Santana Lopez was no stranger to food. She lived for its savors and colors, and every ingredient had the possibility of being a secret weapon. Her mother's old cookbook had been her bible during childhood. She remembered staying in the kitchen for hours during the weekends, experimenting with food and smelling all the spices and herbs she could get her small hands on. Of course, her mother had always been around to make sure she didn't wreck the whole kitchen, but apart from cookie batches, Santana had never really burnt anything to a crisp.
Years later, when her parents asked her what her plans for the future were, they weren't surprised to hear she wanted to adorn the white hat and open her own restaurant. Of course she still went to college, but after getting her diploma in culinary arts, she realized getting hired was much more difficult than she'd anticipated. Not to mention she didn't respond very well to orders, so being a kitchen hand had been the worst pain in the ass.
After years of hopping from restaurant to restaurant—her temper had a knack for getting her fired—she'd finally decided to say fuck it and build her own place with the money she'd saved and some help from her parents. After months of dealing with suppliers, obtaining permits and licenses, equipping the restaurant, finding her staff, writing the menu, and even taking some classes in business and management, Adjacent had become her pride and joy. She'd popped more aspirins than she could count and gone all Boston Heights on more than one license board member, but the result had been worth it.
It'd been four months since they'd had their first clients, and the restaurant was positively thriving. Some of their customers came in more than twice a week, and their variation of Latin-American dishes were a change from the typically American, Italian or French restaurants in the area. It was hard work and a demanding business, but the exhilaration she felt at the end of the day was well worth it.
From her station, Santana smiled at her success.
"We've got two stews and one mofongo," Sunshine yelled, making Santana's heart leap into her throat and her fingers tense around a wooden spoon. The young waitress had a bad habit of being abrasive and completely careless, but at least she never got any orders mixed up.
Holly tapped Santana's back and chuckled. "Aren't you happy I recommended her to ya?"
Santana mustered a fake smile and nodded. Holly was truly an amazing sous-chef and friend, and Santana knew she'd hit the jackpot when Terri's had gone bankrupt and been forced to close. She'd snatched Holly just when the woman thought she was out of a job and offered her a much better deal. Of course, Santana was still the chef, but Holly had admitted she liked the responsibilities of a sous-chef much better anyway. If Santana was being honest, she looked up to Holly more than she would like to admit. The woman was smooth and always oozed peacefulness, whereas Santana was often stressed and had to snap a rubber band around her wrist when she got overly anxious.
However, Holly also had odd recommendations—like Sunshine—that Santana didn't really have the heart to say no to. She'd needed a new server after she'd had to fire that mohawk douche who kept checking out her tits and drooling on his menus, so Holly had immediately suggested her very short, very peculiar friend. In all honesty, Santana had blurted out she looked too much like a midget and that it could weird out the clientele, but when Holly had chided her with a hit to the back of her head, she'd conceded.
After several minutes of arranging a grilled veggie salad, Santana turned to see Kurt, her head waiter, walk through the kitchen door with an embarrassed look. She wiped her hands and arched an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"
"Um...it seems we have our first culinary complaint."
"What?"
"Is it for my coco flan?" Mercedes asked from her station. She was the best pastry chef in the city, and just like Santana, she had quite the mama bear attitude when it came to her food.
Kurt shook his head. "No, it's um...for the chilaquiles."
"What? Fuck!" Santana growled incredulously.
Kurt fidgeted nervously and swallowed. "You should probably go see her, be apologetic and everything."
"Ugh," Santana groaned. "I guess that's our policy."
"Don't forget to smile," Holly sing-songed.
Santana rolled her eyes as she took her hat off and passed it to Holly. She huffed at their amused looks and walked out of the kitchen with Kurt right behind her.
"So who is it?" She asked, scanning the room with frantic eyes. She was curious to know who had complained about a dish she could prepare with her eyes closed.
"Blonde woman, right behind the coup—"
"No fucking way," Santana breathed out.
