Gemotions

"Bloody hell," Leo muttered, then laughed out loud, slapping his thigh. He flung the review across the tiny kitchen, the paper landing face down on a pile of onion skins. Disaster, they called it. The critic, a woman with a reputation for merciless prose, had demolished his new tapas bar. He'd been expecting a positive reception for his concept.

His shoulders shook with suppressed mirth. He grabbed a fresh apron and tied it with a flourish. The criticism was laughable, he thought, a collection of tired clichés.

Leo grabbed a bottle of tequila from the shelf, taking a swig. He'd open later, and celebrate the fact that he was the only one who truly understood his creative genius. He poured himself a shot, then another. The phone began to ring. It would be the investors, worried and confused. He would get the staff to ignore it. He'd had a feeling about this.

"Right," he said to the empty kitchen. "Let's get cooking."