Every Last Piece

When circumstances push Nora Miller to return home after years living overseas, she’s accepted a job with a well-known upscale Denver restaurant.

What she doesn’t know is the chef who is currently running things.

When Enzo Capello’s boss thrusts a new chef on him, he’s not only mad, but shocked at who has just invaded his space.

Neither are happy to be working together, and the only way to express their feelings without actually having to speak is through a series of pranks.

But when Enzo catches Nora doing something she shouldn’t, he sees a new side of her that puts her in a whole new light.

Will enemies be able to put aside their pasts in the hopes of forming something new? Or will old wounds never heal?


Every Last Piece is a standalone, interconnected book with an HEA and never, ever any cheating.

ONE
Sometimes when things are falling apart, they may just be falling into place.
-Unknown

ENZO

Levelheaded.
It was a good way to describe me.
It took a lot to ruffle my feathers. You could say that I learned to let things roll off my back from growing up in a large family of two brothers, two sisters, and a million cousins. There was always some sort of competition between us all, but I never got myself involved, never let any of it bother me.

I’ve always preferred to spend my time in the kitchen with my mom and aunts, cooking all their favorite generational dishes and practicing my craft as best as I could instead of sparring with my brothers and cousins.

However, when my boss and the owner of the restaurant I’d been busting my ass at for the past couple of years stand up at the front of the kitchen with an announcement, I know immediately that I’m going to have a problem.

“What do you think it’s going to be?” Ian, one of the sous-chefs and a genuine pain in my ass, asks from beside me in a staged whisper.

There were several people in the room. The pastry chef, the sous-chefs, the busboys, the waiters, the hostesses. We were all gathered together in the kitchen early on a Monday, awaiting the “big news.”

Though I try to ignore my gut, I know what the news is going to be.
Another chef is coming on.

Marcel Owens, owner of Indigo House, one of the finest restaurants in the city, had warned me a few weeks ago that he was going to “amp up the competition,” and though he hadn’t mentioned exactly what that meant, I already knew.

I don’t want to compete. I want to make good food.

That’s why I was feeling more resigned than curious. If he was bringing in another chef, I was quitting. I’ve had enough of this bullshit and I refuse to be treated like shit.

“New chef,” I murmur to Ian. As big of a pain as he was, he was one of the most loyal people to me and knew my cooking style, he was my right hand in the kitchen and if I left, I hoped I could find a place he could come on with me.

“New chef? But we have a chef.” Ian’s confusion coating his tone, I hold in my eye roll. Oh, yeah, he was also a bit oblivious.

“Yes, he wants another.”

The truth was, Marcel Owens was full of himself. He had daddy’s money and opened this restaurant, hiring people who knew how to do this job better than he ever could. He didn’t do any actual work, but he loved to be involved in every bit of the action and to prove to whoever was listening that he was a hotshot.

He wasn’t, but money could make you look any way you wanted it to.
So he’d been on the lookout for a chef that had “the chops” as he put it. Someone who was classically trained, who’d worked in Michelin Star restaurants, who won every award in the book. They were out there, sure, but none of that shit meant anything to me.

I cook to feed people good food that makes them want to come back for more.

I sigh and resist the urge to run my hand through my hair. It was a terrible habit to have, considering I couldn’t even touch my face as a chef.

I’ve been stressing about this for a few weeks, ever since he told me that it was going to happen, and I wasn’t looking forward to being unemployed.

Ian takes in my appearance and thinks better than to comment on it, sometimes he has some self-preservation.

“Now, without further ado, I’d like to introduce you to our newest hire, your new additional chef.” He gestures to the door leading into the kitchen and it pushes open, revealing a stunning redhead with a sweet smile and a shy wave.

My jaw fucking drops.

“Nora Miller, everyone!” Marcel starts clapping and the rest of the kitchen follows suit in a stunted and confused manner, but I’m stuck.

Nora Miller, my childhood nemesis, and now… my competition.