzo hadnât said anything, âdo that puff piece video with that YouTuber whose been calling you out on twitter.â
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 Enzoâs interviews. Heâd 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 Tristianâs 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 popularâ something Enzo learned after only five minutes of research after his restaurantâs Twitter had blown upâ 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. Heâd 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, thoughâ the most gutting partâ was that a tiny piece of him wanted to do it. Deep down, he knew it wouldnât hurt to make himself look a little foolish. Heâd 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 wouldnât ruin him, heâd just⊠humanize him a little bit.
It didnât hurt either that Tristian was possibly one of the hottest men Enzo had ever seen. He was tallâ 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 handsâ 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 hadnât 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 wasâ 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 wasnât like the other people in Cherry Creek. He wasnât a quirky, middle-class local. He wasnât 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 daddyâs credit cards.
Deep down, Enzo knew he didnât belong with the elite. And it was easier when other people didnât know that.
âHey.â Paulâs voice was soft, carefully dragging him out of his head. His friendâs rough, calloused fingers closed around his wrist, and the touch grounded him. âYou donât actually have to do either, you know.â
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 aloneâ stronger alone. âI know. But youâre right, I donât need any more bad press.â
âSo, extend the menu byâŠâ
âCall Tristianâs people,â Enzo said just as Paul started to speak.
His friend was silent a long moment, then he swallowed hard and looked almost terrified. âYou⊠want to do the video?â
Enzo dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling a surge of regret, though he knew he wasnât going to take it back. Maybe he needed thisâ a step outside of his comfort zone, a moment to just face the thing he was terrified of mostâ being seen as the person he truly was.
âLorenzo,â Paul breathed out quietly.
Enzo waved his hand. âJust⊠make the call, okay? Try to get something set up so it airs right after this stupid fucking weekend.â He couldnât face Paul right then, couldnât 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.
â⊠and a fifteen top who wants to come in at seven. Theyâre requesting to order the pre fixe menu but theyâd like a couple of changes because one of the members of the party hasâŠâ
âNo.â 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. âIâm not serving it early. Itâs bad enough Iâm serving it at all.â
Paul, his long-time kitchen managerâ a man who would absolutely be sanctified upon his deathâ let out only the smallest sigh. âYou have to work with me here. You knew that people were going to push it. I warned you, limiting this event to one nightâŠâ
Setting his knife down, Enzo turned and fixed Paul with a level stare. âItâs Valentineâs Day. You know how I feel about this god-forsaken holiday.â
âI do,â Paul said tiredly.
âThe fact that I got talked into it in the first place is bad enough, but if you think Iâm going to serve a themed menu more than one single night for this joke of aâŠâ
âI know,â Paul interrupted. âI do. But youâre the one who always loses his shit when bad press comes in the following week. We were only able to book two criticsâŠâ
âYeah well, I asked for none,â Enzo muttered.
Paul rolled his eyes. âPlease work with me here, man. I love you, but please donât make me protect your own restaurant from your self-destructive spiral.â
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 sanctuaryâ 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.
âYou have two options,â Paul said after a beat.
Enzo leaned back against the counter and rubbed at his eyes. âIf youâre going to say extend the menuâŠâ
âExtend the menu, let me invite the rest of the critics trying to get on the list, and do the two interviews after,â Paul said slowly.
âNo,â Enzo ground out.
âOr,â Paul went on, like Enzo hadnât said anything, âdo that puff piece video with that YouTuber whose been calling you out on twitter.â
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 Enzoâs interviews. Heâd 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 Tristianâs 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 popularâ something Enzo learned after only five minutes of research after his restaurantâs Twitter had blown upâ 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. Heâd 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, thoughâ the most gutting partâ was that a tiny piece of him wanted to do it. Deep down, he knew it wouldnât hurt to make himself look a little foolish. Heâd 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 wouldnât ruin him, heâd just⊠humanize him a little bit.
It didnât hurt either that Tristian was possibly one of the hottest men Enzo had ever seen. He was tallâ 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 handsâ 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 hadnât 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 wasâ 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 wasnât like the other people in Cherry Creek. He wasnât a quirky, middle-class local. He wasnât 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 daddyâs credit cards.
Deep down, Enzo knew he didnât belong with the elite. And it was easier when other people didnât know that.
âHey.â Paulâs voice was soft, carefully dragging him out of his head. His friendâs rough, calloused fingers closed around his wrist, and the touch grounded him. âYou donât actually have to do either, you know.â
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 aloneâ stronger alone. âI know. But youâre right, I donât need any more bad press.â
âSo, extend the menu byâŠâ
âCall Tristianâs people,â Enzo said just as Paul started to speak.
His friend was silent a long moment, then he swallowed hard and looked almost terrified. âYou⊠want to do the video?â
Enzo dragged his tongue over his bottom lip, feeling a surge of regret, though he knew he wasnât going to take it back. Maybe he needed thisâ a step outside of his comfort zone, a moment to just face the thing he was terrified of mostâ being seen as the person he truly was.
âLorenzo,â Paul breathed out quietly.
Enzo waved his hand. âJust⊠make the call, okay? Try to get something set up so it airs right after this stupid fucking weekend.â He couldnât face Paul right then, couldnât 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.