There sat Brittany Pierce, chin propped against her left hand as she fiddled with her cell phone with the right one, her plate of food mostly untouched. Santana was flabbergasted, then mostly pissed off, annoyed, and maybe a bit turned on.
Opening the restaurant had been so stressful; no relationship could have ever survived that period of Santana's life. She'd been constantly working or on the phone, sleep-deprived and pumped with caffeine, so even the thought of innocently flirting had been thrown out the window. Now, more than ever, she felt the rippling consequences of that lack of intimacy. Brittany had always been gorgeous, and time hadn't changed that at all. Even from afar, she looked more mature, and her hair was longer, framing her face beautifully and falling past her breasts. Santana felt her stomach tighten as she remembered those breasts perfectly, her lips wrapped around a hardened pink nipple.
Kurt cleared his throat behind her. "Try to be suave, I think she's team gay."
Santana rolled her eyes, because yeah, Brittany definitely loved pussy, but she wasn't about to tell Kurt how exactly she knew that.
"Please tell Holly to take over. This will probably take a while," she muttered.
After ten measured steps, she pulled the chair in front of Brittany and sat down, narrowing her eyes when the woman looked at her with a smile.
"I had a feeling you'd come out of the kitchen."
Santana clicked her tongue. "What are you doing here, Brittany?"
Brittany blinked. "Having lunch?"
"Obviously. Why here though?"
"I was curious, is all...I'm actually kind of hurt you didn't tell me you'd finally opened the restaurant of your dreams," Brittany said. Her tone was meant to be teasing, but Santana was feeling rather pissed.
"Well, last time I saw you, I got a slap in the face and a goodbye, so excuse me for not feeling like I owed you a memo."
Brittany sighed, "I came in, because I knew I'd enjoy the food. Although I have to admit I was a bit disappointed with..." she pointed to her plate.
Santana glared at her. "I could make this in my sleep. What's wrong with it?"
Brittany chuckled, remembering Santana got defensive easily. "There's too much sauce and not enough cheese, and the tortillas taste weird."
Santana rolled her eyes but didn't bother defending her food. She knew Brittany had probably found this excuse to lure her out of the kitchen, and this was more about her taunting her than actually complaining.
After a few seconds, she muttered, "Who eats chilaquiles for lunch anyway?"
Brittany arched an eyebrow. "Well, it's on your menu...do you not know?"
Santana almost groaned. She knew Brittany was being purposefully dense; it was her thing—pretend she was unaware of the other person's frustration until they reached their boiling point trying to explain themselves. Santana used to hate it.
She remembered why now.
"Of course I know," she snapped. When a couple at their right turned to look at her, surprised at her outburst, she cleared her throat and lowered her voice. "I wrote the damn thing. It's not the final version is all; we're still testing out...stuff. Chilaquiles are brunch food."
Brittany shrugged, dipping a soft tortilla chip in cheesy goodness. "I'm pretty sure my neighbor would disagree with you."
Santana narrowed her eyes. "And why would I care what your nei—"
"She's Mexican," Brittany explained nonchalantly. She loved pushing Santana like this. Seeing her nostrils flare, her fingers gripping the tablecloth, wrinkling the edges—it was all so very hot. "It's like a heavy salad when you really think about it, you can eat it whenever. That's what she told me anyway."
"I know my fucki—" Santana paused, feeling the customers at her right look over again. She mustered a fake smile, trying to compose herself. "Look, I know my food," she said.
Brittany swallowed and drank two sips of water before looking at Santana with a glint in her eye, knowing that she was waiting for her to answer—or say anything, really. Keeping Santana on her toes was just exquisite. Brittany loved having the upper hand, so after a few seconds of staring at her blankly, she shrugged. "Everyone knows a lot of things."
Santana frowned, obviously not prepared for those words. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"I'm just sayin'," Brittany chuckled.
"I know what I'm doing!" Santana hissed.
She didn't even know why she felt this childish need to justify herself. She knew she was good, her staff knew she was good, and heck, her mom had once asked her to cater a whole dinner party, and they'd all praised her name for a good month. Brittany had no power over her.
Did she?
"Look, I never said it's bad," Brittany trailed off, "I'm just saying it's okay if you don't know everything about it."
"I know you," Santana blurted.
Brittany's head cocked in surprise. "What?"
Santana didn't know why she'd said it, but she'd had enough of Brittany's teasing jabs. Two could play this game. "I know you," she repeated.
"What does that have to do with—"
"It means, I know you, and I could use it to my advantage, so you really don't want to piss me off here, Brittany."
Brittany huffed, "You know nothing about me. You barely knew me when we were dating."
Santana arched a disbelieving eyebrow and then narrowed her eyes. "I know that you wear glasses and not contacts because they make you feel like a sexy librarian. Especially when you're in the mood for role-play."
Brittany's face turned crimson, her eyes widened, and her mouth popped open. "What are you—"
"Nuh-uh. Hush Brittany, otherwise everyone here will know how much of that blonde angel act is so damn fake."
Brittany swallowed, eyes darting around as her cheeks burned red.
Santana smiled, lips curved into a delicious smirk. "This is fun actually, jogging my memory like this. Makes me remember how you liked it real slow," she taunted. "How you'd spread your legs nice and wide so I could eat you out."
Brittany's lips parted and her stomach clenched as she tried to focus on Santana's deep brown eyes. Looking at her luscious lips pronouncing those words turned out to be completely distracting. She couldn't even compose herself if she tried.
"Well, w-we haven't done that in three years," she swallowed, finding her throat scratchy all of a sudden.
"Mm that's right," Santana smirked naughtily. "But I'm sure you'd still love it. I mean...think about it," she murmured hotly, "you, naked on a bed, with my smoking-hot self licking up your abs."
"I suppose that would be nice," she stammered.
"Uh-huh," Santana husked. "Remember when I'd dip my tongue in your bellybutton? That would always drive you so crazy for me."
"Stop it," Brittany pleaded.
Santana arched an eyebrow, pleased to have turned the tables. "Oh, I can go all day long. In fact, I haven't gotten to the best part yet."
Brittany blushed furiously. "Don't."
Santana looked at the ceiling, faking wonderment as she tapped her chin with her index. "What was that fetish again? Something...something about me licking up your a—"
"Stop!"
"What? Ashamed?" Santana asked smugly.
"No. I'm not ashamed of hanky-panky stuff," Brittany muttered.
Santana almost choked on air. "Hanky-panky? You really haven't changed, have you?"
Brittany narrowed her eyes angrily. The truth was that she'd changed more in the past three years than in the last decade. Of course, she wouldn't give Santana the satisfaction of knowing that.
"Well, I still think you're completely infuriating and egotistical, so I guess I haven't, no."
Santana barked a laugh. "Careful Britt, one would think that your anger's hiding something else."
"Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you?"
Santana shrugged. "I'm awesome, I don't blame you for still wanting my hot self."
Brittany gritted her teeth. "You're despicable."
"Does that turn you on, baby?"
"No."
"It used to."
"Fuck off Santana, seriously," Brittany spat. She grabbed her purse and threw a twenty-dollar bill on the table, getting up quickly and walking angrily out of the restaurant.
Santana clicked her tongue as other customers looked at her less than discreetly, confused by the sudden commotion. Santana was very much unaware though—she was only now realizing that maybe she'd gone too far. Brittany was just so...so Brittany. They'd always had a destructive relationship, so it was no wonder they'd been at each others' throats so quickly. Still, it had been three years, and Santana had certainly changed since their breakup, especially in the last year. Perhaps Brittany had wanted a decent conversation, but she'd gone and let her ego ruin it.
Well, whatever, Santana smirked, a part of her was still undeniably happy about this little reunion, and she might just have found the way out of her currently less-than-tepid sex life.